Christmas at the Comfort Food Cafe
Page 19
‘I was. Tomorrow. I was going to call you and tell you tomorrow. I wasn’t hiding it, I only found out on Christmas Day myself, and I just needed to… sort it out. In my brain. Don’t be angry with me.’
‘I’m not angry,’ he replies, resting his chin on the top of my head. It’s weird. I can feel his jaw move through my skull as he talks. I don’t mention this, as it is a strange thing to be noticing right now.
‘I can understand why you needed a bit of time, and that’s fine, don’t worry,’ he says, slowly. ‘And did you come to any conclusions? Did you sort anything out?’
He is keeping his tone very, very neutral and I’m not quite sure what that means. His body language – arms around me, thighs crushed next to mine, full-contact cuddling – says he’s happy, but his voice says nothing much either way.
I pull away a little, so I can actually look him in the face and see what he’s thinking. Or, I decide, as I take in his perfectly lovely but deliberately bland expression, maybe not. Oh God. Maybe he’s not happy after all.
‘I did sort a few things out,’ I say, quietly, feeling my lower lip tremble like the lower lip of the Biggest Wuss in the World.
‘Mainly, I figured out that I want to keep this baby, Sam. There’s a lot I need to tell you, about me and why I am like I am, and this isn’t the time for it. But… I want it. Very much. If you don’t, then I understand. Really. I do. There’s no pressure, and if you want to leave right now, I won’t be upset with you.’
‘Really?’ he replies, reaching out to stroke my cheek with his thumbs. ‘Then why are you crying?’
‘I’m not crying!’ I insist, even though all the evidence suggests otherwise. ‘And, honestly, I know this is big news. I don’t want to trap you. You can go back to Budbury and I can do this on my own. I won’t ask you for money, or time, or anything at all…’
‘Ah,’ he says, as though he’s just figured something out. ‘I see what you’re doing.’
‘What am I doing?’ I ask. ‘Apart from allegedly crying.’
‘You’re doing that Becca thing where you’re trying to push me away yourself, before I get the chance to do it to you. A kind of pre-emptive rejection, because you’re already assuming the worst.’
I want to disagree, and do at least manage to frown. But he has a point. That kind of is what I’m doing.
‘I thought you looked a bit… neutral. Not happy.’
‘I was looking neutral for your benefit, you daft cow,’ he says, leaning forward and kissing me. ‘I didn’t know what you’d decided, and if you weren’t keeping the baby, I didn’t want to pile on the guilt.’
‘So… you do want this? Or you do if I want it? Or you don’t… Sam, I’m confused!’
He rubs his hands over his face in frustration, and I feel a wave of sympathy for the man. I mean, I even frustrate myself sometimes. I can only imagine what it’s like to be on the outside of my brain looking in.
‘Okay,’ he says, grabbing both of my hands in his and holding them still on his lap. ‘Let me make it simple for you. I – Sam Brennan – love you, Becca Fletcher. I want this baby, and I want you. I’ve never wanted anything more in my entire life. Now. Is there a way you can misunderstand that, or is it clear enough?’
It is clear. It couldn’t be more clear. And yet there is still something stopping me from quite believing it.
‘But it’s so complicated,’ I say, even annoying myself. The man’s just told me he loves me, and wants our baby, and I’m still whining. ‘You’re in Dorset. I’m here. What will we do?’
‘What we’ll do is figure it out,’ he replies, smiling. ‘You’ll move to Budbury, or I’ll move here, or we’ll shack up halfway between both.’
‘You can’t move here. Where would you go surfing?’
‘I don’t know – the Manchester Ship Canal? Look, it doesn’t matter. That’s just the detail. The small stuff. It’s nothing that we can’t fix. The big stuff? The stuff that matters? That’s right here. Just me, you, and this baby.’
He touches my tummy gently, and I place my hand over his. He’s right. Of course he’s right. Big picture.
‘It’s called Binky,’ I say, grinning at him.
‘Of course it is,’ he answers. ‘Best name ever. Now, would Binky and yourself like to celebrate New Year with me? It’s almost time…’
I glance at my watch, and see there are only minutes to go until midnight. I stand up, too quickly as it turns out, and have to spend a few moments waiting for my stomach to return to Planet Earth.
‘Come on,’ I say, leading him towards the balcony. ‘We can watch the fireworks out here.’
I grab his fleece from the chair, and wrap myself up in it. He raises his eyebrows at me, and I say: ‘I stole it. It smells of you, and I’ve been wearing it every night. Have you got a problem with that?’
He shakes his head, and holds up his hands in a ‘whatever you say’ gesture as he follows me out to the balcony. He brings the cranberry juice and a couple of glasses, and settles onto the bench next to me.
It’s extremely cold, and our breath billows out of our mouths and clouds onto the dark night air. I can hear the sounds of parties and laughter and car horns and a thousand slightly off-kilter countdowns from the city below us. It’s not like Budbury here – everything is lit up, neon silvers and golds, rivers of light flowing along the roads, noise from every possible angle.
Midnight seems to be struck at about five different times, and various versions of ‘Old Lang’s Syne’ start to drift up towards our perch. At least the first bit of it does – nobody ever remembers the words past the first bit, do they?
It’s not the Jurassic Coast, for sure, but it is pretty, in its own way.
I turn to Sam, and he passes me a champagne flute full of juice.
‘Happy New Year, Becca,’ he says, raising the glass in a toast. ‘And to Binky as well. I can’t wait to meet her.’
‘It’s a girl, then, is it?’
‘Definitely. I can just tell. And I’m good with girls.’
That, I have to admit, is true.
‘You are,’ I reply. ‘I can’t deny this. And Sam…’
‘Yes dear?’ he asks, pretending to sound like an old married man.
‘I love you.’
‘I know,’ he says, giving me a wink and stealing one of Han Solo’s best lines.
‘Is it all going to be okay?’ I say, feeling a bit spaced out by everything that’s happened.
‘It’s going to be better than okay. It’s going to be brilliant. You’re just going to have to trust me on that one.’
I smile. I drink some juice. I let one hand rest gently twined in his, the other on Binky. I watch the fireworks.
And I trust him.
THE END
Debbie Johnson
Debbie Johnson lives in Liverpool, where she spends her time writing, looking after a small tribe of children and animals, and not doing the housework. Her previous novels have included best-selling e-books Cold Feet At Christmas, Pippa’s Cornish Dream, Never Kiss A Man In A Christmas Jumper and The Birthday That Changed Everything. She also writes fantasy and crime fiction, to keep her out of trouble.
You can find out more at www.debbiejohnsonauthor.com, and follow her on twitter @debbiemjohnson.
Also by Debbie Johnson
Summer at the Comfort Food Café
The Birthday That Changed Everything
Never Kiss a Man in a Christmas Jumper
Pippa’s Cornish Dream
Cold Feet at Christmas
About HarperImpulse
HarperImpulse is an exciting new range of romance fiction brought to you from the women’s fiction team at HarperCollins. Our aim is to break new talent from debut authors and import the hottest trends from the US, bringing you the very best in romance. Whether that is through short reads for your mobile phone or epic sagas that span the generations we want to proudly publish romance fiction that gets everybody talking.
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