by Eve Langlais
It was a relief to get out of the enclosed space of the car. He waited for her to straighten her dress – a dress he was sure she’d picked for maximum distraction purposes. He’d chosen the Italian restaurant because it was known for its generous servings, but now he was glad to be somewhere loud and full enough that it would be easy to keep their conversation private. A smartly-dressed waiter with an East European accent showed them to a table tucked away in a corner and brought a basket of Italian bread with olive oil and balsamic vinegar to dip into it while they ordered their meal.
‘Can I bring you anything to drink?’ the waiter asked.
‘Hattie?’ Tom asked politely.
She met his gaze defiantly. ‘A large glass of white wine.’
He narrowed his eyes at her. She was drinking alcohol. Did that mean she wasn’t planning to keep it? Or did women drink when they were pregnant these days?
‘You can make that a bottle,’ he said to the waiter and glanced at the menu. ‘The Didier Dagueneau. But we’d like a bottle of sparkling mineral water as well.’ His stomach was more or less recovered but he wasn’t going to take any chances.
‘Certainly, sir.’
Hattie picked up her menu and hid behind it. He smiled wryly. Subtlety had never been Hattie’s forte. But surely he was reading her cues correctly? Her bag was resting on the table and he could make out the logo of the Pregnancy Advisory Service. She’d decided this pregnancy was as bad an idea as he had, then. He relaxed back into his chair and watched her. If he did this right, there was still a chance of getting back to where they were before. Maybe not tonight, but at some point, perhaps. Another date. Another dinner. They might even make it to a musical.
‘The fish is always very good here,’ he said, mostly to provoke her into speaking to him.
Hattie rolled her eyes at him. ‘What kind of a person comes to a restaurant like this and chooses the fish?’
He grinned. ‘An idiot?’
She laughed. But her face quickly grew serious again and he saw her straighten her shoulders in that way she had when she was scared of something.
‘So, about this baby.’ Might as well tell her he’d worked it out. ‘It’s okay, Hattie. It’s fine that you don’t want to keep it. Honestly.’
Her jaw dropped and her eyes widened in shock. Or maybe anger.
‘What the hell?’ Anger, then. He flinched as she slammed her hand on the table, hard enough to frighten the waiter who had returned with their drinks order into a swift reverse and hover manoeuvre. ‘That’s not up to you, you bastard.’
He shook his head and put up his hands in a gesture of defence. ‘I didn’t say it was.’
He gave the waiter a quick glance and indicated that it was safe to put the bottles on the table.
‘You just told me not to have the baby,’ she shot at him.
‘No, I thought that was what you were trying to tell me.’ He ran a hand through his hair. Maybe he wasn’t quite himself after all. ‘Otherwise, what were you doing ordering a large glass of wine?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe making my own decisions about my own body?’ Her voice was loud and people at the nearby tables were turning round to look at them. He tried to look calm and reassuring, but his hands were gripping the edge of the table and his knuckles had turned white.
‘Hattie, I am not the enemy here.’ He held her gaze until her eyes flickered and he could sense the edge of her wrath subside.
Wide eyes looked at him in disbelief. ‘Four days,’ she bit out. ‘Four days without a damn phone call. And now you think you can just turn up and tell me to get rid of it? You bastard, of course you’re the enemy.’
Ah. No wonder she was angry. ‘I was ill. I texted you.’
‘You could have phoned.’
He ducked his head. She was right. He could and should have done.
‘Stomach bug,’ he explained. ‘Everyone on the shoot got it. I was barely conscious until yesterday morning.’
For an instant, her eyes darkened with compassion, but then the flash of heat returned.
‘Yesterday morning. And since then?’
He could make excuses. He’d been weak and tired, and the flight home had exhausted him. But he owed her the truth, if nothing else. He sighed. ‘Since then I’ve been trying to work out what to say. And failing. I’ve dialled your number a hundred times and never had the guts to let it ring.’
Her eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth, but a discreet cough made her pause. Their patient waiter glanced between them, his eyebrow raised just a fraction of an inch. ‘Are you ready to order?’
