by Talli Roland
So why couldn’t she do that now? Each time she picked up the phone to call the family planning clinic, she promptly put it down, busying herself with some inconsequential task.
The buzzer sounded again, and Clare drew her bathrobe even closer around her body. ‘Coming!’ she yelled, padding to the door.
‘Oh!’ She jerked back in surprise at the sight of Nicholas leaning against the doorjamb. They hadn’t spoken since the studio—not that she was surprised, given his track record.
‘Hiya.’ Nicholas’s eyes twinkled as he smiled. ‘I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I’d drop by and see what you were up to.’ He raised an eyebrow as he took in her ratty robe and tousled hair, and Clare flushed. ‘Hope I didn’t get you out of bed?’
‘Er . . . ’ Clare met his steady gaze, her mind whirling with how to respond. She could invite him in, but then he’d expect . . . what? That nightcap and the rain check they’d been trying to get around to for weeks? When a man turns up late at night, there’s only one thing he wants . . . and it isn’t warm milk. Ellie’s voice from her university days drifted into Clare’s mind. This was most definitely a booty call, and God knows booty was not on the agenda right now.
‘No, but actually, I was about to go to bed. Sorry,’ she said finally.
‘Oh.’ Nicholas’s face fell. ‘That’s too bad. Okay, then. Sorry to drop by like this.’ He shrugged. ‘Just thought I’d give it a shot. Well, have a good sleep and I’ll see you soon.’
Clare nodded, thinking that she’d almost prefer not seeing him soon. This whole thing with Nicholas—whatever it was—was starting to be more bother than it was worth. The comings and goings, the booty calls and rain checks that were never endorsed, the uncertainty about next dates . . . She had enough on her mind without adding him and his random appearances to the mix. He probably wouldn’t be in touch for a few more weeks anyway, she’d plead busy, and then they could let whatever had happened between them die naturally. Given their relationship had barely left the starting gate, it wouldn’t take long to fade.
Nicholas got out his keys and climbed back into the car, and Clare watched it pull away into the dark night. Mouth stretching in an enormous yawn, she was about to swing closed the door when she noticed something contrasting against the whitewash of her step. What was that? Tiptoeing gingerly in her bare feet on the cold cement, she picked up the object, turning it over in her hands. The black leather wallet was smooth and heavy, and she scurried back into the warmth of the lounge, closing the door behind her. Her eyes widened as she spotted Nicholas’s driver’s license through the front plastic pocket. Shit! He must have dropped it when he got out his keys.
Clare stood for a second, wallet in hand, trying to decide what to do. Actually, she knew what she wanted to do—go to bed. But if Nicholas discovered the wallet missing and needed it straight away, he might be by at some ungodly hour later tonight to pick it up. She’d never be able to sleep knowing that could happen at any moment. No, as exhausted as she was, it was best to ring now and wait for him to come round again.
But five phone calls, two voicemails, and several texts later, Clare was still waiting. She snuck a peek at her watch: almost eleven. For God’s sake, the least he could do was text her back and say he didn’t need his wallet now! She tapped a finger against her mouth. If he didn’t come by tonight, that would probably mean another rendezvous tomorrow. And he’d definitely expect to cash in that bloody rain check then, wouldn’t he?
Clare let out a huge sigh.
She glanced at his driver’s license again, noticing he lived in Belgravia. That wasn’t too far from here. She could grab a cab to his flat, put the wallet through the letter box, and that would be that. After padding into the bedroom, she tugged on a pair of jeans and a thick jacket. Then she hurried out into the night and down to busy Fulham Road to hail a taxi, eager now to put all this behind her. If traffic didn’t conspire against her, she could be home again in half an hour.
A few minutes later, the cab pulled up to a row of white terraces similar to her own. After asking the driver to wait, Clare tumbled out into the street. She checked the license again: Nicholas lived at number 10a in the garden flat. Lucky man, she thought as she walked towards the house. She’d give anything to have outdoor space—as long as there was someone to take care of it. Funny, she’d expected a slick penthouse rather than a homely place like this. And—she glanced around the clean and tidy exterior—hadn’t he said something about major renovations? Usually that entailed scaffolding or at least a skip, but there wasn’t even a ladder in sight.
