The B4 Leg

by Various

  Max tried not to lean on Zoe’s arm, not to inhale the sweet scent of her hair, her skin. Roses. Tried not to show any weakness, or the fact that coming here, to a strange place, to her, had taken every ounce of his strength and self-control. New places challenged him now. Hell, they scared him. He could make out vague shapes, doorways and corners, but too much could trip him up. Every step felt as if he were about to fall into a void of unknowing. He didn’t want to stumble. He didn’t want to fall.

  He didn’t, he knew, want to make an ass of himself, or have Zoe realise that he was near blind.

  Yet she would surely have to know at some point, if she didn’t figure it out on her own. He would have to tell her; he could hardly keep such a secret if they were to be involved in any way. Already his mind jumped ahead to the future, wondering just who Zoe Balfour was. If, despite her social connections, her beauty and her charm, she was the kind of woman who could live with a blind man.

  Who could love him.

  You think this is about love? his mind—and perhaps his heart—slyly mocked. What do you want from her? What can you really expect from her?

  Nothing was the only answer to both of those questions.

  The limo was waiting by the curb; Max could make out its long, dark shape, and he heard the door open and close, his driver calling out.

  ‘Mr Monroe.’

  Frank knew about his lost eyesight; Max had been forced to tell him when he’d been unable to perform the smallest, simplest tasks that he’d taken for granted before. Now they never spoke of it, but Frank performed small services that were indispensable—he spoke as he opened the door so Max would know where he was; he made sure the way to the car was clear. Max relied on him utterly, and the knowledge stung. He’d been independent, needing no one for so long, and now he was nearly as helpless as the child he and Zoe would soon have.

  What would Zoe think then? And why should he even care? No, he didn’t want to be pitied, but he could surely deal with it, or even with her scorn. It didn’t have to matter; he didn’t have to care. And he could still be involved in his child’s life.

  It was that realisation that had brought him back to Zoe. After she’d left his apartment, regret and guilt had lashed at him. In his own agony of disappointment, he’d treated her without care or concern, or, if he were honest, even the least amount of sensitivity.

  During the long, dark nights, as he staved off sleep and its accompanying dreams, he’d thought of her. He’d imagined he could still smell her on his sheets. He’d pictured their baby, for some reason a girl; she would have blonde curls and Zoe’s jade-green eyes. He wouldn’t be able to see this baby with his eyes, but he’d felt, during those long, lonely nights, that he could already see her with his heart.

  Then he chastised and mocked himself for such ridiculous, fanciful, sentimental dreams. He barely knew Zoe—Zoe Balfour, apparently—and what he knew of her suggested that she would be horrified by his liability, his weakness. No matter what he secretly might long for in those dark, weak moments, he knew he couldn’t be involved with Zoe Balfour.

  Even so his code of honour, latent all these weeks of blasted self-pity, would not allow his own child to enter this world fatherless. He’d let someone down before, terribly, totally, out of weakness and fear, and he wouldn’t do it again. Ever. Not Zoe, not his child. No matter what cost.

  And so he’d searched Zoe out, and he would care for both her and her child—his child—even if it meant enduring her pity or scorn.

  Still, he had no idea what it would look like, how it would feel, what it could mean.

  Or when—how—he could tell Zoe about his blindness.

  Zoe leant her head back against the plush leather seat and closed her eyes as the limo sped down Park Avenue, the speed making her already queasy tummy do another alarming lurch.

  Max had been staring ahead, seemingly oblivious of her since they’d entered the limo, and Zoe gathered he didn’t want to talk. Well, neither did she; this situation was awkward enough without enduring pointless, stilted conversations.

  A knot of misery lodged in her gut, found its way up her throat. She’d clung to the belief—the hope—that her child would know its father, and now Max was choosing to make that a reality, so why couldn’t she be happier?

  Why did everything still feel so unsettled, so wrong?

  Zoe glanced at the forbidding profile of the man seated next to her and knew why she felt as unhappy as she did. Max might be willing to care for her and her child, but he obviously didn’t like it. Right now he looked as if he’d rather be anywhere—with anyone else—in the world.

  Sighing, Zoe turned away and closed her eyes once more.