Tom hadn’t even looked at the menu. Hattie stared at hers for approximately three seconds then picked two items at random. ‘The gnocchi and then the saltimbocca.’
‘And for you, sir?’
‘The same.’
Without the menus, there was nowhere to hide. Tom poured a small amount of wine into his glass, then tilted the bottle in Hattie’s direction. She shook her head and picked up the mineral water instead. He wondered if she was thirsty, or just making a point.
She sipped at her glass, then leaned forward. ‘You didn’t have to find the right thing to say,’ she told him quietly. ‘There isn’t a right thing. But I needed to hear your voice. To know that you’d seen my message.’ Her fingers tightened around the edge of the table. ‘Mostly, I just wanted to know you were in this with me. But it’s fine. You’re not, and so I’ll deal with it myself.’
‘It’s not you, Hattie,’ he said helplessly. What was he supposed to say when she’d told him there wasn’t a right thing to say?
She shrugged. ‘I know that. It’s all you. But that doesn’t actually make things any easier for me. How’s it supposed to help when I’m changing my thousandth nappy or getting up for the tenth time that night? What difference do you think it’ll make when she’s asking why her daddy doesn’t come to sports day? Or when she’s a teenager and doesn’t think she was good enough for her dad to stay and love her?’
Oh, God, no. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. She was still talking. Lecturing him. He fumbled around, loosening his collar. His throat was still too tight. He reached for his wine glass and gulped the contents down. She’d stopped talking and was looking at him expectantly.
‘You’re not actually planning to have the baby. Are you?’ And if that sounded desperate it was because he was.
Her eyes, her beautiful Hattie-eyes, clouded with emotion. Anger, still. Disappointment. Something else he couldn’t identify, but hated himself for.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she replied. ‘You may not be capable of taking that kind of responsibility, but I am.’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’ Christ, why couldn’t he say anything right? ‘Hattie, what about your career? You said Kate loved you. This is supposed to be your big break. I thought that was what you wanted.’ She was the one with the big dreams and the castles in the air. Surely she realised what having a baby would do to that?
‘It turns out that women are capable of working and raising children. I realise that’s almost impossible for a man to imagine. Especially one who’s barely capable of making a phone call.’
He flinched. But this wasn’t about him, not right now. ‘They say that, Hattie. But you can’t have it all and you don’t have to exhaust yourself trying. You don’t have anything to prove. Do you?’
She let out a long breath and squeezed her eyes shut, blocking him out while she tried to process what he’d just said. He was squirming just as she’d planned, although she hadn’t intended to take it quite so far. But then, in that devastating way he had, he’d seen straight through her. Because she did have something to prove, didn’t she? She always had.
The scent of tomato and basil brought her back to the moment. She let the waiter put a plate of gnocchi down and nodded at his offer of black pepper and parmesan cheese. She needed the breathing space. The food was delicious. Rich tomato sauce, flavoured with olives and capers and a lighter note of b
asil. She barely noticed it as she forked it up methodically, avoiding Tom’s gaze.
He didn’t think she could be a working mother.
And now, suddenly, she was questioning the decision she thought she’d already made. There was nothing like being told she couldn’t do something to make Hattie determined to prove everyone wrong. All her life, people had told Hattie what she could and couldn’t do. Her parents, her teachers, even her so-called friends. No one had ever been ambitious for Hattie. They’d always seen the problems and pointed out the obstacles. She’d had to supply all the ambition for herself.
But Tom was different. He was the first person to see that she wasn’t just another talentless wannabe. He’d made her his muse and together they had created images that were works of art. He’d recommended her to his friend and given her a great reference. He’d believed in her. She should have guessed that was too good to last.
Her anger had drained away, leaving her weak with the realisation that she’d been let down again, by yet another person she’d thought might actually believe in her. It wasn’t his fault. Everyone felt that way about Hattie, and maybe they were all right. Maybe she should just abandon her dreams and ambitions. Have the abortion, go back to her safe, boring job in the office. Become the bland, inoffensive person her parents had always wanted her to be.
