The Baby Question

by Caroline Anderson

  ‘We could always eat the dog,’ he said, to lighten the mood, but she just glared at him.

  ‘It’s not funny—and anyway, I have to work.’

  ‘You can work. So long as the power’s on, you can work—and so, I suppose, can I. I should check my email.’

  He slid his mobile phone out of his pocket and looked at it in disgust. ‘There’s no signal!’

  ‘No. I know. You’ll have to use my desktop—if I’m feeling generous.’

  He snorted. ‘I’ve got to get to it first, and frankly, just at the moment, I don’t fancy it.’

  ‘You could have a bit of string,’ she suggested. ‘Like they have going down potholes and things, so they can find the way back.’ Her mouth was twitching ever so slightly, and he grunted.

  ‘That’s not such a stupid idea. It isn’t funny out there. I seriously thought I wasn’t going to find the cottage again. Let’s face it, neither of us knows the lie of the land. You’ve only been here a few hours longer than I have. I suggest we leave it till the morning and see how it is then. Nothing can be that important.’

  In fact there were several things eating at the fringes of his conscience, but he wasn’t risking his life to deal with it. He’d probably just lose a whole pile of money from not shuffling it in time, but it was almost close of business in New York, and nothing would happen until Monday morning. Maybe he could rescue the situation then. If not, tough. You win some, you lose some, he reminded himself.

  And not losing Laurie was much more important than the price of a few stocks and shares.

  She turned on the television and found a local news channel. It did nothing to inspire confidence in the weather, he thought. She stared at the forecast, her face dismayed, and he hoped that the few provisions she’d got in the day before really would be enough to see them through, because he had a feeling they would be there longer than either of them imagined.

  ‘Supper?’ she said brightly, flicking the television off again and turning to him with a tense little smile.

  ‘That would be good. Let me give you a hand.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ she said, heading for the door with the tea tray, but he was right behind her, the dog tagging along to referee. He didn’t intend to waste a moment of their time together sitting in another room while she stomped round the kitchen resenting the fact that she was having to cook for him!

  Oh, no. She had enough ammunition already, he realised dimly. He was damned if he was giving her any more!

  He would insist on following her. She wanted to go into the kitchen alone and assimilate the knowledge that they were genuinely going to be stuck together for ages, so she could gird her loins, so to speak, and work out a game plan.

  Not that there was any point. Rob would just quietly do the other thing, so she might as well save her breath.

  He took the tray from her and washed up the mugs and plates, and she stood for a moment and stared at the unaccustomed sight of him with his hands in the sink.

  Good grief! Pity she didn’t have a camera.

  ‘So, what are we having?’ he asked, and Laurie sighed and opened the fridge.

  ‘Pasta and tomato bake?’

  He gave her a look that just might have been horror over his shoulder. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. What’s the matter—no meat? There’s a tin of dog food if you’re desperate. I don’t eat meat any more.’

  He looked even more horrified. ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No. I don’t. I haven’t done for months—only the odd bit of chicken or fish very occasionally.’ And it said a lot about the state of their relationship that he hadn’t even noticed—hadn’t been there to notice.

  She turned the oven on and found a likely dish while he stood propped up against the front of the sink, only slightly in the way, and watched her as she mixed the pasta and the jar of sauce together, grated cheese on top and put it in the oven. Then they had half an hour to kill. She put the kettle on and thought fast.

  ‘I think there’s some bedding in the cupboard on the landing,’ she told him. ‘A quilt of some sort. You can use that. We’ll sort you out while it cooks.’

  She went upstairs, Rob on her heels, and found the quilt in the cupboard. It was a bit thin, but he’d got the fire as well as the central heating. She held it up. It wasn’t very long, either, but then nor was the sofa.

  He’d live, she told herself, refusing to weaken, and thrust the things at him. ‘Here—there’s a pillow, too. That do you?’

  He arched an eloquent brow and turned and went downstairs, dropping the things onto the sofa before following her back into the kitchen without a word. The room seemed to shrink as he arrived back in it, his presence as much as his size dwarfing it and crowding her aura.