  The doctor Max had found came highly recommended—or so he told her—yet Zoe could barely summon the energy to care or even respond as she sat in the luxurious waiting room, flipping through celebrity gossip magazines with a listless air.

  Max sat next to her, his body rigid, his expression forbidding. Zoe fished out a packet of crackers from her handbag and nibbled one miserably.

  When they were finally called into the examining room, she perched on the edge of the table with its crackly paper, suddenly nervous and unsure. The thought of being physically examined with Max standing in the corner of the room like a dark shadow made her feel even more nauseous than usual.

  Perhaps he sensed this, for he suddenly asked, his voice as terse as ever, ‘Would you prefer me to be in the waiting room?’

  ‘I…’ Zoe swallowed, moistening her lips. ‘No. It’s all right. You can stay.’ Stupidly, perhaps, she meant it.

  A few minutes later Dr Hargreaves, a trim, grey-haired woman in her early fifties, entered the room. ‘Mrs Monroe?’

  ‘No—’ The word came from Zoe involuntarily, horror and humiliation making her face burn. She glanced at Max, who didn’t react. ‘That is…my name is Zoe. Zoe Balfour. I’m—We’re…not—’

  ‘Of course,’ Dr Hargreaves said smoothly. ‘I apologise for my assumption. The assistant who took Mr Monroe’s call must have made a mistake.’ She smiled briskly and took Zoe’s chart from the folder by the door. ‘Now, let’s see…your last period was about eight weeks ago?’

  ‘I…I think so.’ Zoe couldn’t look at Max, which was just as well because he was standing utterly still and silent, the look on his face still so forbidding.

  ‘And you’ve done a home test?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re feeling quite nauseous?’ The doctor continued with sympathy. ‘It tends to hit right around this time.’

  ‘Right.’

  She flicked a glance towards Max. ‘I can prescribe something to help the nausea if it’s really bad, but the best thing is to eat protein, especially early in the morning, and snack frequently. It does usually pass within a few weeks.’

  ‘Good to know.’ Zoe smiled weakly, so achingly conscious of Max standing there, arms crossed, face so damned inscrutable.

  ‘Now we can’t hear the heartbeat yet with the Doppler as it’s so early, but I can do a quick scan to reassure you?’ Dr Hargreaves smiled, and Zoe thought she saw a compassion in the woman’s kind eyes; the tension in the room, between her and Max, was surely palpable enough for the doctor to feel it. ‘We might be able to see the heartbeat, at any rate.’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’

  Zoe stretched out on the table, and Dr Hargreaves squeezed some cold, clear gel on her tummy. She switched on the ultrasound equipment and began to sweep the wand over her middle.

  It seemed to take an age, and Zoe felt her hands turn clammy and her heart thud with fear, but then Dr Hargreaves smiled. ‘Ah. There it is. Do you see?’

  And amazingly, she did see: a tiny, perfect little bean of a baby, with a heart beating like a butterfly’s wing. There really was a baby in there. Zoe laughed aloud, a sound of wonder and disbelief, but when she looked at Max she saw he wasn’t even glancing at the ultrasound screen.

  Dr Hargreaves switched on the sound, and the
room was suddenly filled with the quick, thready sound of their baby’s heart. ‘Sounds a bit like a horse galloping,’ she said with a smile, and Zoe nodded. It was a wonderful sound, the sound of life, and when she looked at Max again she saw with surprise that his face, so expressionless before, was now suffused with emotion. It took her a moment to realise what was reflected in his eyes, in the incredulous curve of his mouth. It was joy. He was smiling, and with a ripple of shock Zoe realised his eyes were damp. He blinked hard.

  Without even seeming to realise what he was doing, Max reached out his hand, his fingers fumbling for hers, and then lacing with them tightly. She leant her head back against the hard little pillow and closed her eyes, a sudden sense of overwhelming relief making her faint and dizzy with the sheer hope and joy of it. It’s going to be all right, she thought, her hand still held tightly in Max’s. I don’t know how, or even what, but it’s going to be all right.

  Max kept holding her hand even as Dr Hargreaves switched off the ultrasound machine and handed Zoe a paper towel to wipe the gel off her stomach.

