Alex would keep her around for a while. She’d go to his first night. He might invite her to kill a couple of hours over a hot chocolate between performances. But she wouldn’t be his, and he wouldn’t want her. In the end he’d let her go. Just like last time.
A peculiar thought niggled at her. Maybe – just maybe – the right guy would be like buses in her Cornish village. It was a standing joke in the local pub, where would-be passengers preferred to wait rather than spend an hour at the bus stop. Always jovial, the landlord would say “If you wait long enough one’ll definitely be along.” He’d qualify the statement with an aside, adding, “Some time.” Baffled tourists would mutter about the lack of accurate timetables and he’d pour them a pint. Perhaps she just had to wait a bit longer and Another One would come along. Could there be more than one possible perfect fit for everyone? She and Alex were a really great fit. Really. Great. Perhaps somebody else – another great guy – would be along when the time was right.
Something about this theory wasn’t working for her. For a micro-moment Alex had given her back her optimism about finding love, and taken it away again because she’d gone and fallen for him. As long as he was in her life he’d be in the way. He couldn’t be The One, no matter how badly she wanted him to be. Nothing was clear any more. In New York he’d shown her how two people could be indescribably good together. Together their bodies had been on fire. She’d have to force herself to let that memory go. They’d been moseying around a London department store and she was giving him fashion tips. Alex had got to know her again, and all he wanted was a stylist friend. On those terms she wasn’t cut out to be in his life long-term. What she felt wasn’t infatuated crazy-4-U-type love. It was the real deal.
She’d given him a piece of her heart. She should have known better. Since she couldn’t rely on love to always be there, it was better not to risk letting it in in the first place. Long-haul love was designed for other people. Not her. Not Alex. Not together. She clung on to her one certainty. Her love for her baby would be strong and unwavering and unconditional.
She’d forgotten how good it felt being with someone she cared about. That was the trouble. The biggest problem was no longer the onslaught of his sexiness; although she didn’t know quite what to do about that. Right now she needed to unravel the Alex-shaped knot in her heart and say goodbye.
By the time she came out of the loos the knot in her heart had been banished by cold dread. She’d noticed a brownish-reddish spot in her knickers. Her heart froze. Was she going to lose the pregnancy? She stood, statue-still in the middle of men’s fashion and panicked. A handful of customers browsed, picking things up and putting them back, studying colors, labels, prices. Oblivious, Maggie’s head spun. She’d put her free-wheeling life on hold, made new plans, pinned all her dreams on repopulating the cottage her grandmother had left her with a new little Plumtree family member. She could have taken the donor insemination not working first time on the chin. Losing the baby now that she was pregnant? She couldn’t bear it.
“Maggie?” Alex touched her arm and she jumped. “Are you okay? I’ve been looking for you everywhere?” He frowned. She’d gone as white as a sheet.
“Yeah. Yes,” she said. “I’m fine. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.”
She looked distracted. Something was definitely wrong. “Maggie?”
She clutched her handbag to her stomach, hazel eyes wide. “I’m not fine. I don’t know what to do. I think I might be going to lose the baby.”
She was trembling. Bleak fear spread through his chest. The intensity could have buckled his legs. He fought it. He needed to take care of Maggie. He found a shop assistant and took her down to the ground floor in an elevator normally reserved for merchandise. Leaving the store discreetly by a side door, he flagged down a taxi and gently bundled her in as if she’d been covered in the store’s white sticky tape with “fragile” printed on it in big red letters. From the taxi he called the nearest hospital with an early-pregnancy unit and told them that he was bringing her in. Reeling at the sadness in her eyes, he realized grimly that he couldn’t be more devastated for her.
At the hospital they seemed to wait forever. Finally she was taken away and interviewed by a nurse. He waited, stupidly, helplessly, and surrounded by carrier bags dumped on the grey linoleum. Maggie had been right. He could change his appearance, get a cool new look, but it wouldn’t change what mattered, who he was on the inside. His heart twisted. Choked-up emotion erupted inside him. He suppressed it. Maggie had come so far since he’d gone and become famous and dropped her like a hot potato. Unlike him she’d done it all on her own – not thanks to a famous name, the way he had. He admired her. She was proud of her life and excited to be having a baby. His heart cracked, hoping against hope that everything would be fine.
