The Perfect Solution

by Catherine George

  At first Joanna was devastated. She'd been convinced that meeting Marc face to face would be sure to weaken his resolve. When she found she was very much mistaken she took her cue from Marc and answered his greetings with polite enquiries about his progress in the new job, then retreated into the house with Sunny to avoid looking wistful as the car took her loved ones away.

  Once the script was written and the scenery finished for the nativity play, Joanna felt eager to get to grips with the novel she'd had simmering in her brain for months. Polly's arrival in her life had meant consigning the novel to a back burner in her mind for a while, but now Polly was settled Joanna decided nothing was going to stop her getting down to work again. Work which might, if she were lucky, help her to get used to the fact that Marc was never going to change his mind about their relationship.

  It was mid-December when Joanna first became aware of a marked lack of enthusiasm for sitting down at her typewriter each day.

  'I'm getting lazy, Doris,' she sighed, making a pot of tea instead of starting work as soon as she returned from the morning walk to school with Polly and the dog.

  'I wouldn't say that, Mrs Clifford,' said Doris, setting out cups. 'Mrs Lavenham thinks you're working much too hard over your new book.'

  'I know!' Joanna shook her head, amused. 'Quite funny coming from a busy clergyman's wife who never has a minute to herself. As we speak she's probably running up the costumes for the play with one hand and making cakes for the Mother's Union tea with the other. I don't know where she gets the energy.'

  Joanna's Christmas dilemma had eventually been solved by an invitation from the Lavenhams to join them for the festive meal at the Rectory, along with George's parents and a couple of Mary's elderly relatives.

  Marc, when Joanna informed him of the arrangement, asked if he might visit Polly on Christmas Eve to deliver her presents.

  'I can hardly absent myself altogether, nor do I want to. On the other hand maybe it's just as well I'm not around for her first Christmas Day without Rosa,' he said sombrely. 'That way she won't have anything to remind her of previous years.'

  Joanna's previous years had entailed a skiing trip for the festivities. Surrounded by other people in a smart, impersonal hotel, she and Paul had managed to rub through it without too much friction, while at the same time neatly relieving Paul Clifford of a family Christmas with either wife or mistress.

  'Whatever you think best,' she said serenely. 'By all means come down on Christmas Eve.' She hesitated, then before she could think better of it suggested he come to lunch. 'Unless you prefer to take Polly out, of course.'

  There was a pause. 'Thank you. I eat so many restaurant meals I'd appreciate some home cooking. But please don't go to any trouble,' he added distantly.

  'Oh, I won't,' Joanna assured him. 'Polly and I have to eat lunch, anyway.'

  Joanna, obliged to sandwich Christmas shopping in between her writing while Polly was in school, did her best to throw off a growing feeling of malaise, but with no success. She felt irritable with herself. For years she'd suffered nothing worse than an odd cold, yet since Paul's death she'd been nothing like her usual healthy self. Worried she might be sickening for something dangerous to Polly, Joanna was driven at last to seek professional help. After two consecutive visits to Roger Morley, who was taking over more and more of Dr Penfold's patients, she returned home, dazed, feeling worse than ever. She clipped on Sunny's lead and took him for a walk to the Rectory, where Mary took one startled look and led Joanna to a chair at the kitchen table before reaching for the coffee.

  'No coffee, thanks,' said Joanna. 'These days I can only manage tea!'

  Mary's bright eyes widened as she changed course for the tea caddy. 'Tummy upset?'

  Joanna gave a hollow laugh. 'You could say that. I've just been talking to Roger Morley.'

  'Good! I told you to encourage him a bit.'

  'The visit wasn't social, Mary. I haven't been feeling too good for quite a while. I thought I'd better see about it in case I had something Polly might catch.'

  Mary stiffened. She slammed the lid of the teapot and went over to Joanna, putting an arm round her shoulders. 'What's the verdict?'

  'If I tell you will you keep it to yourself? Even from George?'

  Mary looked terrified. 'Oh, good heavens, love, what's wrong with you?'

  'I'm pregnant,' said Joanna, and burst into tears.

  'Is that all?' Mary held her close, laughing with relief.

  'Aren't you listening?' wailed Joanna. 'I'm going to have a baby.'