  ‘I never get tired of the sound,’ she said cheerfully. ‘So everything looks as if it progressing normally—you should schedule another visit in about four weeks, although of course if you have concerns I can see you earlier. And if you like I’ll prescribe something to help with the nausea.’

  Zoe nodded, and glanced again at Max, wondering how he was taking all this. Despite the wonder of the moment before—despite the fact that he was still holding her hand—she felt afraid and uncertain. Four weeks suddenly sounded like a long time. So did nine months.

  Max must have been thinking along the same lines, for he slipped his hand from hers and he retreated to the corner, unmoving, the smile wiped from his face completely so that once again Zoe had no idea what he was thinking or feeling.

  They didn’t speak as they left the doctor’s office. Max’s limo was waiting by the curb, and they both climbed silently inside, speeding down Park Avenue in a tense, uneasy silence.

  As the traffic lights passed in a blur of green, block after block of brownstones, Zoe finally worked up the nerve to speak. ‘So.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for arranging the doctor’s visit. It was wonderful to see the heartbeat.’

  ‘And hear it,’ Max agreed quietly. He paused, flexing his fingers as if he was remembering how they felt holding hers. Or was she just imagining that? Hoping it? ‘I think we should celebrate.’

  ‘What?’ Startled, incredulous, Zoe could only stare at him.

  Max smiled, his mouth flicking upwards, a teasing glint in his eye that Zoe had never seen before.

  ‘It’s not every day you hear your baby’s heartbeat. And no matter what has happened before—’ He paused, sounding stilted. ‘No matter what is—or isn’t—between us, we can celebrate that. A life. A new life.’ He sounded wistful, even aching, and yet determined.

  Zoe smiled. ‘That’s true. What shall we do?’

  ‘Dinner,’ Max said firmly, ‘at Le Cirque.’

  ‘I’m not dressed—’

  ‘We can stop by your apartment,’ Max told her. ‘I’m sure you have something fabulous.’

  An hour later, feeling slightly unreal—and far too hopeful—Zoe slipped back into Max’s limo. She wore an evening gown in silver satin, one of her favourite dresses. It was simple, deceptively so, falling from two skinny straps to skim her growing curves and swirl around her ankles. She left her hair full and loose over her shoulders, and when Max first saw her he smiled faintly and said, ‘Silver.’

  Zoe had smoothed the gown over her hips and smiled self-consciously. ‘Yes, it’s a bit bright, I suppose—’

  ‘I like it,’ Max said firmly, and led her to the waiting limo.

  It was early for dinner, and the restaurant was nearly deserted. Still, Max insisted on a private table in the corner, and the intimacy felt new, strange. She picked up the heavy gilt menu and stared blindly at the entrées. What was going on here? she wondered. Was this actually a date? She was stunned by Max’s seeming about-face, hopeful that it could lead to better things, more things. That they could have some kind of future.

  The waiter came, and Max ordered champagne. Zoe opened her mouth to protest but he held up a hand. ‘I know you’re not supposed to have any alcohol, but you can surely have a sip at least.’

  ‘I suppose.’ She clenched her napkin in her lap, feeling nervous and shy. ‘I didn’t expect you to want to celebrate…this.’

  Max’s answering smile was wry. ‘I didn’t expect it either. I know—’ He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I know I was a complete idiot before. I’m—I’m trying not to be.’ He gave a little laugh. ‘That’s not much, is it?’

  Zoe smiled. Max’s confession had the odd effect of lightening everything inside her, dissolving—if only for the moment—her worries and fears. ‘It’s more than you think.’

  ‘I want to celebrate,’ Max told her. His voice was low and strangely fierce. ‘I want to remember the good things.’

  Zoe tilted her head, unnerved by the fierce resolve in his voice. He sounded almost as if he were speaking about the past rather than the future. The waiter came then with the champagne, and made a show of opening the bottle, the cork popping and bubbles frothing over.

  Max lifted his glass, and so did Zoe. ‘To the future.’

  It was a rather open-ended toast, Zoe thought, but at least Max thought there was a future. For them. ‘To the future,’ she echoed, and took a tiny sip.

