Hired Girlfriend, Pregnant Fiancée?

by Nina Milne

  ‘Right. What’s the best way to do this?’ she asked.

  ‘First you need to remember that you can swim—of course it’s different than a pool, but it’s still water. You do have the ability to navigate the sea as long as you respect it. Respect is healthy. Also, remember we’ve done all the safety checks on tides and currents. Next, you need to get used to the temperature—come in a little further, get a feel for it.’

  His calm deep tones helped and Gabby nodded, stepped forward, felt the resistance of the water against her legs. She was relieved that the water, though cold, was already sun warmed in the late afternoon as she tried to absorb and define the swirl of the current.

  ‘Watch your breathing,’ Zander said. ‘It’s easy when you’re a bit anxious and in water to breathe shallowly. Better to focus on deeper breaths—inhale and feel your diaphragm move.’

  Now it wasn’t only his voice but his presence that helped. She walked a little further, feeling the sand rougher now between her toes, and she looked down, wondered what lurked in the swirling turquoise depths.

  ‘It’s OK. Let’s just swim out a little way—a few strokes, slowly and methodically. Then we’ll flip over on to our backs and you can look at the sky and float. Does that sound OK? I’ll be right next to you.’

  She made the first few strokes and then fear, unfamiliarity and the idea of the unknown segued into panic. Even the ability to swim, to breathe seemed to desert her. Then came his voice.

  ‘Now on to your back. It’s fine, Gabby.’

  On automatic, she managed to turn over, her panic assuaged by the feel of his hands under her, offering support, and she concentrated on breathing and floating. Then he released her and she gazed up at the still, intense blue of the sky, open and vast and oddly calming. She was doing it—actually being carried by the waves—and disbelief fought with sheer exhilaration.

  ‘You’re doing great. You ready to head back to shore? Or do you want to go a little further?’

  One last look at the sky and Gabby switched to treading water. She looked at the shore—the sandy curve was still not too far away—and turned her head to look out at the sea. There were other swimmers out further...a few surfers along the waves.

  ‘Let’s go a little further. I’d like to actually swim.’

  ‘How about twenty-five strokes and then we’ll turn and head back? Make sure you breathe on both sides if you’re doing front crawl—and maybe swap to breaststroke if you feel panicked. That way you can see where you’re going better.’

  Again Zander struck the right tone—acceptance without question, an assumption that she could do it alongside common sense and practical advice. That and the knowledge that he’d be there right beside her enabled Gabby to turn away from the shore and strike out, counting the strokes in her head, keeping time, feeling the cleave of the water against her limbs.

  She reached twenty-five and stopped, turned and looked back at the shore, now peopled by what looked like the equivalent of toy figures. She could feel the rise of panic; the growing idea that she wouldn’t make it back. She saw an image of Lucille, left all alone, Gabby’s promise to her grandfather to look after her broken by a stupid urge to try to be different, to change her personality.

  Suddenly the limbs that had felt so strong, so buoyant just seconds before trembled, her lungs refused to cooperate, and an urgent need for oxygen caused her ears to pound.

  ‘Gabby. It’s fine. You’re doing fine. Twenty-five more strokes and you’ll be back in touching distance of the shore. You will make it back.’

  She opened eyes she hadn’t even known she’d closed and looked at Zander’s expression. He was serious, his belief in his own words so strong she could swear they formed an aura. Every fibre of her being wanted to ask him to tow her back, and she knew he would do so without question or censure. But something deeper told her that was the easy option and one she would regret taking.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  This time it was harder, each stroke more of an effort, but eventually she hit twenty-five, surfaced—and saw the shoreline! A few more strokes and she could stand. Her questing toes found and crunched on the seabed and she waded towards the shore, reached it, turned and looked back out to sea.

  ‘I did it! I swam out and I came back!’

  ‘You did it and came back. Your grandfather would be proud of you.’