Pallid, she reappeared in the waiting room and sat gingerly in the chair next him. “Well?” He grated out the only word he could manage.
“They’re going to do an ultrasound,” she whispered. “Check for a heartbeat.” She looked at the floor, drawing his eyes back to the jumble of bags.
Had he wanted a makeover? Really? Or had he just wanted to see her, be with her? He’d figured that if he could lose Jago and start again with a clean slate, he could become the actor he aspired to be, earn his father’s approbation. Sitting next to Maggie, waiting, he didn’t give a monkey’s about Drake’s approval. She was all he cared about. Drake wasn’t his biological father, but that wasn’t what made him a bad dad. He’d messed up. He hadn’t taken care of Cassandra’s heart, and he’d been careless with his sons’ feelings. All through his teenage years, his father had sniped at his mother via the press, and been photographed with serial generically glamorous girlfriends. Some role model!
“Mrs. Plumtree?” The nurse’s voice jolted through him. She eyed him sympathetically as Maggie stood up.
“Aren’t you coming with us, Mr. Plumtree?” she asked.
“Oh, he’s not the dad.” Maggie swept a dismissive hand through the air. She shook her head. “He’s just a friend.”
Alex remained seated, feeling like an idiot. Smoldering under his TV front was an easy out when he didn’t want to confront real feelings. He’d been so completely stuck in his belief that it was impossible to have a relationship – to get to know someone properly – without his fame intruding on some level, that he’d failed to recognize his superlative arrogance, imagining that just about everyone on the planet knew who he was.
The nurse, fortyish in navy scrubs, looked him over shrewdly. “Well, whoever you are, you’re here now and I’m sure your friend would appreciate some moral support.”
Her composure transparently fragile, Maggie frowned. “Hold my hand?” How could he refuse? Her uneasy suggestion sounded half-plaintive, half-hopeful. A deeply entrenched memory of his mother’s isolation and dismay in the time after his father left them lanced him. Time splintered, and a powerful emotion burst through him. His heart ached to do something, anything, to make everything alright for Maggie.
“This way, please,” the nurse instructed. “You can leave Ms. Plumtree’s shopping with the receptionist. She’ll keep an eye on it.”
A bemused smile briefly wiped away Maggie’s worried frown as Alex scrambled to round up the bags. He deposited them at the desk and the bespectacled receptionist, who’d been handing notes to a deceptively scatty-looking junior doctor, removed the pencil that was jammed between her teeth and murmured dreamily, “Is that who I think it is? I wouldn’t object if he held my hand.”
“It’s all looking tickety-boo.” The sonographer slid the ultra-sound thingy through the blue-tinted gel on Maggie’s belly. “Nothing whatsoever to worry about.”
“Wow.” She stared at the screen, awed at the notion of seeing the new life beginning inside her. The close-to-retirement-age woman sent her a kind smile. Her reading glasses dangled on a chain around her neck. The specs must have had an accident because one arm was held on with a sticking plaster. She cal
mly went on clicking, measuring, and recording. “This is my first,” Maggie said. She squinted at the grey image struggling to pick out a recognizable form. What should I see? A peanut-sized baby? “You must have seen hundreds of these.”
“Indeed. But it’s not every day I see two at once.”
Disbelief gripped Maggie. “Two?”
“I believe so. You’re expecting twins. If you’ll excuse me a minute I’d like to see if the consultant’s free to come in and take a look.”
Reeling from the news that she was expecting two babies, Maggie didn’t know if she was thrilled or terrified. Instant family. It was everything she’d dreamed of. But two?
“Oh. My. Giddy. Aunt.”
“Twins!” Alex’s hold on her hand tightened. “Awesome.”
