Tonight Alex was a rare species, glimpsed across a vast, crowded space.
Isolated from the chat and laughter, alone in the crowd, her head throbbed. Emptiness crashed through her like a wave pounding a Cornish beach out of a wintry sea. Suddenly she knew where she wanted to be. She had to get out of London. She turned to go and walked smack into the barrier of Alex’s rock-face chest.
“Woah!” His arms shot out as if to catch her, banded strongly around her and drew her into a hug. “How did you like the play?” The deep timbre of his voice speaking just to her made her wobbly. She did her best not to look in his electric-blue eyes.
“Fantastic. I kind of nearly nodded off once, during that bit with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in Act Two. I never get what they’re about. Spies, or students, or something, right? Otherwise, it was great.”
Alex laughed. “I’m glad you came.” He tore his eyes away from her face. “Guildenstern is over there with Cassandra. I’ll introduce you to him if you like. I’m sure he’d be happy to enlighten you.”
“No thanks.” She risked a full-on take of his gorgeousness. His traffic-stopping smile infected her with deep heat. In spite of herself, a smile grew from her heart and broke onto her face. “You were good, though.”
The room buzzed. Alex was still on an adrenaline high. People had been patting him on the back and telling him he was wonderful for the last hour. Weirdly, Maggie’s opinion was the one that counted most. She’d been there for him when he was Alex the wannabe. Her approval mattered above all others.
“How’ve you been?”
“Good.” The conversation stalled.
She looked stunning. Better even than he remembered.
“You look different.”
“Different good? Or different bad?”
“Different…” Accosted by a couple of luvvy types, he lost the chance to find the right word to tell her that the moment he’d set eyes on her that evening a lightning strike of desire had torn through him and he’d been aching to be alone with her ever since.
“Alex, you were fabulous.”
“Marvelous.”
“Your Hamlet’s wicked.” A third girl joined the group drawn to Alex like bees to a tree in blossom.
Maggie didn’t fade away. She stood her ground. Poised. Patient. She waited for the onslaught of hugs and kisses to subside.
“Come on. Let’s get out of here. I need to talk to you – alone.” He placed his hand low against her back. Sexual tension zapped him, like two planets colliding. He broke the connection and held the theater door open for her to step through, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t his attraction to Maggie making him high, it was the first-night buzz.
Outside they walked in silence until they reached the Millennium Bridge and stood looking at the lights reflected on the River Thames, watched over by the spectral white shape of St. Paul’s Cathedral dome lit up against the dark sky.
By heaven! I yearn to kiss her. It wasn’t first-night euphoria after all, but he really should get out of character. He ached to pull her into his arms and kiss her beautiful lips until the sun came up over London. Or take her back to his penthouse apartment and make crazy, stupid love to her. Was that so impossible? It was, if he was to stick to his decision.
“I’ve been thinking.” A chill October wind whistled across the bridge. He searched Maggie’s face. Her brows knitted.
“Alex, why didn’t you tell me you were donor-conceived?”
It was the barb that had lacerated his heart, the weapon his father used every time he’d threatened to disown his sons.
“Because I didn’t want to dump my hang-ups on you. I don’t know who my dad is.” He paused, wary of saying something to offend her. “It certainly isn’t Drake.”
“It takes more than an ejaculation to make a dad? You told me that.”
“And I meant it. Except it doesn’t apply where my father’s concerned. He gave up being a dad the day he walked out on my mother. He was playing a part. It’s as simple as that. We’re his embarrassing secret.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“No. It’s not that.” He’d been deliberately keeping it from her for good reason. “I didn’t want to pour cold water on your plan. My parents aren’t exactly great advertising for a sperm- donor family.” He hesitated, uncertain about hitting her with things that pained him. “Do you want to know how I found out that Drake isn’t my biological dad? You’d think sharing that information would be something parents planned out carefully, wouldn’t you?” Maggie nodded, watching him carefully. “Well, I found out in an airport. I was thirteen. My mother was half-cut. And out it came. No build-up. No warning.” Awkward silence hung in the air. Maggie opened her mouth to say something and no words came out. He’d thought having a broken-hearted mother and being rejected by a father who constantly put him down were his deepest scars. The bombshell of not being Drake’s biological son ran deeper. “You know. Who told you?”