  Turning to Zander, Gabby smiled at the thought. Imagined her much-loved gramps patting her on the shoulder, a beaming smile on his face.

  ‘I did it!’ she repeated. ‘I did it. I did it. I did it!’

  And before either of them knew what was happening Zander had caught her around the waist and was twirling her round and round, both of them laughing like loons. Eventually he placed her on the sand gently and looked down into her eyes.

  Heaven help her, all she wanted to do was kiss him. But she knew she mustn’t. Even though right now, in the moment, she couldn’t remember why it was bad idea. Adrenaline rush—that was all it was.

  Who knew whether common sense would have prevailed? It wasn’t put to the test, because a man approached them. Young, long hair, tanned, a happy smile, a surfboard under his arm.

  ‘Gabby? I am Pedro. We spoke earlier. I am your surf instructor.’

  ‘Fantastic! Hi, Pedro. This is Zander.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  A few preliminaries later and Pedro smiled again. ‘Right. Time to choose your board and get you wetsuited up.’

  Exhilaration still rushed through Gabby’s whole body as she listened to him, still hardly able to believe that she had swum in the sea and was about to go back in.

  Pedro was speaking. ‘Before we go into the water, there are various techniques you need to practise on the sand. Paddling out. Popping up. Then we will move into the water, and I hope by the end of the afternoon you’ll have caught your first wave!’

  All her worries seemed to have dissipated—even the idea of catching a wave didn’t faze her.

  Her jubilation continued throughout the lesson, enhanced by watching Zander, his lithe movements and natural affinity for the surfboard. Something warmed inside her as she saw how carefree he looked, saw the look of concentration on his face, the smile that heated her skin with an intensity equal to the afternoon sun’s rays, his deft, impatient movements as he pushed his hand through his sea-sprayed hair.

  All of it gave her a funny little thrill of happiness, a sense of freedom—as if just for the day she was a different Gabby, one who had shed worry and caution.

  The finale came when Pedro took them further out into the waves to put everything they had learnt into action. Zander lay on his board, his dark eyes intent and focused on the waves in assessment as he paddled. He bobbed, and then Pedro gave a small grunt of appreciation as Zander spotted the white-water wave, rode it and popped up.

  ‘Like a pro, Zander! Way to go!’ Pedro fist-pumped the air as Zander rode the wave in and then he turned to Gabby. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Yes!’ Whether she was able was a different matter.

  Zander grinned at her, reached out and took her hand in his. ‘You’ve got this. I know you have.’

  His voice was deep and genuine and his touch imbued her with confidence. The glint of appreciation in his blue eyes pumped her veins with a belief that she could do anything.

  Grabbing her board, she headed out into the water, the sea swirling around her calves and then her thighs. She stood and let some white-water roll by, then closed her eyes as she tried to do as Pedro had instructed—get a feel for the rhythm and power of the waves. She held her surfboard in position, nose towards the waves.

  OK. Now do this thing.

  She identified a suitable incoming block of white water, took a deep breath and turned to face the shore. She lay on her board and paddled, focused. As the wave took the board and surged forward she stopped padd
ling, put her hands on the board, pushed up and popped her feet beneath her and did her best to stand and balance her weight.

  As the surfboard washed on to shore she half fell, half leapt off, her muscle ache defeated by sheer exhilaration. ‘I did it. I did it. I did it! Again!’

  Pedro high-fived her and Gabby made no attempt to disguise her happiness, turning to Zander.

  ‘At the risk of repeating myself—I did it! I did it! I did it! I did it! I caught a wave!’

  ‘You did. You were amazing. Utterly incredible. How about we celebrate with a picnic on the beach?’

  She looked around her. The rays of the setting sun cast a miasma of orange on the sand, their glow in direct contrast to the darkening dusky blue of the sea. Music emitted from the restaurants that lined the promenade above them, and the hum of conversation and laughter vibrated in the air. Lights twinkled into being, more than sufficient to combat the incoming dusk and cast an ambient illumination.

