by Kris Pearson
“Oh, I don’t know? You’ve still got some sausage costumes to make for the Sevens?”
Kerri pulled a rueful face. “I’d better be the salami,” she said. “A fat little salami. I found a piece of disgusting mottled pink fabric that’s ideal. Will I be showing then?”
“At around three months?” Sarah waggled her hand in a maybe/maybe not motion and shook her head.
“And you’re the frankfurter. Tan polyester.”
“Just so classy. Thank-you darling.”
“You’re nice and tall, so I thought that’d be appropriate. Debs wants to be a beef-and-cheese. I’m going to have to sew some little yellow ‘cheese’ squares onto her costume.”
“I’ve got an old lemon T-shirt you could cut up,” Sarah offered.
“David’s very keen on being labeled ‘pork’,” Kerri mused. “And I think he’s got something rude in mind there.”
“Sounds like David. What about Clive?”
“A bierstick, what else? I bought a couple of meters of dark red crinkle taffeta out of a bargain bin for his outfit. Gross. I haven’t got Mel and Cindy settled yet.”
“Knackwurst? Pepperoni? A barbecued banger with grill-marks?”
They both collapsed laughing, and it was Kerri who stopped first.
“Things won’t ever be the same again, will they?”
The New Year rolled around. It snowed in Paris. Alex let himself out of the Beaufort Technologies building and pulled the collar of his cashmere overcoat up past the polo neck of his cream lambs-wool jersey. Icy snowflakes drifted down in the frigid evening air.
He’d spent Christmas with good friends, yet had felt alone. He’d enjoyed superb food and vintage wines, but knew he would have swapped them in an instant for a kebab and a beer with Kerri.
What was she doing? Probably celebrating with her friends at a New Year race meeting. Dressed in a short summer skirt and high heels. Showing off her legs. Losing money by the handful.
And Gaston? Happy with his wife and daughters, out on the harbor in Sylvie. Or supervising the making of sandcastles on a warm breezy beach.
Alex pressed his lips together as he strode back to his apartment. He lived so close to his main business premises he hadn’t bothered bringing his car, even in weather like this.
While his staff enjoyed a few days’ break with their families, their boss sat alone in his office, testing hypotheses, re-arranging complicated electronic sequences, killing time.
He knew it for what it was. Sure, there was always work to do, but the frantic intensity he’d driven himself at in the early years was no longer necessary. He should be on holiday too—somewhere warm.
North Africa? He’d meant to go back to Morocco, but somehow, no.
Hawaii? The weather was always wonderful there, but if he planned on going that far he might as well head a little further south to Tahiti, or...
He shook his head with frustration as he climbed the three marble steps outside his apartment block near the Palais Royale. He waved the security tag at the sensor, waited for the heavy glass door to rumble open, and took the elevator to the penthouse.
Even there, in his private world, he found it hard to settle. He poured a brandy and prowled to the windows, barely seeing the icy city spread out in front of him as he sipped. He put on some old Santana—loud—and sank onto a suede-covered Italian sofa. The guitar soared, and finally Alex’s spirits soared too. All the way to the South Pacific. To New Caledonia, where maybe he could use the excuse of following up last year’s business presentations.
And to Wellington, New Zealand—where a small infuriating woman intended appearing at a sunny city-wide party dressed as a sausage.
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes as the music pounded around him. The weeks of frantic work and brittle socializing had done nothing for his temper. Kerri had shot his concentration to shreds.
He’d expected to think of her with pleasure after the day on Sylvie. Presumed he’d be left with a warm glow of sexual satisfaction which would fade slowly to a lower level, and then subside to the vaguest of memories.
Why the hell had he asked her to meet him in Noumea?
She was still ripping at his composure with sharp claws. Still reminding him she was the one he hadn’t been able to resist. Still keeping him awake and aware and hungry. No-one else had ever done that, and now it seemed he wasn’t interested in letting anyone else get close enough to try.