“Cassandra let it slip.”
He was sorry he hadn’t told her but he didn’t want to talk about Drake and Cassandra. His years of trying to fix his mother’s heartbreak, protect his brother, prove himself to Drake were behind him.
“I need to talk about us.” He wanted her to be happy. He’d watch from the wings, celebrate her ups, be there for her downs. He didn’t know if he had it in him, but he planned to try. Maggie shivered. Her lovely face was tipped up, her eyes locked on his. “What I’m saying is … You can count on me. As a friend. Whatever you need, whenever you need it – help, money … Just call me and let me know, I’ll do whatever I can for you.” Until you find The One. How could he explain that he couldn’t promise to love her because he couldn’t risk hurting her? Them. “I don’t want to let you down,” he said simply. “But I’ll be there for you – and the babies.”
Maggie’s expression was cool, her eyes fixed on the glistening dark water of the Thames below. “That won’t work,” she whispered.
He reached out his arms and wrapped her in a hug. Her hair beneath his jaw felt soft, lovely. She smelt delicious, kind of zingy.
He wanted her. His Maggie. With him. On tour. In his arms. In his bed. He wanted fun, colorful, lovely Maggie. She’d turned his world inside out. The complexity of what he felt shattered him. He didn’t do complicated. He couldn’t have what he wanted. Worse, much worse than that, he couldn’t be what she needed. He was an actor. Make-believe was what he did best. He could pretend that Maggie’s babies were his. He’d do it in a heartbeat. He wouldn’t have to pretend. If only it were that simple. What he couldn’t stand was for them to pretend that he was their dad. There was too much potential for heartache in that scenario. They’d be living a lie. He’d turned it over and over in his mind. He couldn’t be a worse father than Drake. But what if he couldn’t do any better? What if he broke Maggie’s heart?
Maggie wriggled and he loosened his hold, so that she could slip out of the circle of his arms.
“I don’t need your help, or your money, thank you very much.” Her words were edged with sarcasm. “Believe it or not, my finances are in perfect order. I’d hardly have decided to be a single parent if they weren’t.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you were reckless,” Alex cut in. He wanted her to understand that he was offering back-up, someone to rely on. “What I meant was …”
“I don’t want to hear it.” She held up the palms of her hands and backed away from him. “What do you expect from me? Do you want me to say that’s really sweet? You can drift in and out of my life between girlfriends? Maybe even have the occasional shag? I can’t do it.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. I didn’t mean some kind of friends-with-benefits thing. Just friends. Why not? We were friends before. We can be again.” He spluttered it out, knowing it couldn’t happen.
“I love you.” Her arms hung limply at her side. The fury had gone from her face. “I can’t be just friends anymore. I shouldn’t even be here. I wouldn’t be, if your
brother hadn’t interfered.”
“What?” She loved him? Confusion clouded his mind. Nick and he were finally on separate career paths, leading different lives.
“Nick set us up.” Her eyes narrowed and her chin jutted. “You mean he hasn’t told you?” She shook her head despairingly. “He fixed for me to get hired to style you in Boston. And if he hadn’t? None of this would have happened. I wouldn’t have gone to New York. I wouldn’t be here now. Face it, Alex. If you’d walked past me on a London street, you wouldn’t have recognized me.”
“Oh, I’d have recognized you.” The shattering of his heart echoed in his voice.
“You don’t have to look after me. I’m not your responsibility.”
She spun on her heels and walked away. He hurried after her, following at a close distance, a pace or two behind, like her minder. When they were off the bridge, he hailed a taxi. He pulled her into his arms, held her tight, and pressed his forehead to hers. He ached to kiss her mouth. Instead he brushed her forehead with his lips and let her go. Cold as a marble statue, he watched the taxi’s tail lights disappear. After it rounded a corner he remained frozen to the spot, utterly dispirited. He raked both hands into his hair, took two quick strides, aching to run after her, get her back. There was no point. No matter what she felt, he couldn’t be her perfect man. He sucked in a deep breath and let it go in an anguished gasp. Accepting, finally, that this was goodbye, he turned and walked purposefully towards the theater.