Or maybe she’d do it. Have the baby, love it and show it how to be as brilliant as its mother. She could take it to photo shoots and breastfeed between shots. Or find a childminder for the days she was working. Other people managed and so could she.
‘It’s my baby, too,’ Tom said in a low voice. He had finished his gnocchi and pushed the plate aside.
‘It’s my body,’ Hattie replied automatically.
‘Right. But if you go ahead, it’ll be my child. Ours.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t expect you to pay child maintenance. I’ll take responsibility for my decision.’ She wasn’t going to fall into the trap of relying on anyone else, ever again. If she made this choice, she’d be the one dealing with the consequences.
‘Don’t be silly. This isn’t your fault.’ He laid a hand on her arm.
She shrugged. ‘It’s not anyone’s fault.’
‘I wish it had never happened,’ he said with vicious urgency.
‘It’s not like I planned it.’ She didn’t want the rest of her gnocchi, but she pushed the fork around her plate, making patterns in the sauce. She didn’t want to look at him and see him blaming her. If she’d ruined his life, he’d done the same to hers.
‘I know that.’ The anger had slipped out of his voice. She recognised his self-pity. He was going to blame himself. That’s what he did. ‘I should have got some more condoms. We should have waited.’
She sighed and pushed her plate to the side. ‘I was on the pill. We thought we were safe.’
‘It’s never guaranteed,’ he said bleakly.
Oh, for God’s sake. ‘Look, I’m not completely sure, but I think it’s possible I didn’t take it the night I was in hospital. I wasn’t really thinking about it then.’ Anything to stop his maudlin flood of self-loathing.
He nodded slowly. ‘So that’s my fault, too. Hattie, I’m sorry.’
‘How is that your fault? That’s my fault! I was the one who forgot.’
He twisted his lips. ‘The accident on the photoshoot. That’s why you were in hospital in the first place. I should have taken better care of you.’
He was still beating himself up over that? He was even more screwed up than she’d realised. ‘Tom, you’ve got to stop doing that.’
He was crumbling a piece of bread into nothing on his plate and he wouldn’t look up to meet her eyes. ‘Doing what?’
‘Blaming yourself for everything.’
He shook his head. ‘It was my fault. Of course I have to take the blame for it.’
Damn, but it was hard not to feel sympathy when he was looking like a rock had hit him in the solar plexus. After-effects of the stomach bug, she told herself. Coupled with the inner strength of a wet haddock.
‘Right, fine. It’s your fault I’m pregnant, it’s your fault my career is ruined, and it’ll be your fault if I spend the rest of my life trying to make up for the fact that this child only has one half-decent parent.’ She hardly cared what she was saying. She wouldn’t see him again, so it didn’t matter.
‘I can’t make any promises, Hattie.’
‘I haven’t asked you to.’
‘I’m not good with responsbilities. And being a parent is about as big a responsibility as I can imagine.’
‘I know you’re still letting yourself wallow in guilt for something that happened years ago, that wasn’t your fault.’ Maybe that was harsh, but she’d had enough of pussyfooting around his hang ups.
The saltimbocca arrived, smelling fabulous, fragrant with sage and parma ham. Hattie picked at the edges of her plate.
‘Why aren’t you eating that, Hattie?’
She put her knife and fork down. ‘Not hungry. Sorry.’
‘You have to eat,’ he said with an urgency that was almost desperation. ‘God, Hattie, you have to. I couldn’t bear it if...’
She pushed her chair away from the table and picked up her bag. ‘It’s my decision, Tom. It’s not all about you. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure that I’m not turning anorexic.’
‘What about the baby? Don’t you need to eat more?’
He’d stood up, too, and taken hold of her elbow. She looked at his face, hollow from tiredness and illness, but etched most deeply with fear.
‘What are you really afraid of, Tom? That I’ll hurt the baby, or that I’ll have it?’