  The whole idea of a picnic was impossibly romantic. With the emphasis on impossibly. The day might have had a dreamlike quality, but Zander was not the man of her dreams—not her Mr Right. Her Mr Right was a nice, ordinary bloke, not a drop-dead gorgeous, immensely successful multimillionaire.

  Zander had been unattainable when she was a teenager and he was even more unattainable now. He was too good-looking, too rich...too much. His world was not hers. His goal in life was to achieve even more wealth and boardroom triumph. His aura, his presence, would overwhelm her.

  But today he had proved himself a friend—so, whilst romance wasn’t on the cards, surely there was no danger in the enjoyment of each other’s company.

  ‘A picnic sounds awesome.’

  ‘Leave it with me. Once we’ve changed, I’ll sort it.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  ZANDER LOOKED AROUND the small but excellently stocked supermarket Pedro had recommended, chose his items carefully, then added a bottle of full-bodied red and two plastic wine glasses to his basket. He wondered why he had suggested a picnic at all.

  He tried to tell himself it was simply a ploy to put off their return to the villa, where he might be tempted to check in with the office. But deep down he knew that he was only kidding himself. Standing there on the beach, seeing Gabby’s joy in her achievements, still buzzing himself from the thrill of riding the waves, he had wanted to prolong the moment for as long as he could.

  Friends had picnics all the time. One picnic—what could be the harm in that?

  The answer arrived all too soon. As he made his way back to the beach, down the rickety wooden stairs towards where Gabby sat in the dusk, he stopped and caught his breath. Right now he wished with a deep gut-wrenching twist of desire that this was a fun fling for real, that the charade could be true.

  But that wasn’t possible. So instead he’d try to be a fun friend.

  Arriving next to her, he placed the bags down and retrieved the newly purchased tartan picnic blanket, shaking it out with a theatrical flourish.

  ‘I have come laden with food and drink, so I hope you’re hungry.’

  She rose to her feet and gave an exaggerated wince. ‘I am definitely ravenous—and muscles I never knew existed ache! This looks incredible.’

  Minutes later they had unpacked olives and bread, cold meats—presunto and paio, which the lady in the shop had explained to be smoked ham and smoked pork loin—a selection of cheese and some sardine pâté. Batatas fritas—chips—and pastries completed the spread.

  Zander poured the wine and raised his glass. ‘What shall we drink to?’

  ‘To today. It’s been amazing. I’m still buzzing.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  The feel of the sun on his skin, the cold salt spray of the water, the challenge of trying to master the surfboard and the waves had brought a surge of adrenaline that differed from the thrill of work, the buzz of a business deal. But, more than that, he’d felt pride in Gabby, in the way she’d faced, tackled and taken down her fears.

  ‘Would you do it again?’

  Her face clouded a little as she took a contemplative bite of a gleaming black olive. ‘I don’t know. Today feels like stolen time in some ways—as though it wasn’t real. Wasn’t me. Those feelings when I swam in the sea, when I caught the wave... Exhilaration doesn’t do it justice as a description. There was that total sense of freedom, and for a transient second feeling in control of nature. I felt invincible.’

  ‘A natural high?’ Not the right words; he knew that immediately as her eyes dimmed in the evening light.

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ The idea clearly troubled her.

  He frowned. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s a great feeling.’

  ‘That gets harder to achieve each time you seek it.’ Her voice soft now. ‘To start with, it’s something small, and then that’s not enough any more, so you need more and more to get that high. I’d have to swim the Channel, surf the most dangerous coast. And that’s not me—I’m happy I managed to catch a wave. I think I’ll stop there.’ She spread some pâté on bread. ‘What about you?’ Her smile held a hint of sadness. ‘Have you changed your mind? Are you going to set your sights on becoming a champion surfer?’

  ‘No. I loved it, but I really don’t have time to surf regularly.’ Though now, sitting there, he felt a sudden uncharacteristic regret strike and had to remind himself. ‘I get a buzz, a natural high, from success—from winning a deal, helping a client to succeed. I’ll stick to that.’