He rose to his feet again, and paced the length of the beautiful room several times...finally took a deep breath.
Yes, he should book a ticket and get away in time for the Sevens, he decided. Somehow get her out of his system.
The first weekend in February, wasn’t it?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He stood in Wellington’s sunshine and dug Kerri’s battered business card out of his jeans pocket for the millionth time. Having all her details accessible felt good.
He hadn’t emailed or rung. Instead he’d decided to gauge the lie of the land and then decide whether to approach her or not.
Who was he kidding? He’d flown half-way around the world to see her again. But he hoped to engineer a casual meeting instead of anything too formal.
The city buzzed on this fine Friday. The pre-Christmas banners and flags he remembered from his last visit had all been stripped away and replaced with Rugby Sevens promotion. Balloons and streamers flew from poles. Store windows echoed the rugby theme.
Alex stood back, tall enough to see over most heads. The streets were closed for the colorful parade. All around him groups of painted and costumed people roared approval as trucks and floats carried the visiting rugby players past.
Bronzed Samoans and Tongans and Fijians danced and chanted. The contingent from Kenya drew huge applause. The team from Argentina brought a flurry of flag-waving and raucous singing from supporters with faces painted half blue/half white. Australian fans responded with a boozy chorus of ‘Waltzing Matilda’ as their boys swept by.
Alex yelled ‘Vive la France’ along with the rest for the French squad. English, Welsh and Scottish teams rolled through. Bagpipes skirled. Big blond South Africans hurled friendly insults at the North Americans. And the volume of cheers for the Kiwi team was loud enough to shake the trolley-bus wires.
If the players were happy, the crowds were delirious. Every way Alex turned, he saw groups in matching tropical-print shirts, or frizzy green wigs, or basketball uniforms, or animal costumes.
There were cowboys, dinosaurs, Indian chiefs, and skinny sumo wrestlers with their baggy bums on display. Belly dancers rubbed shoulders with Batmen and bus drivers. Three gangly teenagers sported tartan tights, garbage bags and top hats.
His tricolor T-shirt seemed a tame effort now.
And there wasn’t a sign of a sausage.
Where is she? She has to be somewhere. She said they weren’t going to the stadium this year, so she’s got to be out on the streets, or in one of the bars.
He gazed around, amazed by the contrast of the eccentric costumes of Sevens supporters with the conservative suits of the business community. He saw amused smirks and pointing fingers from some of the more soberly-dressed citizens.
Bet they wish they dared to join in the fun.
Hell! I’m thinking like Kerri now...
After an hour of fruitless wandering, and weaving through happy crowds in at least a dozen noisy bars, he spotted a tall frankfurter with Sarah’s face. Yes! He threaded his way across to her.
“Bonjour Sarah.”
“Bonjour to you too, Alex,” the frankfurter squealed, apparently tipsy enough to be unsurprised by his sudden appearance. “Kerri’s not here.”
“So where will I find her?”
Sarah took a gulp of red wine. “Want some?” she asked, thrusting the glass out.
He shook his head, smiling broadly at her costume. It was a tube of fabric with armholes and a face-hole. The top had been tied in a knot, for all the world like the end of a sausage casi
ng. ‘Frankfurter’ was inked across her chest.
“S’good, isn’t it?” she grinned. “And we’ve got more. Clive,” she bellowed.
A bierstick in crinkled taffeta appeared, followed by a scarlet saveloy and a bespectacled creation labelled ‘Pork’.
“This is Alex—the object of Kerri’s woe and affection,” Sarah informed the assembled sausages. There was genial hand-shaking and back-slapping, and as the pork sausage turned away, Alex noticed a huge penis inked onto the back of his costume.
“Where will I find her?” he demanded again of Sarah.
“At the flat. Not too well. All your fault,” she added, digging into a small bag and producing her door key. “Safer with you than me, Alex,” she said, grabbing his hand and closing his fingers around the cold metal.
All his fault? “Is she ill?”