Time to rejoin the party.
Alex was breaking inside.
Back at the theater he walked straight bang into Drake. He’d sent him an invitation to the first night, but he hadn’t RSVP'd, so Alex had assumed he wasn’t there.
His face beaming, the grey-haired actor grabbed Alex in a firm hug. “Well done, son,” he said. “You knocked Hamlet out of the ball park. I knew you could do it.” With that he swept out of the building to a waiting car.
The American expression coming from the English actor’s mouth sounded ridiculously incongruous. He wasn’t being facetious. He meant it. Alex had earned Drake’s approval. It paled into insignificance. His heart hammered in his chest. The only approval he really needed was Maggie’s love and he’d let that go.
Back in the bar, he hunted down Nick. He’d moved on from champagne and was sitting, looking bored and peeling the label off a bottle of beer.
“What did you do it for?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know. Setting me up with Maggie.”
“Because if I’d said ‘Hey, why don’t you look up Maggie?’ – you wouldn’t have. It was a nudge in the right direction.”
Alex’s cheek muscle flickered. “You were out of order.”
“Maybe, but the minute you heard she was our stylist, you got her an upgrade on the flight so that she could sit with you.”
“That doesn’t mean you were right.” Tension ripped through Alex’s body.
“I engineered a reintroduction.” Nick shrugged and slugged his beer. “I’d say New York was a pretty good indication that I didn’t get it entirely wrong.” He grinned lopsidedly. “The rest is up to you!”
Chapter Twenty
“I’m starting to look like a pot-bellied pig and I’m only twelve weeks. I’m eating like a prize porker too.” Maggie picked up a blueberry muffin and took a bite.
Layla looked her over critically. “I don’t think we need to build you a sty or buy you a trough just yet!”
Four weeks had passed since Maggie had left London for Cornwall. She’d started thinking about redecorating the cottage and the kitchen table was covered in drawings for her new venture – designing babywear. In a corner of the sitting room she’d set up her sewing machine. There was a big pile of colorful fabric samples stacked up beside it.
She was sitting in her kitchen with her best friend and next-door neighbor, Layla. Layla’s unmissable dyed red hair lit up the room with color. She had boundless energy and enthusiasm. It was Layla who’d encouraged Maggie to have a go at designing, pointing out that if other fashion stylists could turn designer, why shouldn’t she?
It warmed Maggie’s heart remembering the hours she’d spent at the scratched rustic pine table as a child drawing and coloring and cutting and pasting. Her grandmother had been ever- patient with Maggie. She had helped her learn how to turn her creations into reality by showing her how to sew. Under her watchful eye, she and Layla had made a vast collection of clothes for their toys. They’d had the best-dressed teddies in the village.
Maggie sighed, her eyes resting for a couple of seconds on the kitchen notice board. She’d sorted out the shoebox under the bed and stuck up a photo of her teenage parents – happy, smiling, in love, in the moment. She wondered what would have become of her if her mother hadn’t left her behind when she’d hightailed off to Spain. She’d probably have spent the last ten years pulling pints of cerveza in the Green Flamingo karaoke bar and serving up bacon and eggs to tourists. Her singing voice was rubbish. She’d be useless at karaoke. She shuddered. That was her mother’s dream, not hers. She’d never fully understand what her mother had felt when she left, but she knew now she hadn’t gone because she looked like her dad. She’d been emotionally defeated, moving forward, but not going anywhere. She hadn’t left her behind because she didn’t love her. She’d done it because she did.