  ‘But, like I said, each time that goal becomes harder, and you need to achieve more to get that buzz. Surely in the end nothing will satisfy that craving except global domination?’

  ‘You make ambition sound like an addiction. Maybe it is—but not a destructive one. Yes, I would like to achieve global success—I don’t think that’s a problem.’ Not any more. But it had been once. His ambition had shown up the flaws his relationship with Claudia, but it would never be a problem again—he would never hurt anyone again—he’d make sure of that. ‘I love my job and I am proud of my company. For me ambition, moving the goalposts, is a good thing. Else you stagnate.’

  ‘Being content with what you have is not stagnation. I am happy with where I am, with what I have. I couldn’t keep up with your level of ambition, your drive to succeed.’

  Further confirmation that relationships and ambition didn’t mix. ‘We all have different contentment levels and different motivations.’

  ‘That’s true. And I’m sorry—I truly didn’t mean to criticise your achievements. Your success is phenomenal.’ A sudden smile illuminated her face. ‘Tell me about it. How you did it.’

  ‘Too dull.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. I want to know.’

  Her voice sounded sincere, her enormous hazel eyes were focused on his face, and he figured, Why not?

  ‘I wanted to succeed, but I also wanted to help other people set up their own businesses. Anyone. Not just people with expensive college backgrounds and loads of money. Anyone with an idea and the drive to achieve it. I’d been working in a bank. I went straight there after A levels.’

  A levels had been incredibly hard for him and his learning curve as he’d tried to figure out dyslexia and a whole new world of study. But he’d got straight As—an achievement he still felt proud about.

  ‘I decided university wasn’t for me. And, given Claudia and I were already engaged, work seemed a sensible option.’

  ‘Do you regret not going to university?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I don’t think it has impacted my life dramatically, but I would have liked the opportunity to spend three years studying something I felt passionate about. But at the time it seemed like a step too far.’

  She nodded in understanding. ‘So what happened next?’

  ‘I did well at the bank. I’d always found numbers easy and I was interested in the business si
de of it all. But what I learnt was how many people there were out there who couldn’t get a loan because they didn’t have enough capital or a guarantor, or their ideas were too risky. That didn’t seem right to me. So what I wanted to do was set up a consultancy firm that helped them—and, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I knew I would be able to make a go of it.’

  After Claudia died. After those terrible months when the sickness had moved in with inexorable, insidious finality.

  ‘I decided to try to do just that. So I liquidated everything and worked out of—and lived in—a tiny rented garage.’

  Of course his parents and his sisters had offered him a roof and help, but it had seemed vital to him that he achieve it all on his own.

  ‘It was a lot...but it worked. I’d found a niche. There are so many people out there with innovative, fantastic ideas. I provided finance and advice and help, and it took off. I worked every hour I could, so I could fit around different time zones. It was a mad time.’

  ‘And a confusing one, I imagine. A lot of that drive and energy must have been fuelled by grief.’

  ‘Mostly I think I was driven by my own ambition.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. Claudia’s illness, the tragedy of losing her, must have been beyond awful.’

  ‘It was hard.’

  He’d been there for her every minute, taken unpaid compassionate leave, tried to do everything he could to somehow mitigate the sheer tragedy. To help Claudia come to terms with her illness and navigate the acceptance that she had only months to live.

  ‘I did my best. She wanted to live the time she had left to the fullest, but it was hard as she got weaker. We tried. I took her to Paris because we’d never been, and to Disneyland. We watched all the films she’d always wanted to.’

  As he spoke he realised he’d never shared those bittersweet, tragic months with anyone—hadn’t been able to, given the aftermath of his betrayal. But now, sitting on the green-and-orange-plaid rug in the moonlight, it felt cathartic, and he knew it was something to do with Gabby, with her ability to listen and her warmth.