  After they’d ordered, a silence seemed to descend on them, heavy and awkward. Zoe was conscious of how little they knew each other. She pleated her napkin in her lap, ridiculously tongue-tied. She could flirt famously, banter with the best, and yet now she found she had nothing to say. Or perhaps she had too much to say, and none of the courage to actually say it.

  ‘So,’ Max said after a moment. ‘Zoe Balfour.’ Zoe tensed, waiting. ‘You’re from quite a famous family.’ Words crowded in her throat so she could only manage a jerky nod. ‘I’d never heard of you, of course,’ Max continued insouciantly, and Zoe gave a little gurgle of laughter.

  ‘No?’

  ‘But apparently you’ve got a family manor in England and a million sisters…or so a search on the Internet shows.’

  ‘Really? Did it tell you anything else?’ she asked, bracing herself for what else it might reveal.

  Max shook his head. ‘No, just your family name.’ He smiled. ‘Sorry, you’re not that important.’

  ‘Shame.’ She waited, expecting him to ask more. Know more. Yet he didn’t say anything, and even as she felt a flicker of relief, she found herself saying, ‘Actually, it’s not really my family name.’

  Max cocked his head, his expression alert and watchful. Waiting. Zoe forced herself to continue, unsure why she’d begun this in the first place, and yet knowing she wanted to say it. She wanted Max to know.

  ‘I’m illegitimate. You probably heard—read about it, if you did some kind of Internet search.’

  ‘There were a few mentions of that,’ Max agreed quietly. Zoe tried to smile.

  ‘Just a few? I must really not be important.’

  He smiled faintly.

  ‘I just found out a few weeks ago—well, a few months now, I suppose.’ She stared down at her lap, a lump of painful emotion lodging in her throat.

  ‘That must have been hard,’ Max said quietly. Simple words, yet Zoe knew he meant them. She felt he understood, and his words were a balm.

  ‘It was. It still is. I suppose that’s why I was so determined to find you—for this baby to know you. I don’t want her—or him—to wonder. I don’t want there to be secrets.’

  ‘There won’t be.’

  Zoe nodded, her throat tight—too tight. She wanted to ask him how. Why. She wanted details, plans, promises. She knew neither of them were ready for any of those. They barely knew each other, and while tonight was wonderful, it was also fragile. It wasn’t ready to be tested.

  They
kept the conversation light and impersonal as they ate their dinner, yet even so Zoe enjoyed the talk of weather, films, the best restaurants and museums in New York. She found herself beginning to banter, even to flirt, and she liked that her old self was still there. She wasn’t completely changed.

  By the time dessert came round, the restaurant had started to fill up and a jazz quartet was playing near a small dance floor that was, Zoe saw, completely empty. Yet she felt reckless, hopeful, and so she tossed her napkin on the table.

  ‘Let’s dance.’

  Max froze. ‘What?’

  She gestured to the dance floor, still buoyant. ‘Come on, Max. We’re celebrating, remember? Let’s dance.’

  Max couldn’t quite see Zoe’s face, but he could feel the energy and enthusiasm rolling off her in intoxicating waves and he was reluctant to quench them. He was also reluctant to make a complete fool of himself. He couldn’t dance. His fingers clenched on the napkin in his lap.

  ‘I don’t dance.’

  He felt rather than saw Zoe’s disappointment and uncertainty. ‘Come on, Max,’ she said lightly, although he heard the yearning underneath. ‘I bet you could really cut up the rug if you wanted to.’

  The image was ludicrous. He smiled faintly. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘No? You’re not a dancer?’ She still sounded light but Max could tell she was hurt. He felt like a cad. Worse, he shared her disappointment because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself so much. Tonight he’d felt free, unburdened. Happy. Hopeful. He wasn’t going to give that up so easily, even if it meant he might look like a fool.

  ‘Well, I suppose there’s a first for everything.’ He tossed his napkin on the table and rose stiffly, the restaurant seeming to stretch endlessly in every direction, full of unknown obstacles, hidden dangers. Smiling, he held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’

  Zoe rose and slipped her hand into his and Max laced his fingers with hers, remembering how he’d held her hand at the doctor’s office, how he’d wanted to. He still wanted to, and he needed her strength. She was his anchor as they wove through the sea of tables to the relatively safe stretch of dance floor.