Carrying the Single Dad's Baby

by Kate Hardy

  This was getting dangerously close to wobbly talk. She took refuge in the way her family normally did things, and changed the subject. ‘Good shift?’

  ‘Typical Saturday. Made much better for the fact that I’m seeing you tonight.’ He stole another kiss. ‘We have a date. Much as you tempt me to switch this to a night in, I think anticipation is going to make this all the sweeter.’

  ‘What if I disappoint you?’ The words were out before she could stop them.

  ‘You’re not going to disappoint me.’ He stroked her face and smiled. ‘It’s not going to be perfect. We’re on a learning curve until we find out what each other likes. But it’s going to be fun finding out.’

  And suddenly that took all her worries away so, like him, she could look forward to tonight with anticipation rather than nervousness.

  It was a long, long time since she’d held hands with anyone in a cinema. Or sat with their arm round her shoulders. And she thoroughly enjoyed the film; more than that, she enjoyed dissecting the film with Daniel over dinner.

  He’d picked a restaurant just off Covent Garden that she’d never been to before, but she loved the way the room was lit by strings of fairy lights threaded through the branches of bay trees dotted between the tables, and there were tea lights in glass and ironwork lanterns that turned the candlelight into shapes of stars.

  ‘This is so romantic,’ she said. ‘I didn’t even know this place was here. How did you find it?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  He laughed. ‘I looked up “romantic restaurants near Leicester Square” on the Internet.’

  She liked the fact that he’d admitted it rather than trying to feed her a line about knowing all the best places to go in the city. ‘Good find.’

  ‘The reviews all said the food was as good as it looks, so I thought it was worth a try. Luckily they’d just had a cancellation so I was able to get us a table,’ he said.

  And it was fabulous. A sharing platter of meze—baked feta cheese, bread, olives, taramasalata and stuffed vine leaves—followed by lemon chicken with rosemary potatoes, spinach and honey-roasted tomatoes, and then a selection of tiny sweet Greek pastries served with bitter coffee. He ordered a bottle of sparkling wine to go with it—the Greek answer to champagne—and everything was absolutely perfect. The food, the wine, the conversation, the company.

  ‘I’ve had a wonderful time tonight,’ she said when he walked her home from the tube station and they stood outside her front door.

  ‘Me, too.’ He took her hand. ‘No pressure. If you want me to go home right now, that’s fine.’

  ‘Do you want to go home?’ she asked.

  ‘No. But this is all new. We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. I could sleep on your sofa.’

  ‘No. I want you to stay. And not on my sofa,’ she said, feeling the colour bloom in her face.

  ‘I’m glad,’ he said softly. ‘But if you should change your mind at any point, that’s OK.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Let’s be brave. Take a risk on each other—but that’s the only risk,’ she added as she unlocked the door.

  He followed her inside. ‘Great minds think alike. I went to the supermarket yesterday.’

  ‘So did I,’ she said. ‘So let’s open that fizz.’

  ‘And as I didn’t get to dance with you earlier...’

  ‘You do the wine and I’ll do the music,’ she said. Teamwork. It was how they functioned at work. Home wasn’t so very different.

  ‘Deal. Where do you keep your glasses?’ he asked.

  ‘Top of the cupboard next to the kettle.’

  She connected her phone to the speaker, flicked into her music app and chose a playlist of slow dances.

  He handed her a glass. ‘To us. And to second chances.’

  ‘To us, and second chances,’ she echoed, and took a sip of wine before placing her glass on the kitchen table.

  He held out his arms and she walked over to him.

  ‘This is perfect,’ he said, ‘for dancing cheek to cheek.’

  She closed her eyes and swayed to the music with him. And it felt so right when he kissed the corner of her mouth. She turned her head slightly so that he could kiss her properly.

  Daniel and the music and the last vestiges of the sunset spilling in through the kitchen window—this was perfect, she thought.

  And when he broke the kiss and looked at her, his sensual dark eyes filled with a question, there was only one answer. ‘Yes.’