  She took refuge on the far side of the table, sitting down out of the way while the kettle boiled.

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ he asked as it clicked.

  She looked at him in astonishment. ‘Coffee, please. Black, no sugar.’

  ‘I know how you take your coffee—unless it’s changed, like everything else.’

  ‘Nothing else has changed,’ she said defensively.

  ‘Except you’re vegetarian now, and you seem to be living in Scotland.’

  There was no answer to that, so she didn’t bother. She waited, instead, for the coffee that he set in front of her, then busied herself drinking it, giving it far more attention than a simple beverage could possibly warrant.

  He said nothing, just waited her out again, and in the end she jumped up and found some plates and put them in the top oven to warm. She opened the door of the lower oven to check on the pasta, and a wonderful waft of rich tomato drifted out.

  ‘It smells good,’ he said, breaking the silence.

  ‘Surprise, surprise.’

  ‘I am surprised. It also smells a little familiar. I suppose it’s one of the things you’ve been feeding me that I thought you’d spent hours cooking.’

  She felt heat climb her cheeks. ‘I have used it a few times,’ she confessed. ‘With tuna or chicken in it. I stir fresh cream into it and chop herbs over the top sometimes instead of the cheese. That gives it a more luxury feel as opposed to the home-grown rustic gratin.’ Her smile was wry. ‘It’s quite versatile.’

  He shook his head slowly, a rueful chuckle rumbling in his chest. ‘Clever—but then you always were. I should have realised you wouldn’t be content to twiddle your thumbs in between domestic chores.’

  ‘You were never at home to notice what I was doing,’ she said with a shrug. ‘Why should you think about it?’

  ‘Because, like it or not, I’m your husband?’ he said softly, and she retreated behind the table again and played with the dregs of her cold coffee. She wasn’t ready to start this conversation—not until she knew how she felt, and had all her emotional ducks in a row.

  Rob, however, wasn’t content to leave it alone. Why did she imagine he would be? ‘I should have known what you were doing,’ he went on, watching her thoughtfully from his position on the other side of the table. ‘It rather shocks me that for a year, either you’ve been lying about what you’ve done all day, or I’ve simply failed to ask.’

  She coloured again. ‘Both,’ she said honestly. ‘When you did ask, I didn’t so much lie as be frugal with the truth.’

  He snorted, getting up to dump his mug in the sink and rinse it out. He turned to reach for hers just as she stood up, and they collided.

  She all but leapt back out of his way. Crazy. How long had they been together? Years. And how many times had they accidentally bumped into each other? And yet now, today, it sent electric sparks shooting through her body and left her knees bereft of strength.

  She checked the pasta again, poking it to see if the little tubes were tender. They were. Thank God for that. It meant they could eat, and when they’d eaten, they could go to bed—separately!—and she could have a few hours of peace and quiet to gather her jumbled emotions.

  She set the dish dow
n on a mat on the table, rummaged around for cutlery and pulled the plates out of the top oven.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got a nice bottle of some Italian red tucked away anywhere?’ he said hopefully, but she didn’t reply. She did, in fact, have a bottle of wine tucked away in a cupboard, but she wasn’t getting it out now, either for him or herself.

  She needed all her faculties about her, because she knew, as bedtime drew closer, he was going to pile on the charm and try and coax his way into her bed. So, no wine, even if she felt inclined, which she didn’t.

  ‘There’s water in the tap,’ she said, sounding like her grandmother, and he chuckled softly and filled two glasses, setting them down on the table and pulling out his chair.

  ‘Let’s eat, then. I’m starving.’

  Thank goodness she’d chucked in another couple of handfuls of pasta and a little extra water! She gave him the lion’s share, but he still cleaned his plate before she’d finished, and looked around hopefully.

  Heavens. She’d forgotten how much he could eat. She cast a mental eye over her provisions and wondered if, indeed, they did have enough food if they were cut off for long. One thing was sure, they were going to get through it a lot more than twice as fast!

