Occupational Hazard: The Ultimate Workplace Romance Box Set

by Eve Langlais

  He could picture her in the chaotic flat, searching for a wooden spoon and testing the food while it cooked. His Marrakech souk, with its white walls and simple furnishings, was a million miles from Hattie’s particular brand of homeliness.

  ‘What are you making?’

  ‘Just spag bol.’

  ‘Sounds delicious. I have to go out later and eat forty kinds of couscous.’

  She laughed. ‘It’s a tough job. How was your day?’

  ‘Boring. How was yours?’

  ‘Brilliant. I’m going to be a huge success. Kate Meehan said so.’

  He kicked his shoes off and lay back on the bed among the piles of embroidered silk cushions. ‘What did she actually say?’

  She huffed. ‘She said I was very commercial and I should be easy to place.’

  ‘Great.’ That was even better than he’d hoped for.

  ‘She also said you’d told her I was a dream to work with.’

  Tom smiled at the phone. ‘I never said any such thing.’

  ‘Liar. Anyway, she believed you and she’s going to make me a star. So, thanks.’

  ‘Hattie...’ He.didn’t want her getting carried away and then being disappointed.

  ‘No, don’t say it. Just let me have one evening to enjoy the dream.’

  He sighed. ‘Fine. But...’

  ‘No buts. For once in my life everything’s worked out. I found an incredible dress to wear at your exhibition opening, by the way. Just wait until you see it. You won’t know what to say.’ God, now that was a vision to keep him awake at night. Most of their time together, he’d deliberately stripped her bare of any artificial aids to beauty. But the image of Hattie done up to the nines in a dress that flattered all her glorious curves...

  He swallowed hard. ‘Surprise me.’

  ‘I’ll try. I’m not good with keeping secrets.’

  ‘It’s only a dress.’

  ‘You won’t say that when you’ve seen it.’

  He was going to see her again in four days. ‘I’ve made dinner reservations for Saturday.’

  ‘Somewhere good?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by good. Do you want paparazzi and celebrities, or enough food to eat?’ He’d put money on the latter.

  ‘Tough choice but I’ll take the food this time.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. You’ll love it.’

  ‘Tom.’ He heard a clatter in the background, then silence.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’m scared,’ she admitted in a small voice.

  He sat up slowly, pushing the ridiculous cushions out of the way. Hattie was never scared, except when he’d forced it. ‘What of?’

  ‘You know this is it.’ He could hear her trembling and he longed to be there to put his arms round her and kiss the confidence back into her voice. ‘What I’ve always wanted. This really could be it for me. My one chance.’ She paused and he waited for her to continue. ‘I’m utterly terrified I’m going to mess it up.’

  ‘You’re not going to mess it up,’ he told her firmly. ‘Hattie, you know you’re not. You’re incredible in front of a camera. That portfolio blew me away and it clearly had the same effect on Kate.’

  ‘What if I fall down the stairs and break my leg tomorrow?’ Now she was just creating obstacles.

  ‘Then you’ll go and get crutches and phone Kate to put things on hold for a couple of months,’ he told her patiently. ‘Seriously, Hattie. Nothing’s going to screw this up for you now. Not unless you develop some hideous skin disease, or get pregnant or something.’

  Silence. He almost thought she’d been cut off, but then he heard her breath catch.

  ‘Hattie?’

  ‘Say that again.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to screw this up for you now.’

  ‘Unless I get pregnant.’ Those trembles in her voice had become earthquakes. She was in a bad way and he had no idea why.

  ‘Hattie? Hattie, what’s going on?’

  ‘We didn’t use a condom. Not every time.’

  ‘You’re on the pill. Hattie, dammit, you told me you were on the pill.’ He ran a hand over his face. This wasn’t happening.

  ‘I was. I am.’

  ‘Then you can’t be pregnant.’ She was panicking, but it was going to be okay. If he could just hold it together enough for both of them it would be okay.

  ‘I can’t remember when my last period was,’ she said in a rush.

  ‘Go and get your diary. Now, Hattie.’