  His smile was sweet and slow and sexy as hell. ‘Forgive me for being a troglodyte.’ And then he scooped her into his arms.

  ‘You’re carrying me to my bed?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s the idea. Like a chieftain carrying his lass off to his lair. Except it’s your lair rather than mine,’ he said with a grin.

  Desire flooded through her. ‘Out of the kitchen, second door on the right,’ she said.

  And he carried her to her bed.

  * * *

  The next morning, Beatrice woke feeling warm and comfortable, with Daniel’s arms wrapped round her.

  ‘Good morning,’ he whispered against her hair.

  ‘Good morning.’ She twisted around to face him. Funny, she’d thought she might feel shy with him, this morning. Yet this felt real and natural and right. A slow, easy Sunday morning.

  ‘What do you want to do today?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t mind, as long as I’m with you,’ she said.

  ‘I have to pick up Iain from Jenny’s at four,’ he said.

  And she knew he meant on his own. Which was fine by her, because she, too, thought they needed time to be sure where this was going before they told anyone, especially someone who was so young and could be so badly hurt by the fallout if anything went wrong. ‘That’s fine.’ She paused. ‘We could go out for the day. Maybe to Notting Hill and browse in the antique shops and then have lunch in a café somewhere—I know we won’t get the market stalls on Portobello Road, with it being a Sunday, but it could still be fun.’

  ‘Notting Hill.’

  She smiled. ‘That’s one of my favourite films, actually. I love Hugh Grant. We could go location-spotting and find the little square where he kisses Julia Roberts.’

  ‘Kissing,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘You had me at kissing...’

  * * *

  It was a lot later by the time they finally got up. And they held hands all the way on the tube to Notting Hill, all the way down Portobello Road, and all the way to the little private gardens used in the film. ‘You can’t go in there because it’s locked,’ Beatrice said, ‘but this is definitely the place.’

  ‘So how exactly did you know where this was?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘My sisters-in-law agree with me that it’s the best romcom ever. We had a girly weekend in London when I qualified as a doctor,’ she said. ‘A Notting Hill weekend. We went location-spotting—Portobello Road, the bookshop, the flat with the blue door, the restaurant and the cinema. And then we had afternoon tea at the Ritz, and we went back to my flat for pizza and bubbles and we watched Notting Hill twice.’

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘It’s a girl thing,’ she said with a grin. ‘My brothers thought we were crackers, but we had a ball. I think I might even have a couple of the pictures still on my phone.’ She flicked through. ‘There you go. Us with the blue door, the bookshop, and here at the gardens.’

  He looked at the photographs. Three young women, with their arms round each other and the broadest smiles.

  ‘So you’re close to your sisters-in-law?’ He knew how stupid the question was as soon as it left his lips—from those smiles, they were clearly very close indeed.

  But she didn’t seem to mind. ‘Like my brothers, they can’t talk about wobbly stuff, but they’ll be the first
with cake and a hug and then a very awkward pat on the back.’ She smiled. ‘I love them dearly.’

  ‘Notting Hill.’ He wasn’t entirely sure he’d seen the film—as far as he was concerned, a lot of the romcoms blended into each other—but she’d mentioned that this place involved kissing. ‘Then I think a selfie is in order,’ he said, and took out his phone to snap them standing by the entrance gate with their arms round each other. ‘And a kiss.’

  ‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said, and kissed him.

  And his mouth tingled for the next ten minutes.

  It was a fun, frothy and light-hearted afternoon and, even though he’d never thought of himself as the sort who’d poke about in an antique shop, he thoroughly enjoyed being with Beatrice.

  ‘Oh, perfect,’ she said softly as they browsed in one shop.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Vicky collects those Staffordshire mantel dogs,’ she said, gesturing to a pair of stylised china dogs. ‘It’s her birthday next month. And that’s a nice-looking pair.’

  ‘Are you sure? They don’t look like a pair. I mean, the decorations are different,’ Daniel said.