Everything whirred into a bit of a blur after that. The consultant arrived and explained that breakthrough bleeding was fairly common in early pregnancy, and that everything looked fine. She told Alex to bring Maggie back in if she experienced heavier bleeding or pain. Weary of explaining that he wasn’t the father, and utterly relieved that nothing was wrong, she nodded and agreed. So did he.
Together on the pavement, outside the hospital, she pushed down the rising sense of panic that simmered beneath her upbeat surface. In silence, she zoned out to process the fact that she was having two babies. She’d gone into meltdown.
A London bus whooshed by with a mugshot of Ella Swift on its side. In the genes lottery she’d got eyes of two different colors. With one blue eye and one brown she was the poster girl for unique. She’d started out in modeling, done runway, been on the cover of countless glossy mags, and played the werewolf’s sister in Mercy of the Vampires. She’d just made the jump from TV to movies, and on top of all that Maggie had heard in New York that she was the new face of a cosmetic brand. “Wow. Look at Ella! Now she’s someone who got lucky with her genes.”
Not caring what direction she was headed, Maggie started to walk.
“Sure,” Alex agreed softly. Questioning concern shadowed his face. “Amazing looks are just a part of what makes her special, though. Right?”
“Absolutely. But people like to know who they get their family resemblances from. What if my children resent the fact that I can’t tell them that stuff?
What if Donor Guy lied on his details form? Or worse,” she gabbled. “What if there was a mix-up at the clinic and I didn’t get the guy’s sperm I chose? My babies could have got some other random donor’s DNA by mistake.”
“Maggie.” He dropped his carrier bags on the wet pavement and gripped her upper arms gently, turning her to face him. “Look at me.” She avoided his face. “It’s too late for what-ifs. Genetics is a random business, whatever way it happens. You said so yourself. A genetic lottery? Isn’t that what you called it? The reason you were okay with this in the first place was because your own dad was pretty much a sperm donor. Remember?”
She locked eyes with him. “What if I was wrong?”
“Take it from me,” he insisted. “It takes more than an ejaculation to make a real dad.”
“I’ve been fixated on needing to be the perfect mother and now I’m having two babies, and I don’t know who their dad is, and one day they’re going ask me where they got their eyes and their nose and their smile from, and …”
“And they’ll be able to get that information when they’re old enough.” He pressed a finger into the furrow between his brows.
“I know,” she admitted. “It’s just that I hadn’t thought about the baby – babies – wanting a dad. What if I’m not enough?”
Another red double-decker bus sailed past, full to almost bursting with passengers. Its wheels sloshed through an enormous puddle by a blocked drain and sent up a bow wave of filthy water. Alex laced his fingers through Maggie’s, pulling her behind him, shielding her with his body, so that he got spattered and she didn’t.
At that moment the heavens opened and his efforts to stop Maggie getting drenched were ruined.
“Right, that’s it,” he announced. “You’re coming home with me. You’ve had a scare and you’ve found out you’re having twins. You can’t be alone tonight.”
Chapter Eighteen
Alex didn’t take no for an answer and a taxi ride later he showed her into his penthouse apartment. He ran Maggie a warm bath and filled it to the brim with bubbles.
“This is kind, but there’s no need for a fuss.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“It was just jitters.” She straightened her shoulders, composing herself. “The scare threw me, but I’m fine now. Really. I don’t need to stay, but I wouldn’t say no to dinner.”
“You’ll not say no to breakfast either,” he said firmly, “Because you’re staying here tonight. I have to be sure that you’re okay.”
She lolled in luxury, letting the warmth seep into her bones, the twin news taking root in her mind. Calmly she told herself, “You can do this. You’ve thought it through from every angle.” She trailed her hands through the bubbles, her nails a bright-orange contrast to the white froth. “Except the one where you get two babies for the price of one.” With twins, being a single mum was certainly going to turn out tougher than she’d expected, but she didn’t have any regrets.
Wrapped in a bathrobe she padded about barefoot on the soft carpet, a warm mug of tea cradled in her hands. Thanks to Alex’s upmarket bath soak she smelt unusually spicy; grapefruit and bergamot top notes, the bottle said. Through floor-to-ceiling glass, lit-up London was spread out all around.