  He heard the sounds of the phone being dropped. A few moments later, she was back on the line rustling pages.

  ‘It was before the photoshoot.’

  He counted back. ‘That started two and a half weeks ago. How long before?’

  ‘Um...’ Pages were being turned. ‘I think... oh, God, three weeks.’

  Tom closed his eyes and grimaced. ‘Five and a half weeks in total.’

  ‘Yes, I think... yes.’

  ‘Hattie, is your dinner still on the hob?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Turn it off before you burn your house down.’

  ‘Okay.’

  He gave her time to do it, and tried to get himself under control.

  He spoke as calmly as he could manage. ‘Here’s what you’re going to do. Put a coat on, and go to your nearest chemist. Buy three pregnancy test kits and bring them home. Do it now, Hattie.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘I’ll ring you back in half an hour. You can do the test then.’

  The phone went dead. He dropped back onto the bed and pressed his hands to his face. It couldn’t be happening. It would be okay. A false alarm. Stress, maybe. Or some hormonal imbalance. Women missed periods all the time.

  He shook his head and forced his eyes open. He could do this. Deep breaths. No need to panic yet. Not until they knew for certain.

  ###

  She’d bought three tests, because Tom had said so and her brain was too full to make its own choices about something so irrelevant. The chemist had given her a strange look and pointed out that they were very reliable these days, but Hattie merely shrugged and handed over her credit card. It wasn’t going to make any difference how many tests she did. Either she was pregnant or she wasn’t.

  She lined up the boxes on her kitchen table, next to a huge mug of strong tea. Three tests meant three lots of weeing and tea was the drink most likely to make that happen. She put three spoons of sugar in and stirred until the tea was cool enough to drink. While she waited for it to have its diuretic effect, she opened the first kit and read the instructions. Wee. Wait. Blue line for pregnant. Nothing for not pregnant. As easy as the chemist had assured her it would be.

  Last time, she hadn’t bothered with the tests. She’d been far enough along to go straight to the doctor with her suspicions. She’d been excited, optimistic. They hadn’t planned it, of course, but she’d had no reason to think he wouldn’t be happy when he found out. This time, she already knew what Tom’s response would be. He’d never forgive her. She’d never known someone who ran so hard and so far from anything that might lead to commitment.

  How would he cope with a baby if she went ahead with it?

  How would she? Was she even capable of looking after a child? She was barely responsible enough to cope with her own life, let alone someone else’s. What if she screwed that up, just like she was screwing up her own life, and Tom’s? Why the hell hadn’t they waited until they could get more condoms? Why the hell hadn’t the pill done its job?

  Oh, God, that was her fault, too. She’d been too out of it when she was in hospital to remember to take it. She’d missed taking it that night, and again in the morning. So, when she’d reassured Tom that it would be fine, she was safe, she’d lied. She hadn’t meant to, but there was no getting round it. This disaster was her fault and she could only pray that there was some other reason for her to be late.

  It was all there on her kitchen table: three pregnancy tests; one mug of tea, half-drunk; and the portfol
io of shots that were supposed to change her life. Her phone rang, incongruously cheery. She checked the screen and silenced it. Tom’s mobile had to be costing him a fortune to call from Morocco. No point answering until she had some information. She took the plastic wand into the bathroom and executed the manoeuvre without too much ungainly splashing. She laid it on the edge of the bath and washed her hands.

  Two mugs of tea later, she had three plastic indicators. She balanced them on top of each other and snapped a picture with her phone. It came out a little blurry, but the important parts were clear enough. She pressed the buttons to send it as a text to Tom, adding a brief message: +++.

  Then she sank onto her sofa, dropped her head into her hands, and let the tears come.

  ###

  She hadn’t answered. Why wasn’t she speaking to him? What did that mean? He dialled again, furiously, only to be sent straight to voicemail. He cursed loudly and slammed his phone shut. How long did it take, anyway? Weren’t those things supposed to be practically instant? So that you didn’t have to go through this agony any more. He grabbed the phone and tried again. Still no reply.