  ‘Which is one of the ways you can tell they’re antique and not reproduction,’ she said. She picked one up and looked at it. ‘And, look, there are fine brush-stroke details of the dog’s hair, the gold isn’t shiny and doesn’t reflect things, and there’s paint on the back.’ She looked at the base. ‘And no casting holes—this is a press mould, not slipware.’

  He coughed. ‘If I hadn’t seen you treat patients for myself, I’d be wondering if you were an antiques expert rather than a doctor.’

  She grinned. ‘This is all stuff Vicky taught me. I bought her a pair for Christmas one year and they turned out to be reproductions—and I’d paid well over the odds for them. She showed me what to look for and I’ve got a much better idea of value, too. She’d love these. I’m going to haggle.’

  ‘This is a shop, not a market stall. You can’t haggle!’ Daniel said, scandalised.

  ‘Yes, I can.’ She went over to the cash desk, and he followed in her wake.

  Beatrice was utterly, utterly charming.

  And she was a hard negotiator. By the time she’d finished, she’d knocked twenty-five per cent off the price, and the man in the shop had offered them both very good coffee and expensive biscuits while he wrapped the Staffordshire dogs carefully.

  ‘You,’ Daniel said when they left the shop, ‘are amazing.’

  She gave him a sketchy bow. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And this has been such fun.’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘But you need to go. Iain’s expecting you, and if you’re late he’ll want to know why.’ She kissed him. ‘Go.’

  ‘I should see you home.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. And I’m going to call Vicky and get her to meet me off the train so I can give her these. Thank you for the weekend. It’s been...’

  ‘Amazing,’ he said softly, and kissed her lingeringly. ‘If you’re sure, then I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  * * *

  Over the next fortnight, they managed to snatch some time together—including a Friday evening at a departmental pub quiz where Beatrice’s more unusual general knowledge meant that the Emergency Department won, to the delight of the rest of the team.

  But Daniel was reflective on the Monday evening—Iain had gone to a friend’s after school, so he and Beatrice had grabbed the chance to spend some time together.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or would you prefer me to pretend I haven’t noticed that you’re brooding?’ she asked.

  He blew out a breath. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologise. If you want a listening ear, I’m here. If you don’t, no offence taken.’

  He took her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. ‘It’s not the most tactful subject.’

  ‘I’m still listening.’

  He sighed. ‘Jenny told me last night that she and Jordan are expecting. She’s just had her twelve-week scan.’

  A baby.

  ‘Has she told Iain yet?’

  ‘No. She said she wanted to talk it over with me, first, and work out the best way to tell him.’

  She didn’t think it was the baby that was worrying him. She could just pretend that everything was fine and be bright and breezy; or she could be open and honest, and let him talk about his real feelings. ‘And you’re worried she’s going to get postnatal depression again?’

  He nodded. ‘You know as well as I do, statistically there’s an increased risk of having postnatal depression again if you’ve had it before.’

  ‘But,’ she said, ‘forewarned is forearmed. As long as her family doctor and her midwife know, they can monitor her and help her if they think she’s showing any signs. There are support groups, too. She can get help beforehand and make sure she gets plenty of rest afterwards—and exercise, because the endorphins are really good at helping.’

  ‘Is that what you’d do?’ he asked.

  Put things in place so she wouldn’t end up being depressed after the baby’s birth, remembering Taylor? There was just one tiny thing that would affect that plan. ‘I don’t intend to have any more children,’ she said. ‘But, hypothetically speaking, if I was in Jenny’s situation that’s what I’d do. I’d make sure I had counselling during the pregnancy and enough support during the pregnancy and afterwards. If she needs antidepressants, then the doctor can give them sooner rather than later, to make sure she doesn’t hit the same low she had last time round.’ She looked at him. ‘I assume that’s what you said to her?’

  He grimaced. ‘I might need to apologise and buy her flowers and tell her she’ll have support from me, from Mum and from Iain as well as from Jordan and his family.’

  ‘You actually told her you were worried she’d have postnatal depression again?’