“Only sometimes. You’ll cheer her up.”
He stood outside the blue door for thirty seconds or so, knowing he’d never felt more disquieted in his life. How did such a small person have this huge effect on him? He was the owner and CEO of a mega-successful company. Worth many millions. Junior staff practically bowed when he approached.
None of that seemed to matter as he hesitated on the top step, breathing in the scent of late jasmine and fresh coffee. How sick was she? Should he use the key and not drag her out of bed?
He wiped suddenly damp palms down the sides of his jeans, pushed his hair back from his brow, fiddled with the strap on his watch, and finally knocked.
A dark shadow appeared through the dimpled glass a few seconds later, and relief washed through him. So she wasn’t bedridden.
The door swung open. Kerri stood there silent and huge-eyed.
“Bonjour cherie,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her on each rosy cheek. “Sarah said you needed cheering up.”
He hesitated over the next kiss. Cheek or lips?
Kerri pulled away before he could decide, and tried to close the door. She was never going to succeed. Alex jammed a foot into the gap, and then a strong thigh. He muscled his way in and glared at her.
“You’ve got some nerve, Alex!” she snapped as she backed towards the sofa and sat, grabbing a cushion to clutch against her body. “Just turning up instead of letting me know you were in Wellington.”
Suddenly, through the fog of anticipation, he could see perhaps he’d been unwise. Women liked to be able to pretty themselves up for a man, although Kerri looked glorious. Her skin glowed and her hair shone, even though her brown eyes spat tacks at him.
“I was in Noumea,” he offered, “and it was too good an opportunity to miss. So close. I wanted to see you again, and maybe it’s just as well. Sarah told me you’re ill?”
“I’m perfectly fine. Do I look ill to you?”
Alex shook his head. No—she looked her usual bouncy contrary self.
“You look amazing,” he said. “Beautiful.” He still stood awkwardly a few feet away from the sofa. Kerri clutched the cushion like a shield.
“What else did Sarah tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“Was she drunk?”
“A little, maybe.”
He watched as Kerri closed her eyes, drew a deep breath and blew it out again. The front of her streaky hair lifted, and then floated back down into place.
“Well, I suppose you have to know some time,” she said. “I’m—um— three months pregnant.”
He stayed frozen in silence for a few seconds as chills raced up and down his spine and someone crushed his brain in a vice.
“A baby?” he finally hazarded.
“Yes, of course a baby,” she said crossly. “Sorry—bad way to tell you, although I doubt there’s a good way.”
“A baby,” he repeated, with more certainty this time, as the faintest glimmer of awe and excitement seeped through all the fog.
“Don’t you dare ask if it’s yours,” she snapped.
“Three months? It’s very likely mine. Why would it not be?”
“No reason at all. There was no-one else.”
He squared his jaw and glanced across at the still-open door. “Mon Dieu—I need a few minutes to think,” he said, striding outside and galloping down the steps.
A baby? The last thing he’d expected. The last thing he’d wanted. He strode along to the bus shelter, found it mercifully empty, and slumped down on the hard slatted seat. Kerri a mother? The thought was laughable. Laughably tragic. His child being raised by an irresponsible gambler—just as he had been.
But through the confusion and dread and astonishment other feelings began to insinuate themselves.
A jolt of macho pride. I’ve done it. I’ve proved I’m a man.
A thread of possession. She’s mine now. She can’t escape.
A whiff of anticipation. Will the child look like me?
He buried his head in his hands and tried to find a quiet dark place where he could think sensibly.
After a few seconds, his heart rose into his throat and threatened to choke him with its frantic beating. He knew no-one in the world who he shared blood with. This child would have his blood, carry his genes.
It was an immense shock.
His organized life had just been derailed.
And yet he knew with fierce certainty the baby was more precious than gold.
After a few minutes, he rose and returned to Kerri, closing the blue door quietly behind him and leaning against it.
“So you came back?” she grumped.
“Of course I came back.”