  'Well, yes, Jo. I know what pregnant means...' Mary's eyes widened suddenly. 'Oh, glory. But I thought you couldn't ‑'

  'So did I,' said Joanna bitterly. 'But it seems I can, after all.'

  Mary handed her a sheet of kitchen paper. 'Mop yourself up while I pour. Or shall I raid George's sherry decanter?'

  Joanna shuddered. 'No! Tea, please.'

  Mary filled two mugs with a brew strong enough to melt the spoon, then looked Joanna over assessingly. 'You don't look very pregnant. Poor Paul. He'd have been so pleased ‑'

  'I doubt it. It doesn't show yet because the baby's not his.'

  Mary choked on her tea. 'Oops!' She eyed Joanna warily. 'Who?'

  'Marc Anstey.' Joanna beat an impotent fist on the kitchen table, badly startling the dog. 'It was the night of the accident. Neither of us meant it to happen. It—it just did. But even if I'd deliberately set out to seduce him I wouldn't have given a thought to any consequences. Oh, Mary, what on earth am I going to do?'

  'I don't see your problem. Just tell the man.'

  'If I do he'll insist on marrying me.'

  'I should jolly well hope so!'

  'It's not as simple as that, Mary. He did ask me, and I turned him down flat because I thought I couldn't give him a child.' Joanna heaved a despondent sigh. 'I suggested we just, well, cohabited, but he wouldn't hear of it. Anyway, I can't just do a complete U-turn now and say, "Hi, Marc, guess what? Problem solved. I'm pregnant." He might have changed his mind.'

  Joanna went home soon afterwards, turning off to walk in the woods with the dog before returning to Swan House. It was such a silly situation to be in, she thought angrily. She'd sent Marc packing because she couldn't have his child, yet the words would stick in her throat if she tried to tell him that Dr Penfold had been wrong all those years ago. The diagnosis had never been put to the test for the simple reason that once Paul had been told there was no possibility of further children he couldn't bring himself to touch her. Besides, it was more than possible that Marc no longer cared for her in that way any more. Men changed. She knew that better than anyone. On the other hand if she told him she was pregnant Marc's principles might force him to offer marriage whether he still wanted it or not. And that would be worse than anything.

  Joanna ground her teeth impotently. If she'd known there was the remotest possibility of getting pregnant she'd never have let Marc near her that night. She whistled to the dog, then smiled bitterly. Who was she trying to kid? That night she'd given no thought to anything other than the joy of being in Marc's arms.

  Joanna strode back to the house in a mood so black that she found it impossible to work on her novel when she got home. The problems of her mythical characters paled into such insignificance beside her own that she flung away from the typewriter in the end and went off to the kitchen to make a cake for Polly's tea. One thing was certain, she thought, as she whipped eggs viciously. Marc would know, sooner or later, whether she told him or not. So would Polly, not to mention the entire population of Swancote. There was no hope of disguising the fact that Joanna Swan's child would appear in the world a sight too long after her husband's death to be his.

  That night Joanna lay on a sofa in the drawing-room once Polly was in bed, too listless to do anything other than stare at the television. Very little of the evening's programme registered, and, once she realised the credits were rolling on a play she'd been pretending to watch, Joanna got up to let Sunny o
ut before bedtime. She stopped dead halfway to the door as the announcer on Newsnight informed her that later there would be an interview with the new foreign editor of the Citadel. Marc Anstey, Washington-based until recently, would give his opinion on the latest governmental crisis brewing in the White House.

  Joanna rushed the dog out to the kitchen and let him out in the garden, then, switched on the small portable on the kitchen counter, her eyes glued to the screen. When the camera finally focused on Marc's face she slumped down on a kitchen stool, elbows on the counter, her face propped in her hands as she looked on the face of the man she loved. She listened to the familiar gravelly tones of his voice, deeply impressed by the assurance and quiet authority he brought to the discussion on current US affairs. As time went on Joanna grew more and more depressed. Seeing Marc on screen like this, self-contained and elegant, his views listened to with obvious respect by the presenter, was a bittersweet experience. She was totally unprepared for her reaction to this informed, lucid stranger. Until now Marc Anstey had merely been Polly's uncle, Rosa's brother, even, briefly, her own lover. Now, watching him on the screen, it was impossible to see him as anything other than foreign editor of a national newspaper, a formidable, rather glamorous stranger far remote from Joanna Swan and her embarrassing little problem.