As well as her designing project, she had an exciting new work prospect on the horizon. It had turned out that the television presenter who’d cancelled her for the awards show hadn’t done so in a fit of pique over her rubbish leggings and I Heart NY tee in the press photos of Maggie in New York. Quite the reverse. The day-time television presenter had caught chicken pox from her three-year-old. She’d had to miss the ceremony altogether, so hadn’t needed a stylist. But the “New York Cinderella” pictures had caught her eye. Then a “Who’s The Daddy?” story, speculating about whether she might be expecting Alex Wells’ baby, had got her noticed by a producer on the morning magazine program. They’d approached her about doing a series of maternity fashion items on the show.
She’d been quick to put them straight, make sure they understood that there was no man in her life, and that the Alex thing was a misunderstanding. The producer didn’t seem bothered. She’d been intrigued by her go-it-alone approach to parenting, and they’d gone on to discuss a follow-up contract of regular slots doing yummy mummy makeovers, fashion advice and cool kit for babies and kids. It was a dream job and a great way to get exposure for her planned line of baby clothes. She aimed to create something fun and fashionable for little ones using funky hard-wearing fabrics. Her target market would be busy mums who wanted practical clothes with an emphasis on every child’s unique individuality.
She hadn’t settled on a brand name yet. Layla had lots of suggestions.
“How about ‘No Mini Me’s Allowed’? Or ‘Minis by Magenta’?”
Layla sat with her foot up on a kitchen chair, resting a sprained ankle. She picked up one of Maggie’s designs and studied it. “So what exactly happened in New York?”
“What happened in New York was meant to stay in New York.” Maggie got up, went over to the sink and filled the kettle.
“Come on, Magenta.” Layla started to tidy Maggie’s drawings into a neat pile. “It’s four weeks since you came home to Cornwall,” she said sulkily. “I’ve tried the softly-softly approach and it’s not working. There’s only so long a person can go without dying of curiosity. It’s high time you spilled the beans. I want details.”
When she’d moved back to the village half the magazines in the local shop had had pictures of her and Alex somewhere between their covers. She’d been a hot topic of local gossip for about a week. Then the WI’s Winter Fair and who’d be odds-on favorite to bake the best Victoria sponge cake took over. People lost interest and she went back to being the Plumtree girl.
Maggie looked out of the kitchen window. It was one of those lovely early-winter mornings before the frost killed the
last flowers and the final golden leaves dropped. “There’s really nothing to tell,” she said, struggling to keep her tone even. “I met an old friend. We hooked up. Now we’re getting on with our lives.”
Layla narrowed her pretty, brown eyes. She watched Maggie’s back analytically. “I’m guessing there’s more to it than that. There’s something you’re not telling me.” Maggie opened a cupboard and took out her grandma’s old Chinese-patterned tea caddy. She got two flowery- patterned mugs and popped a tea-bag into each one. “You know your trouble, Magenta?” There was frustration in Layla’s voice. “You’re always pushing people away. And when you’re not pushing them away, you’re closing them out. You’ve been doing it for as long as I’ve known you, and let’s face it, that’s forever.”
Maggie knew she was right. She didn’t trust easily. She’d learned that being self-reliant was easier than trusting other people. Others let you down. She’d opened up to Alex, and he hadn’t returned her trust, didn’t tell her he was donor-conceived. She shouldn’t have let him into her heart. Worse, she’d spilled out feelings that she should have kept in. She’d overstepped the boundaries and given him her heart. She turned and gave her friend a fragile smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t talk about it.”
She hadn’t the strength to let Alex be a friend. Because she loved him. That’s why, this time, she’d been the one who had to leave.
She’d reconnected with him, and far from ending things by getting that spark of chemistry out of the way, the sex that she’d hoped would be a fun fling had deepened her feelings for him. That night on the bridge she’d finally accepted what she’d always known – he wasn’t in love with her.
Layla wouldn’t let it go. “This is me, remember? Best friends forever have rights.”
Maggie laughed. “Stop fishing.”
“Just tell me one thing. Was New York the start of something?”
“No-ooooooh.” Maggie sighed out her denial on a long breath. Nights like the one they’d spent in New York didn’t last forever. “Definitely not. It was an ending, really. Alex and I said goodbye.” Maggie opened the fridge.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 22