  ‘There’s a tin of rice pudding,’ she offered, and he wrinkled his nose.

  ‘I prefer your homemade version,’ he confessed, and then cocked an eyebrow at her as she shifted uncomfortably. ‘I suppose the real coffee’s instant as well.’

  She gave an awkward laugh. ‘No, the real coffee’s real.’

  He sighed with relief. ‘Thank God for small mercies,’ he said under his breath, and she stifled a chuckle.

  She heated the rice pudding, put it under the grill for a moment to skin over and brown, then dished it up. ‘Just like mother used to make,’ she said with a wry grin, and he looked up at her with a smile in his eyes that nearly melted her bones.

  Don’t, she thought, plonking his bowl down in front of him. Please don’t turn on the charm.

  She scraped the dish out into her bowl, sat down and ate without looking at him again. God forbid she should catch those gorgeous cobalt blue eyes again. She’d be lost.

  They cleared up the kitchen together, and then he went out into the teeth of the gale and brought in the bag of coal from the little bunker at the end of the cottage.

  ‘Is this all you’ve got?’ he asked, and she nodded.

  ‘I found it here. It’s that and the half-tank of heating oil—oh, and there’s an electric fire on the landing we could use, but it’s very expensive.’

  ‘I think I can probably afford a little electricity,’ he said drily, and she bristled.

  ‘My bill—my house, remember?’

  ‘How could I forget?’ he muttered under his breath, and banked up the fire ready for the night.

  She hovered in the doorway. ‘Right, I’ll say goodnight. You can have the bathroom after me.’

  ‘You’re so kind.’

  She ignored that, closing the door softly behind her with a little click and beating a hasty retreat. Better the sarcasm than the charm, she thought with a slight smile. She could resist the sarcasm!

  But there was a tiny bit of her—a bit she refused to acknowledge—that was disappointed he hadn’t tried just a little harder to convince her to let him share her bed…

  CHAPTER FOUR

  IT WAS freezing upstairs. The wind seemed to shriek through the little dormer window, and Laurie huddled under the super-warm quilt and shivered.

  Of course if it hadn’t been for her stupid pride she could have been snuggled up in bed with Rob, just as they had been for the last five years, so she had only herself to blame if she froze to death.

  Socks. Socks and tracksuit bottoms—and a fleece. She rummaged in the drawers, dragged the extra clothes on and shot back into bed, pulling the covers over her head. It was still freezing. In fact, she thought, a while later, it was getting colder and colder. Perhaps she’d try the electric fire as well.

  She got up and turned on the light, but nothing happened. Funny, it was all right a little while ago. A little frown pleating her brow, she flicked the switch again, then the landing light switch outside the door, but there was nothing.

  Not the power, she thought with a tiny inward wail of despair. Please, not the power. Not now, tonight, of all nights, when the only source of heat, other than the boiler with its electric programmer and pump, was downstairs in the same room as Rob and the faithless dog.

  So she couldn’t even cuddle up to Midas, because he’d sneaked in there while she was in the bathroom and was last seen making himself at home on the chair by the fire, with Rob’s active encouragement. She got back into bed, leaving the door open to allow any escaping heat from the sitting room to drift in, but the wind round the front door seemed to find the way to her bones faster than any slight trace of warmth, and she got up and closed it again.

  Odd, how lonely and isolated she felt with the two of them downstairs warm and comfortable while she froze senseless up here alone. Senseless being the operative word, of course, because there was nothing to stop her taking her quilt and going downstairs to the chair. Or the settee, come to that. After all, who was paying the rent?

  Rob could have the chair—and Midas could manage to sleep on the floor. He usually did, without a murmur—but then he wasn’t usually encouraged to flout the rules quite so indulgently.

  She sniffed in disgust. Her nose was running with the cold, and her hands and feet were like ice, but sheer pride kept her rooted shivering in the bed until almost four, when she was so cold and so wretched she gave in and crept downstairs, groping her way in the dark.