  ‘Hattie, I swear to you, if you don’t pick up the damn phone now and tell me what’s going on I’ll...’

  It buzzed to tell him he’d received a text message.

  From Hattie.

  He peered at the blurry image. What the hell was that? He turned the phone round and shook his head. The message hadn’t come through properly either. Just +++.

  Unless...

  Oh, God. He clicked back to the picture and decoded it slowly. Three greyish plastic sticks lined up. Three small screens. Two blue line and one pink one. +++.

  He’d told her to take three tests. And now she was telling him she had three positive results.

  He threw the phone down on the bed and ran a hand over his face. His knees felt weak and he grabbed the edge of the dressing table to steady himself.

  Hattie was pregnant. With his child.

  His.

  He was going to be sick.

  Tom reached the bathroom just in time. Hanging on to the edge of the toilet seat, he was violently ill. His stomach cramped again and again, trying to expel its contents long after it was empty. Eventually, it gave up the struggle and Tom slumped onto the elaborately tiled floor. He closed his eyes and slept.

  The next day, he woke with a strong sense of having been landed on by a ten ton weight in the night. At some point he must have crawled back into his bed, but every muscle ached as badly as if he’d spent the whole night on the cold bathroom floor. His head banged like there was a drumkit lodged inside it. His throat was sore and his eyes itched. For approximately half a millisecond he contemplated getting up, but he wasn’t even sure he had the energy to call the fashion editor in charge of the shoot to let her know he couldn’t work today. It took a mammoth effort to reach for his phone from the table by the bed. He pressed the button to wake the screen.

  Two messages.

  A terse message from Aneta demanding to know why he hadn’t appeared on the set half an hour ago. And a voicemail from Hattie, letting him know that she’d be at work all day, but if he wanted to ring her that evening, they could talk then. Or, if he’d rather wait until Saturday, that was okay.

  The nightmare flooded back. He hadn’t dreamed that part, then. She was pregnant. He checked her text message with the photo. The lines were still blue. The plus marks were still positive.

  He couldn’t face it. He took a mouthful of water from the bottle by his bed, then slumped back against the pillows and slept some more. The next time he woke, he texted Hattie to let her know he wasn’t well but that he still planned to see her on Saturday.

  By Friday morning, he’d just about recovered from the stomach bug which had brought the entire shoot to a standstill. He’d drunk bottled water and eaten nothing for two days. This morning, he’d finally felt hungry again and managed a small amount of the local dry, crispy flat bread. He’d called Aneta and apologised for his absence. Apparently, almost all the crew and half the models had been similarly indisposed, so she’d simply extended the shoot.

  ‘We’ve got two and a half days. You’ll have to work with whoever’s upright.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Nonsense. A good meal and you’ll be perfectly well.’

  ‘I have to leave tomorrow morning. My flight’s at ten.’

  ‘Aston’s rearranged it.’ Aneta’s efficient PA had checked with Tom first, fortunately.

  ‘I told him not to. I need to be on that plane. I’m sorry I won’t be able to complete the shoot.’

  There was silence. He wondered what had happened to the last person foolish enough to refuse her.

  ‘I hear Irina Cazelles is looking for more work,’ she said softly.

  ‘Excellent.’ He was too tired even to bother with sarcasm. He was just glad of a way to stop Aneta hassling him. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a replacement, then.’

  ‘No. I daresay no one will have any trouble replacing you.’ She hung up.

  He sighed and let his head fall back against the pillows. Probably he ought to care more about her threats. She’d be waiting for him to call back, expecting him to apologise and say he’d come to his senses. Beg on bended knees for another chance.

  Ten years ago, he’d have crawled across broken glass for a shoot like this. Even a year ago he wouldn’t have dreamed of turning it down. A month ago, he’d have thought it unprofessional to walk out.

  Now, all he could think of was Hattie.

  Who was pregnant.