  The rest of the time until Christmas flew by at much too swift a rate for Joanna. Polly, excited by school Yuletide preparations, was harder to handle than usual, and loud in her lamentations when she learned her darling Marco was not only unable to witness her performance in the school play, but too busy to see her at all until Christmas Eve.

  'Try to make her understand, Joanna,' said Marc, when he made a second phone call later that evening to explain why he'd upset Polly so badly earlier. 'I can't make it again this Sunday because I've finally set up a meeting with a certain foreign diplomat the Citadel's been after for months. The man refuses to talk to anyone but me. I can't pass up the chance of an exclusive for the paper.'

  'Of course not,' agreed Joanna. 'When she's calmed down a bit I'll have a chat with her, tell her I'll take photographs at the play so you can see her with her crook.'

  'Thank you, Joanna. I'm very grateful.'

  'Not at all,' she returned politely. 'Congratulations, by the way. I saw you on Newsnight. Very impressive.'

  'Thank you. One of the aspects of the job I like least.' He yawned suddenly. 'Sorry. I've only just got home. No working dinner with anyone tonight, praise be. I yearn for an early night.'

  Joanna's eyebrows rose. 'It's gone nine. You work a long day.'

  'Honesty forces me to admit I don't actually get to my office until mid-morning these days, ready for the morning conference at eleven.'

  'Perks of the new job?'

  'In a way. But don't get me wrong. I still get up at the crack of dawn to listen to Radio Four, and get through all the morning papers before I drive to work.'

  'Sounds gruelling. Are you settling in well in the new flat?'

  'It's chaos at the moment; the painters are still in. But I like being nearer to the job.' There was a pause. 'How's your novel coming along, Joanna?'

  'Fairly well,' she lied, reluctant to tell him that she was suffering from severe writer's block due to circumstances beyond her control. 'Right. I'll do my best to put Polly in the picture. See you on Christmas Eve, then—unless some story breaks to keep you away, of course,' she added.

  'I'll be there,' he said curtly. 'Goodbye, Joanna.'

  End of term arrived, and with it the performance of the nativity play, which Joanna watched, smiling widely despite the lump in her throat, as Polly entered stage-left with the twins, beaming. Joanna dodged about, in company with several proud parents, taking photographs during the performance, then presided over a celebration tea-party afterwards at Swan House, with Mary on hand to help with the tearing spirits of the three shepherds.

  Once school term was over Joanna occupied Polly with preparations for Christmas, taking her to the local forestry commission centre to buy a newly felled tree, and letting her help with the decorations when the tall tree was installed in a corner of the drawing-room. Joanna kept Polly busy by enlisting her help with every Christmas task possible for the child, who was in a high state of excitement as she wrapped presents for the Lavenhams and Doris and her beloved uncle.

  Joanna had taken her to Oxford to shop the previous Saturday, and the result, a dark red cashmere scarf with a famous designer's signature on it, was being wrapped lavishly in shiny gilt paper printed with scarlet robins. 'Will Marco like it?' asked Polly anxiously, as she stuck a large red ribbon bow to the finished parcel.

  'He'll love it,' Joanna assured her.

  By noon of Christmas Eve Joanna's state of tension was only slightly less than Polly's. The tree was ablaze with lights, the table in the dining room festive with scarlet napkins and glittering Christmas crackers, a holly arrangement in the centre of the snowy white cloth. Wonderful smells filled the air in the kitchen, where a fillet of beef was nearing perfection in the oven, surrounded by roasting potatoes. A pan of fragrant tomato and basil soup sat on the stove, ready to decant into dishes for the first course, and in the refrigerator Polly's favourite lemon soufflé waited to round off a menu Joanna had chosen with care to appeal to a palate used to the sophisticated offerings of London restaurants.

  When Marc arrived, at twelve-fifteen to the minute, as promised, Joanna hung back while he fended off the dog as he scooped up an excited Polly, swinging her round a couple of times as he always did. He set her on her feet then came towards Joanna, his smile guarded.

  'Hello, Joanna.'

  'Hello, Marc.' She took his proffered hand briefly, then led the way into the house. 'Is it too soon to say Merry Christmas?'