  ‘I was thinking of Iain. I should’ve considered her.’ He sighed. ‘I need to call her, don’t I?’

  ‘Do it now,’ Beatrice said. ‘I’ll hang around in the kitchen and make us a pot of tea, and you can call her from the garden or the sitting room, whichever’s more comfortable for you. Come and get your tea when you’ve talked to her.’

  She was halfway through her own mug of tea when Daniel returned to the kitchen and wrapped his arms round her. ‘You’re a good woman and I don’t deserve you. That’s a quote from Jenny, by the way.’

  ‘You told her about us?’

  ‘In strictest confidence. I think I owed her honesty, when I was a bit too honest with her yesterday,’ he said. ‘She wanted to know what caused my sea-change in attitude.’

  ‘I see,’ she said.

  ‘I told her we weren’t ready to say anything to Iain yet, because we wanted to be sure and not let him get hurt. She understands. She said to thank you for the advice, that you’re a better doctor than me, and she owes you lunch.’

  ‘Because she wants to check me out?’ Beatrice asked.

  He wrinkled his nose. ‘Iain’s already told her about you—oh, and by the way, I explained that you don’t know Prince Harry so he won’t be having lunch with you both—and I said that Mum likes you. Which she says is fine, but she’d still like to have lunch with you.’

  Beatrice smiled. ‘It’s nice that she’s still looking out for you. And you’re still looking out for her—otherwise you wouldn’t be so worried about her having postnatal depression again.’

  ‘I’m still worried,’ he admitted. ‘And Iain’s old enough now to notice what’s going on. What if she does get it again, and it reminds her of the first time round, and she rejects him?’

  ‘She’s his mum. She won’t reject him. I’m sure she’ll talk to him about being an older brother and being able to boss his little brother or sister around. And I’m the youngest of three, so I can back her up,’ Beatrice said.<
br />
  Daniel hugged her. ‘You’re a good woman.’

  She smiled. ‘I try.’

  * * *

  Almost two weeks later, Jenny still hadn’t told Iain about his little brother or sister to be, but she’d arranged to take him to the seaside for the weekend, picking him up from school on the Friday afternoon. Both Beatrice and Daniel managed to arrange getting Friday off as well as the weekend.

  ‘I think we can go to the seaside, too,’ Daniel said. ‘Except obviously not the same place. I was thinking Cornwall.’

  ‘Good choice,’ Beatrice said. ‘Miles of sand, Poldark and good fish restaurants. Cornwall would be wonderful.’

  Except when she got up on Friday morning, ready to pack, she felt odd. Queasy.

  She hadn’t eaten anything unusual, or anything that might’ve made her feel that way.

  And her breasts felt tender.

  The last time she’d felt like this, she’d been pregnant with Taylor...

  She shook herself. This was utterly ridiculous. Of course she wasn’t pregnant. She couldn’t be. She and Daniel had been super-careful about contraception. Neither of them wanted a baby.

  But the nagging feeling wouldn’t leave her, all the way through packing.

  ‘Don’t be so feeble, Beatrice Lindford,’ she admonished herself out loud. ‘You know perfectly well that you can practically set your calendar by your menstrual cycle. More regular than clockwork. Your next one’s due...’

  She went still.

  Her next period was due in two weeks’ time. Meaning that her last period had been due two weeks ago.

  She counted it up in her head again. And then on a physical calendar, just to make sure.

  Two weeks late.

  She went into the bathroom and splashed her face with water. Her period was late. That didn’t necessarily mean that she was pregnant. There were all kinds of reasons why your period could be late or you’d miss one. A hormonal imbalance, for starters—though she knew that wasn’t likely, and she could discount thyroid issues or polycystic ovary syndrome, too. Ditto the menopause, diabetes or coeliac disease. She could cross off doing extreme exercise and suffering from an eating disorder, too, and her body weight was smack in the middle of the normal range for her height. She hadn’t just started the Pill, so her body didn’t need to adjust to that.