Clare opened the gate and made her way up the path. Lights blazed from the window and the sound of cartoons drifted from inside. Nicholas was either home or a group of child thieves were having a party in his flat. And if he was home, why hadn’t he answered her texts? Shrugging, she pressed the buzzer. She couldn’t drop off his wallet and run if he was there.
‘Oh, hello.’ Nicholas’s eyebrows flew up as he swung open the door. His normally crisp shirt was replaced with a well-worn grey T-shirt, and bizarrely, a gold clip perched in his short hair. What was that all about?
‘Nice look.’ Clare smiled. ‘Is the clip a new fashion accessory?’
‘Oh, God.’ He coloured and swiped it from his hair. ‘Yeah, well.’ Without further explanation, he shoved the clip in his pocket.
That was strange, Clare thought. And he didn’t seem in much of a hurry to invite her in, judging by the way he was blocking the door and darting little glances over his shoulder. What was going on? Maybe he was a transvestite or something in his spare time, she giggled to herself. No wonder he’d been so hard to contact.
‘You dropped your wallet right outside my flat earlier.’ She held it up.
‘Oh, God, thanks.’ Nicholas reached out to take it, slipping it into the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Can’t believe I did that. I didn’t even notice it was gone.’
‘I thought you might not. I left a few messages, but . . . ’
‘Oh, sorry. I didn’t get them.’ He paused, twisting around to look behind him. ‘Well, thanks again. I would have been lost tomorrow morning without my wallet.’
‘I figured as much.’ The silence stretched between them, growing more and more awkward with each passing second. Finally, just as Clare was about to head back to the cab, she heard the unmistakeable sound of children laughing.
‘Oh, I didn’t realise your nieces were visiting,’ she said. ‘No wonder you were busy. Sorry—hope the buzzer didn’t wake them up.’ Her mind spun, trying to make sense of it all. If Nicholas had his nieces over, why had he appeared on her doorstep a few hours earlier? Surely they wouldn’t be dropped off so late?
‘Yes, er, no, that’s okay,’ he said, looking flustered for the first time since she’d known him. ‘We were playing beauty salon—hence the clip.’ He grimaced. ‘I’d better get back to it.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Clare leaned in to kiss his cheek. ‘Well, the cab’s still waiting, so—’
‘Dad! Dad!’ A little girl with curly blonde hair burst into the room, and Nicholas turned towards her. ‘Come on! Lena and I have to try to plait your hair.’
Clare’s mouth dropped open. Dad?
‘Sorry, Mr Hunt.’ The smiling face of a twenty-something Aussie girl appeared behind the child. ‘They’ve already done mine and they insist on doing yours before going back to bed.’ She rolled her eyes at Clare in irritation. ‘Better make a quick getaway before they try to shave your head or something. At this rate, it’ll be morning before they settle.’
‘Yes, yes!’ the little girl said, beaming up at Clare. ‘We can do yours as well!’
‘Lucy,’ Nicholas said in a warning tone. ‘It’s way past your bedtime. I want you and Lena to go upstairs. I’ll be there in a second.’
Clare was listening to the exchange, her mouth hanging open as she tried to absorb the scene before he
r. Nicholas had children?
When Lucy and the nanny had disappeared, Nicholas turned to meet Clare’s incredulous gaze. ‘Right. Well.’
Clare could only stare. Why on earth had he got in touch with the club when he wasn’t child-free? And all that talk about finding someone who was like him . . . Sure, she hadn’t wanted to know every little detail of his private life, but having children was hardly one little detail, especially when the lack of children was the foundation of their relationship, or whatever it was.
‘So . . . I have kids,’ Nicholas said finally. ‘Two children, Lena and Lucy. Lena is four and Lucy’s six.’