  And not likely to be any more enthusiastic about it than he was. He’d see her tomorrow and they’d talk. He just hoped he’d have regained all his faculties by then. Serious conversations weren’t Hattie’s favourite thing at the best of times. But this wasn’t a matter that could be resolved with a few flippant comments and a lot of flirting. He needed to know what she really felt about the pregnancy. And somehow, he was going to have to tell her where he stood. Ten miles back and running away fast.

  Chapter Eight

  Bloody man hadn’t even called her. That told her everything she needed to know, as if she couldn’t have guessed. She’d thought of cancelling their date half a dozen times. What was there even to say? He clearly wasn’t going to be supportive of anything. She was on her own. Just like last time.

  Which was fine. She’d done it before and she could do it again. She didn’t need a man to stand beside her and hold her hand. Especially not a man who couldn’t be trusted not to bolt. Hattie had enough strength for herself, and she’d find enough strength to go through with a termination. But she’d be damned if she was going to pull together enough strength for Tom Metcalfe as well.

  She didn’t cancel. She called the doctors’ surgery instead and made an appointment with her GP to discuss her options. Though, to be honest, at this point there was only one sensible option and she knew it. She wasn’t in any position to continue the pregnancy and she wasn’t even sure she wanted to. So that was it. She’d tell Tom tonight, but maybe at the end of dinner, rather than the beginning. He deserved an hour or two of squirming before she let him off the hook. And she deserved to enjoy the meal, seeing how hard she’d worked for it; but it was the last time she’d let Tom take her out. Next she’d make sure to find a guy who actually wanted a woman in his life. And next time she’d make damn sure she didn’t forget to take the pill, even if she was knocked unconscious for a week.

  Might as well make him regret what he was losing. She picked out one of her favourite dresses: a fifties-style halterneck with wide circle skirts, white with bunches of cherries printed on the fabric. She’d re-dyed her hair after the photoshoot, back to her preferred scarlet. Lush red lips and dramatic eyes completed the old-school Hollywood look she was after. The halterneck of the dress did incredible things to her cleavage and the skirt ended just above her knee, showing off her curvy calves and ankles. She sprayed perfume around her wrists and behind her knees, a
nd clipped sparkly costume jewellery into her ears and round her neck.

  With any luck, he’d faint at first sight of her. And, with any luck, he wouldn’t notice that her heart was quietly breaking underneath. Damn him.

  Promptly at seven she heard a knock on the door. Hattie didn’t answer. She wandered into her kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. The second knock was louder.

  ‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ she called out, then sat on the sofa, put her feet up on the coffee table and drank her wine.

  Five minutes later, Tom knocked again. ‘Hattie, can you at least let me in?’

  She grinned. She was really going to enjoy this.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Forgot you were there.’

  She finished her glass, checked her face in the mirror over the mantelpiece, then went to the door.

  He was leaning against the wall in the corridor. His anxious smile hadn’t reached anywhere near his eyes. He’d stuck his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. Nice suit, she noticed. It was a warm grey that matched his eyes and cut perfectly to fit his tall frame. Hattie watched as he took in her appearance, satisfied to see his eyes widened and his mouth fall open.

  She waited.

  He swallowed, opened his mouth, closed it again, and cleared his throat. His eyes ran slowly down her body, lingering in all the right places, then back up again.

  Eventually he nodded. ‘You look... great.’

  ‘Thanks. You don’t.’

  He looked thinner than before and there were shadows under his eyes. He really had been ill, then. She’d thought it was an excuse not to talk to her.

  ‘So, are you ready to go?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll just get my bag.’ She’d deliberately picked a small clutch. Black and beaded, it looked stunning with her dress; but, more importantly, it was slightly too small to completely conceal the leaflets from the clinic. She’d arranged it so that they stuck out of the top, for Tom to see the bold type which said ‘Pregnancy’, rather than the small print which talked about the kinds of services they offered.

  In the taxi on the way to the restaurant, they barely spoke. Every possible topic seemed to be fraught with potential conflict. He daren’t ask whether she’d heard from the advertising agency. She wasn’t interested in the Morocco shoot. Neither of them wanted to deal with the memories inextricably linked to the shots he’d taken for his exhibition.