  She opened the door to the sitting room and the warmth hit her like a tidal wave. Bliss. She must have been mad to wait so long, she thought with a shiver. Midas thumped his tail, and between the noise and the slight glow from the fire, she found her way to the chair and evicted the guilty but reluctant dog. He’d warmed it beautifully, of course. She curled up in it after she’d put a little more coal on the fire, and huddled under the quilt, her feet tucked under her bottom and her head resting on the arm.

  Midas lay on the bottom of the quilt, which was a nuisance in a way because he tugged it down a little and her neck was in a slight draught, but it was nothing compared to the cold upstairs and she didn’t have the heart to throw him off that, too.

  Gradually she started to thaw and relax, revelling in the glorious warmth. All she had to do was wake up early enough to remove the evidence and get out of there before Rob woke at eight or so. At least with his jet lag he was likely to sleep in a bit, and he hadn’t stirred so much as an eyelash while she’d been settling in.

  Thank goodness. At least she wouldn’t have to tolerate the merciless ribbing about giving in and seeking out his company!

  Comforted by the thought and the warmth, within a few minutes she drifted off to sleep.

  Rob lay quietly listening to the soft, even sound of her breathing. He didn’t know why she’d come down, but he couldn’t hear the boiler running and guessed the power might be off. There was absolute blackness in the cottage, not a trace of light from anywhere, and that and the silence was a pretty sure sign.

  That meant, of course, that as well as the boiler they’d have no kettle, no TV or radio, no computer, no email or fax, no cooker—just a few shovelfuls of coal between them and hypothermia. And, in the interests of preserving fuel, they would have to share their body heat.

  A slow smile played over his lips in the darkness, and he shifted to his side, trying not to focus too firmly on the accompanying benefits. Assuming he could talk her into it, of course—although knowing his luck, the power would be on again by morning anyway.

  Still, a man could always hope…

  She overslept. The first inkling of wakefulness came in response to a soft rattle and a hiss coming from the fire.

  Damn, she thought, her heart sinking. He’s awake.

  She listened to what was obv
iously the sound of water coming to the boil, then the slopping, pouring noise of it being decanted out into a mug—twice, which meant one of the mugs of tea was destined for her.

  Crunch time.

  She opened one eye cautiously and found Rob crouched on the hearthrug staring straight at her, his face unreadable in the half-light from the partly opened curtains.

  ‘Tea’s up,’ he said softly. ‘The power’s still off. Where’s the cold water tank? We don’t want it to freeze.’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It must be in the little bedroom over here. I don’t have a key for it, though.’

  ‘Just so long as it is over this room,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It’s so cold outside the pipes’ll freeze without warmth, but the ceiling probably lets through a good bit. Let’s just hope we don’t run out of coal before the heating’s back on.’

  The idea was unthinkable, and she shuddered.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ he said with a slightly cocky smile. ‘I can keep you warm.’

  She didn’t attempt to hide the snort, and he grinned and shrugged. ‘Ah, well, it was worth a try. Anyway, if we run out of coal, I’ll have to go and get some.’

  ‘What, you’re going to walk over the mountain and carry it back over your shoulder? Don’t be a hero,’ she said disgustedly. ‘You’ll just die—and anyway, even if you could walk that far, you could only carry enough to last a day. We’d do better to burn the kitchen table.’

  ‘I’d like to see you explain that one to the owners,’ he said drily. ‘I don’t suppose the fire clause in their insurance covers arson. However, what I was thinking,’ he went on in a mild voice that made her want to scream, ‘is that the local farmers have tractors that could probably get through most of it. If we could persuade them to take me to the nearest coal merchants—’

  She laughed. ‘You do realise where you are, don’t you? They don’t have coal merchants in this part of Scotland like they do in the towns. They sell peat in little bags in the caravan shop, or they get it delivered by the ton from ten or so miles away. Anyway, I don’t know any local farmers, and I doubt if they realise there’s anyone here, even assuming they had a benign fit towards us, and why should they? We’re newcomers—foreigners.’