  'Of course not. Merry Christmas to you both.' He stood in the centre of the hall, smiling, looking so attractive to Joanna that she felt shy.

  Which was ridiculous, she told herself, all things considered. Polly danced round him in a fever of excitement, encapsulating all the news of the past few weeks into one incoherent monologue which ended only when he hugged the breath out of her, then swung her up in his arms under the mistletoe hanging from the hall light and kissed her on each scarlet cheek.

  Polly slid to the ground, pushing Joanna forward. 'Now Jo, Marco.'

  For a moment Joanna was sorely tempted to turn tail and run, but the mockery in Marc's gleaming black eyes put her on her mettle. She moved under the mistletoe and held up her cheek, closing eyes which flew open again in astonishment when Marc took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth.'

  'Merry Christmas once more,' he said softly, releasing her.

  'I—I must see to the lunch,' said Joanna, backing away, her cheeks rivalling Polly's.

  'Let's take Sunny for a run in the garden, Polly. You can help me get some things out of the car,' said Marc, a look of victory about him which sent Joanna off to the kitchen, routed.

  The meal was a great success. Joanna's initial awkwardness soon wore off in the face of Marc's obvious effort to make the occasion a happy one for Polly. He was complimentary about the food, and the wine Joanna had chosen, wore his paper pirate's hat with panache and looked so much at home at the head of the table that Joanna began to wonder what on earth had possessed her to refuse his proposal. If she hadn't been so stubborn, her present problem would be no problem at all.

  'That's a very pensive look,' said Marc quietly, when Polly was in the kitchen giving Sunny leftovers from the meal.

  'Was it?' Joanna smiled brightly. 'I didn't mean to put a damper on things.'

  'You couldn't.' Marc smiled, making her heart turn over. 'I wanted you to know I'm grateful for the way you've made Polly so happy, Joanna. I was worried about Christmas—afraid it might revive memories she'd find painful.'

  'There've been one or two bad patches,' she admitted in an undertone. 'She asked me if her mother would have Christmas in heaven.'

  'Bloody hell!'

  'Quite. I said it was
definite, because it's the birthday of Jesus.' Joanna smiled ruefully. 'I had to think on my feet, believe me.'

  'You do very well,' he said gruffly. 'In fact, you make a wonderful mother. I must be honest—I didn't think so at first, but Rosa knew exactly what she was doing by handing Polly over to you.'

  Joanna gazed into his intent eyes, taking her courage in both hands. 'Marc ‑' She broke off at the sight of Polly advancing slowly into the room, bearing the large crystal bowl of soufflé, with Sunny in hazardous attention. 'Goodness, darling, that must be heavy for you. Thank you very much.'

  Joanna's sudden urge to confess was lost as Marc took the bowl from Polly and shooed Sunny from the forbidden territory of the dining-room. It was the wrong time, anyway, Joanna assured herself, as she served the pudding.

  'None for you?' Marc tasted his with pleasure. 'Not dieting, are you?' His eyes rested on the fuller curves outlined by her crimson sweater. 'I fancy you've put on a little weight since I saw you last, but it suits you.'

  Joanna's stomach gave a sickening lurch as Polly, to her infinite relief, interrupted with a plea for a present-giving session later when lunch was over. 'Marco won't be here tomorrow,' she entreated, her face rivalling the Christmas tree once permission was given.

  'But only once we've helped Joanna clear everything away,' warned Marc as they rose from the table.

  Once the kitchen was in order, Joanna sent the other two out for a quick session in the garden with Sunny and a ball while she went upstairs and made repairs to a face which felt shiny and hot after the rigours of the morning. In her full-length mirror she scrutinised herself in profile anxiously, but decided that other than a slight new fullness of curve here and there her secret was safe. For the time being.

  'Jo!' called Polly from downstairs. 'Come on.'

  When Joanna joined the others in the drawing-room she felt a sharp pang of yearning. The elegantly shabby room, lit only by the logs crackling in the hearth and the lights on the tree, was a wonderfully welcoming place. The scene before her was the epitome of everything she held dear, not least because Marc held centre stage as he leaned an elbow on the chimney-piece, his chiselled features softened with amusement over the antics of Polly and her dog on the hearthrug.