Clare nodded, half-expecting him to whip out a series of photos on his iPhone. ‘And do you have a wife, too?’ she asked. There didn’t seem to be one in the picture, but if a man could keep quiet about his children, goodness knows what else he could keep hidden.
‘Good God, no. We’ve been divorced for two years now. We share custody and we both have crazy schedules, which is why I’m often here, there, and everywhere. There always seems to be some emergency or disaster.’ He sighed. ‘I wanted to meet a woman who’s not keen to get tied down; someone not interested in having more children.’ He shook his head. ‘I get enough of kids and responsibility here. When I saw the advert for the club, I thought it might be just the place to find what I’m looking for. And then I met you.’ He smiled. ‘You’re independent, you don’t want to know my every thought or what I had for breakfast, and you don’t need to see me each hour of the day. Perfect.’
‘Were you ever planning to tell me you have children?’ Clare asked, refusing to be moved by his compliments.
‘Well, no. Not really.’
Clare jerked at his words. ‘Why not?’
Nicholas shrugged. ‘It wasn’t important, was it? You’d never want to be their stepmum—and I wasn’t looking for a candidate for that. Neither one of us wants a committed relationship. It’s not like you volunteered much about your personal life, either. And that’s more than fine by me. In fact, I like it. No complication, no fuss or mess.’
Clare stared into Nicholas’s blue eyes, his explanation sinking in. He was right: every date had been on a nice, safe level, with fun banter and surface conversations. That’s what made him so enjoyable to be with. No fuss or mess, like he’d said. But there was also no emotion.
The problem wasn’t Nicholas, she realised now. The problem was her. She’d thought they wanted the same things, but she’d been wrong. The easy-come, easy-go type relationship that fit around everything else didn’t make her happy—there was an emptiness about that kind of surface attachment. She wanted someone who’d miss her, who’d make time to see her.
‘I’m sorry for any misunderstanding,’ Nicholas was saying now. ‘Do you think we can pick up where we left off? I’d really like to see more of you.’
Clare stared into his handsome face, his choice of words not going missed. He’d like to see more of her—not learn more about her or get to know her better. ‘No.’ She took a deep breath. ‘No, I’m sorry. It was lovely meeting you and I’ve enjoyed our time together, but I have to go.’
She kissed him quickly on the cheek, then ducked into the waiting cab. Leaning back against the seat as the car pulled away, Clare closed her eyes and sighed. She’d been so certain that was the kind of relationship she wanted, but she’d been wrong.
Her hand slid down to her belly, Mary’s words about considering children before it was too late echoing in her mind. Could she be wrong about kids, too? Her eyes snapped open at the thought. Of course not, she told herself. Having a baby was a huge deal, and she was nowhere near ready.
So why wasn’t she doing something about it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Who are these people again?’ Alistair asked early Sunday evening as he traded his usual black tee for a wrinkled cotton shirt. ‘Do I need to iron this?’
Poppy laughed as she examined her rumpled husband. ‘Um, yes. You do.’ She watched him strip off the shirt and exchange it for another, only marginally less creased. At least it was an improvement. ‘Their names are Marta and Luis,’ she said. ‘I met them at the No-Kids Club.’
‘Ah.’ Alistair attempted to smooth down the fabric. ‘They’re not fanatics who don’t want to have children, are they? I can’t stand those people. They’re so self-righteous.’
Poppy thought of Clare, who was definitely against having kids. She wasn’t self-righteous about it, though, was she? In fact, Poppy felt a little sorry for her. Despite her strong words, she looked lonely. ‘No, no. Actually, they’re starting their fifth IVF cycle.’
‘Oh, God.’ Alistair groaned. ‘That’s not why you invited them round, is it, Pops?’ He swung to face her. ‘Because I really don’t want to discuss the ins and outs of all that. I’m so tired of talking about it.’
‘I just thought they were a lovely couple,’ Poppy said vaguely, a tiny jab of fear poking her gut. What if he really didn’t want to do IVF again? But no, she reassured herself, he wasn’t against it—it was more the financial worries and stress. He’d be fine. Because if he wasn’t . . .