He turned his face away but she’d seen the tears. He was on the brink of collapse. She put her hand on his cheek and guided it round to face her again. She smiled softly.
‘Poor Tom.’
He began to shake his head, but she stopped him.
‘It’s okay, I know it’s too hard. I’ll take care of everything.’
‘What does that mean?’ His voice was trembling.
‘It means you can stop worrying about me.’ She kissed his cheek gently. ‘Stop worrying about us.’
Chapter Nine
He couldn’t stop worrying about her. He rang twice before he’d even got home and texted twice more. She wasn’t answering, but he couldn’t stop trying. He’d go and knock on her door all night if he thought it would work, but Hattie was more stubborn than he was. If she didn’t want to talk to him, she wouldn’t. He’d screwed up so badly tonight, she might never want to speak to him again.
Tom climbed the three flights of stairs up to his loft apartment. He’d loved it at first sight because of the light. Huge, industrial-sized windows on three of the four walls flooded the space during the day. He’d left it mostly bare brick and hardwood floor. A few, carefully selected pieces of furniture made it liveable, but no hint of domesticity or cosiness had been allowed in. Tom tried to imagine Hattie in it. She’d fill the space with her laughter and her warmth, but she’d bring piles of stuff with her, too. Magazines and fruit bowls and community service prizes. Dirty mugs and unironed laundry.
A baby.
It would be a terrible home for a child. No garden, for one thing. And no lift up to the third floor. No carpet and plenty of hard edges. No privacy, either. He slept on an open mezzanine above the kitchen area. The whole flat was open plan, apart from the bathroom. Babies probably didn’t appreciate rainfall showers and wet rooms, either.
It would be a disaster.
But Hattie was going to take care of it. When she’d first said it, he’d assumed she meant to go through with the abortion, but he’d played the conversation over in his head on the way home and realised she might not have meant that at all. He needed to speak to her again, when they weren’t tearing strips off each other, and make sure.
He put the kettle on and spooned ground coffee into his cafetiere. His favourite handpainted mug was on the draining boar
d. He wiped it dry and got the milk from the fridge. The noise of the boiling kettle echoed around the apartment. He’d never felt so alone in his own home. Every part of him was yearning for Hattie. Here, where he could touch her hand and kiss her lips. He’d tease her and watch her eyes light up as she came back, faster, sharper, funnier. Then he’d kiss her again, waiting for the moment when she sank into it with him. He’d slide one arm around her waist and the other hand into her glorious hair. He’d hold onto her for a long time like that.
He couldn’t, though. On impulse, he switched the kettle off and poured himself a glass of brandy instead. He needed the comfort.
Tom took the brandy over to his desk, opened up his laptop and found the folder he wanted. He plugged in the oversized monitor that he used for detail work. There she was, curves spilling over the screen, almost life-sized. He could reach out and touch her. Feel the smoothness of her skin and the warmth of her breath.
He scrolled through the images, mentally making a list of the ones he might use for the gallery. There were four or five that had what he was looking for, that undefinable magic where light and colour and composition combined to make something more than the sum of their parts. He paused over a nude shot. It had a glow to it which warmed Hattie’s skin, giving her the look of a goddess. It was a beautiful image, though it wasn’t right for the exhibition. He’d send it to her for her portfolio.
He clicked through to the next and his finger froze on the mouse button. Hattie on the stallion, rigid with fear. He clutched at his brandy glass and gulped. He knew what was coming next. Shot after shot of her with fear mounting. The stallion stepping on to the first tread of the staircase. Hattie gripping the reins with white knuckles.
Then falling.
Falling.
Too many shots. Too long watching, observing. Too slow to act.
It was spectacular. It might just be the cover shot for the catalogue: the violet gown billowing out, the gleaming black stallion rearing upright, Hattie’s ginger hair tumbling down. Her blue eyes stared out at the viewer, vivid and alert, with the whites of her eyes bright in the corners. It was everything. Civilisation in the faded grandeur of the background, the untrammelled power of nature, the downfall of the elite.