“I thought you’d gone for good.”
She has so little faith in me? So little expectation of my protection?
A corner of his mouth kicked up in a wry smile. “Just getting used to the idea of being a father.”
“Yes,” she agreed, apparently mollified by his acceptance. “It’s a kicker, isn’t it? It must have been the day we were on Sylvie.”
“But I used condoms every time. I was very careful.”
“And I very carefully ovulated at the wrong time. Just a couple of days before. That’s why I was convinced my period would turn up in Noumea and spoil things.”
“So we truly were playing Russian Roulette?”
“With huge odds,” Kerri agreed, suddenly sending him a radiant smile. “Remember I teased you about your huge odds in the office?”
Alex nodded, trying to hide his answering grin at her irrepressible spirits.
“You must have produced one Houdini of a super-sperm who somehow got free,” she added. “I wasn’t on the pill, Alex. Sex really wasn’t any great thrill until I met you.”
“Thank-you for that,” he said, finally letting his amusement show. “Am I having a son or a daughter?”
“You? You’re not having anything. You’ve done your bit.”
“A son or a daughter?” he asked again. “I may have ‘done my bit’, but I’ll be doing a good bit more, too. You can’t have a baby here,” he added, glancing around the flat. “You’ll never get a pram up those steps, and there’s no extra room for a nursery.”
Spurts of righteous anger invaded his brain.
She thought she’d keep my child a secret from me? Think again, Ms Kerrigan Lush.
“When the hell were you going to tell me, Kerri?” he demanded. “If I hadn’t turned up here, I’d never have known, would I?”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, as though searching for an excuse. “I’d have told you.”
“When?”
“Once...things were safer.”
His suspicion transformed itself into panic. “Is it not going well? Are there problems?”
Kerri shrank back from his furious demands.
“There’s no problem at all,” she insisted, “if you don’t mind throwing up in the mornings and peeing for the rest of the day, and feeling tired the whole time.”
She clutched the cushion even tighter, huge brown eyes challenging his.
Alex watched as the cushion pushed her luscious br
easts higher up into the scooped neckline of her pale blue T-shirt. He felt a jolt of desire so strong that he pressed both palms hard against his belly as though it was possible to stop his rising blood and furious unexpected elation. He turned away and began to pace.
“No,” she continued, “I just meant...things are more definite after the first trimester. You know the baby’s pretty good by then.”
“And you’re okay—apart from the vomiting and all the rest? You can get rid of the cushion now I know what you’re trying to hide with it.”
“There’s nothing to see yet.” Kerri relaxed her death grip but didn’t set the cushion aside.
Alex took a chance and sat. “You’re blooming. You look somehow more alive.”
“And I feel half-dead. This is not all it’s cracked up to be, Alex. I mean, the thought of the baby’s exciting. A real little person by mid-winter.”
“Midsummer in France.”
“Whatever. It’s about this big by now.” She held two fingers apart to indicate its tiny size. “I can buy a house after my twenty-fifth birthday, but it would be nice to be settled a bit earlier than that. You’re right about the pram and the steps and no extra room,” she added.
“I shall buy the house, Kerri. Somewhere quiet, just outside Paris.”
He heard her sharp intake of breath and saw her eyes widen even further.
“No way, Alex! This is a Kiwi baby!”
“Its father is French. It will grow up in France.” There was no doubt in his mind about that. Give up the only flesh and blood he had? Never. Besides, he wouldn’t trust Kerri to look after a puppy, let alone his child. Another small son or daughter in the care of a solo mother with a gambling habit? There wasn’t a chance in the universe he’d let that happen.
“Nonsense, Alex,” she snapped. “I’ll be fine. I’ll buy a house with Grandpa’s money. You didn’t know about that, did you? I don’t need your help.”
“My baby will grow up in France,” he repeated.
“My baby,” she insisted. “If you want a French baby, go and make some French girl pregnant.”
Indignation raced through his veins, and his voice rose in fury.