‘Okay, good.’ Alistair interrupted her thoughts. He turned and put his arms around her, and Poppy let herself relax against his chest despite the tension inside. ‘Look, I know all this hasn’t been easy for you. But I promise that whatever child comes to us, it will be our own. We’ll love him or her whether it’s ours biologically or not.’
Poppy nodded, her head grazing his chin. She didn’t doubt they would love any child. But that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t time to give up on their own baby—not just yet. A spurt of determination flowed through her. She’d get Alistair excited about this round of IVF if it killed her.
Three hours later, she was beginning to think it would kill her. Marta and Luis were nice enough, but the only thing they spoke of was IVF, IVF, and IVF, detailing everything from their first four cycles, and Poppy meant everything. Seriously, learning how quickly Luis was able to provide a sample for their second attempt was way too much information.
She swallowed more water as Marta outlined yet again their plan of action for cycle number five, noticing Alistair twitching beside her. She really couldn’t blame him. Even with her own IVF underway, she was getting uber-bored herself.
‘So are you off on holiday anywhere nice this year?’ she asked inanely, hoping to change the subject before Alistair started to convulse.
‘Oh no.’ Luis shook his head solemnly. ‘If Marta conceives, we want to stick around here. No flying. We’re not going to take any risks.’ She caught Alistair rolling his eyes as Luis reached over to pat Marta’s still-empty abdomen. ‘In fact, Marta will go on bed rest as soon as we find out she’s pregnant.’
Marta nodded. ‘That’s right. I’ll be leaving my job straight away. Having a healthy pregnancy is the most important thing to us.’
Wow. She and Alistair had been desperate for her to get pregnant, but they were nothing compared to these two. Were they? Doubt fluttered through her. Like Luis and Marta, they hadn’t been on holiday for years, and pregnancy had dominated almost every conversation—well, until recently.
Poppy stared as Marta and Luis’s monologue on egg harvesting washed over her. She didn’t want to be like these people, not for a second. But now that she’d started down the IVF road, she wasn’t about to give up. If her ‘bones’ were right and this attempt was successful, they wouldn’t need to do the procedure again, anyway.
‘That was fun,’ Alistair said wryly a few hours later as they cleared the plates from dinner. He paused to gulp from a glass of wine she’d almost served before Luis mentioned he was off all alcohol in ‘fertility solidarity’. After the night they’d had, she was tempted to have a swig herself. He turned to face her. ‘Look . . . I know the adoption thing came as a shock. I’ve been trying to give you time and space, but do you think you might consider it now?’
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Poppy forced a smile, cursing bloody Marta and Luis and their one-track mind. Far from softening Alistair towards IVF, Mr & Mrs Procreation had done the exact opposite. For goodness’ sake, they could put the Virgin Mary off Baby Jesus!
Maybe the couple could work in her favour, though, to show how different her approach was this time, that the IVF attempts didn’t have to be all-consuming. From injections to financing, she’d done it all on her own so far—and, apart from Alistair’s sample, she could do the rest, too. Hopefully that would be enough to convince him. She drew in a deep breath, heart racing as she geared up to finally tell him her plan.
‘So, um, yes, well. I have been doing a lot of thinking,’ Poppy began, her voice thready with nerves, ‘and . . . ’ She gripped Alistair’s hand and smiled at him, trying to convey how excited she was at the possibility of getting pregnant.
Alistair’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes? You’ll consider it? That’s fantastic news, honey.’ He squeezed her fingers and Poppy’s heart dropped. Shit.
‘I didn’t want to influence you too much, but it’s definitely the best way forward for us,’ he continued, oblivious to the expression on her face. He drew her close. ‘I’m so glad we’re finally moving in the right direction.’
Poppy’s mouth flopped open. What? She’d no idea he felt so strongly about adoption. He’d made it sound an option for consideration, not something he was set on. Panic closed her throat and she floundered for a response.
She pulled back, regarding his animated face. He had more life now than she’d seen in the past few months, as if the possibility of having a child in the next year had lit him up from the inside out.