“The closest I’ve come to a view like this was on the London Eye,” she said.
Alex stood next to her. “It’s over there.” She picked out the distant circle of lights and the Houses of Parliament beyond.
Stripped of his wet clothes, he’d changed into one of his new shirts.
“I’m modeling my new look for you. What do you think?”
She gave him the thumbs-up. She’d forgotten all about the makeover.
He tore off the shirt that she’d okayed and stood in the center of his minimalist living room, completely filling up the space with his fabulousness.
She’d fallen into the trap of wondering what it would be like to have Alex in her life as more than a friend once before. She didn’t intend to make the mistake again.
Maggie rummaged in a bag. It was killing her trying not to think about touching that body, being touched back. Sun-golden skin. Taut muscle. Broad chest. Divine six-pack. The dark arrow that speared down from his navel. She pulled out a shirt.
“Here. Enough of the fashion parade, already. You’re too fab for words. And I have complete faith that it all looks great on you.” She threw it across the room and he caught it. His body was driving her to distraction. “Put that on. It’s got dinner-cooking-shirt written all over it. I’m going out of my mind with hunger over here.”
He grinned, shrugged his muscular arms into the shirt and quickly did up the buttons. In his hurry he’d done them up wrong. Her stylist’s compulsion to fix it got the better of her. “Something’s not right. You look a bit squiffy.”
“I haven’t touched a drop,” he protested, mockery in his eyes.
Maggie’s hands hovered over the fabric covering his chest as she undid and redid the offending buttons. For an electric moment she craved his kiss. Her head spun. An out-of-control compass point, she ached to lose herself in him. It wasn’t going to happen.
“That’s better,” she said primly. She walked away, putting some space between herself and Alex, feeling all the while as if she was attached to a bungee and that if she dared to let go she’d ping straight back into his arms.
“Right. Dinner,” he said decisively. He headed into the kitchen area of the amazing open- plan space and set to work, taking out pans and hunting out ingredients from the huge fridge. She couldn’t help noticing that it contained a row of champagne bottles, just sitting, chilling, waiting for someone suitable to come along and pop the corks. A twinge of
agony spiked through her, knowing that she wasn’t that someone suitable. She hitched herself onto a stool, and Alex passed her a glass of iced water. As he cooked dinner the ice cubes slowly melted.
Twenty minutes later he’d magicked up tagliatelle with smoked ham and mushrooms in a red pesto and crème fraiche sauce. It was on the tip of her tongue to say “I could get used to this”. She held back, biting down on her bottom lip. He sat on the stool next to her at the kitchen island. “Did I forget something?” he asked. “Black pepper? Parmesan?”
She shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s perfect.” You’re perfect.
“Where’s the spare bedroom?”
“There isn’t one. I’ll sleep on one of the sofas.”
Like all things delicious, one more glass of wine or cracking into the second layer in a chocolate box, Alex was too much of a good thing, and Maggie knew she ought to go. She didn’t want to, not if she didn’t have to, so she stayed.
Alex produced some fresh linen and together they stripped and remade the bed. Until Alex she hadn’t realized just how good having a man in her life to rely on could be. It threw her decision to become a single parent by choice into sharp focus. Was she being selfish? Was she even up to the task? She wouldn’t get bored and make a shambles of being a parent like her mother. She’d tracked her down and filled her in via a video chat. She’d seemed quite enthusiastic about becoming a grandma. She’d also had some news of her own. She was selling the beach bar, returning to the UK, and getting married.
“My mother’s leaving Spain.” Maggie stuffed a pillow into a fresh white pillowcase. “She’s met someone called Frank from Scotland. He’s a builder. A widower. He has three grown-up kids, and a two-year-old grandson. They’re planning a small wedding in a Scottish castle, no less, just as soon as she finds a buyer for the bar.” Alex raised his eyebrows and together they straightened the duvet. “Anyway she’s promised to be there for the birth, and to help out whenever she can.”
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 20
