She hauled her prize triumphantly out, grabbing a bowl off the oak dresser and setting them both onto the counter. ‘Cornflakes! Now I need sugar, lots of sugar. And milk, cold, rich milk. I never usually crave milk.’ She pushed the thought away. ‘Must be the bug. Maybe I need calcium?’
Raff hadn’t said a word, just watched, eyes narrowed, as Polly poured a gigantic bowl of cornflakes, sprinkled them liberally with sugar and added almost a pint of milk to the already brimming bowl. ‘This looks amazing,’ she told him, almost purring with contentment.
‘That looks disgusting. Like something my sister would eat when she’s pregnant.’
The word hung there, echoing around the room. Polly put her spoon down and stared at him.
‘It’s just a bug.’ But her voice was wobbling.
‘Of course.’ He sounded unsure, almost embarrassed, the accent thickening.
‘Mixed with jet lag.’
‘I know.’
‘I’m not...’
‘I didn’t mean to infer that you were. I’m sorry.’
‘But...what if I am?’
CHAPTER FOUR
WAS SHE? COULD she be? It should be impossible. It was impossible! Only technically...
Only technically it wasn’t.
‘Oh no,’ she whispered. She looked up at Gabe. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, his face inscrutable. ‘It was only once.’
His mouth twisted. ‘That’s all it takes, ma chérie.’
‘How could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking?’ She pushed the bowl of cornflakes back across the counter. They were rapidly going soggy and her nausea rose again at their mushy state. ‘Obviously I wasn’t thinking. I was trying not to, that was the point.’
But she had to think now; there was no point in giving into the rising panic swelling inside her. Her throat might be closing up in fear, her palms damp but she could override her body’s signals. If only she’d done that ten weeks ago...
Ten weeks! And she hadn’t even suspected, putting the nausea and the tiredness down to stress, jet lag, a bug.
It could still be! Two and two didn’t always make four did it? Not in some obscure pure mathematical plane. Probably.
‘I need a test.’
‘Oui.’ He was still expressionless. ‘In the morning I’ll...’
‘Not in the morning!’ Was he crazy? Did he think she was going to sit around and wait all night when liberation could be just around the corner? ‘There’s a twenty-four-hour supermarket in Dartingdon, I’ll get one from there.’
She was on her feet as she said it. Thank goodness for modern twenty-four-seven life.
‘You can’t drive.’
She stopped still, swivelled and stared. ‘I already said I didn’t drink anything.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘But you’re in shock. It isn’t safe.’
So her hands were shaking a little, her legs slightly weak. She’d be fine. She’d driven the route a thousand times.
‘And what if you throw up again?’
‘Then I’ll pull over. You don’t have to take care of me, Gabe. I was big enough to get myself into this mess, I am certainly capable of sorting it out. I don’t need anyone.’
His eyes bored into hers. ‘If that’s true then how did this happen?’
Ouch! That was well and truly below the belt. ‘Want me to draw you a diagram?’ She could hear the tremor of anger running through her voice and tried to rein it back.
‘You fell out with your family here, went to find yourself, felt lost and lonely and so you what? Fell for the first smile and compliment?’
Polly stood stock-still, ice-cold anger running through her veins, her bones, every nerve and sinew. How dared he?
How dared he be so right?
‘That wasn’t what happened. Not that it has anything to do with you.’ Shaking with a toxic mixture of righteous anger, adrenaline and nausea, she marched over to the counter to grab her car keys but before her hand could close on the fob it was whisked away in a decisive masculine hand.
‘I’ll go.’
‘We drive on the left here. And do you even know where Dartingdon is?’ she added slightly lamely. Polly wanted to prove a point but part of her knew he was right. Annoyingly. She was barely fit to run a bath let alone drive twisty country roads.
‘I’m a big boy. I’ll figure it out.’
‘No.’ All the anger had drained. Now she was just weary, utterly, achingly tired. ‘You can drive but I’ll navigate. And I’ll scream if you take my beloved car even one centimetre over onto the wrong side.’
He regarded her levelly then nodded. ‘Okay. I still think you would be better staying here.’
But she was adamant. Polly had never waited for things to be brought to her—she’d never have made it this far if she had. ‘I can’t wait that long,’ she admitted. ‘I need to know straight away.’
‘And then what?’
That was the million-dollar question. ‘Then I can plan. Everything’s better with a plan.’
* * *
She was quiet. So quiet Gabe would almost swear that she was asleep except when he glanced over he could see the glare of her phone illuminating the whites of her eyes.
‘Concentrate on the road,’ she snapped but he could sense the worry under the anger. He had got used to that, with Marie. In the end when the pain had got too much, as the fear and anger and sheer bloody unfairness had overtaken her she had been cross all the time, barely able to be civil, even to those she loved.
Especially to those she loved.
‘I am,’ he said. He couldn’t resist one little provocative grenade. ‘If you drove a proper car...’
‘This is a proper car!’
‘It’s a grown-up’s toy,’ he teased. It actually handled pretty well, the small body taking the many twists and turns of the Oxfordshire country roads surprisingly well. ‘Shame you’ll have to get rid of it.’
He could feel her stiffen beside him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a two-seater...’ He didn’t have to say any more. From the intake of breath he knew his point had hit home.
‘Possibly not. We’ll know soon enough.’ But there wasn’t any hope in her voice.
She didn’t say anything for the next few miles. Despite his confidence earlier, this was the first time Gabe had actually driven a left-hand drive and it required most of his concentration to stay on the correct side of the road as he navigated the narrow curves. He wasn’t helped by the car; low slung and powerful, she was absurdly responsive to his slightest touch, almost as if she were desperate to speed on.
Although there were no street lights in this country corner it wasn’t too hard to see his way as he drove through hedge-lined lanes, fields almost at their ripest stretching out on both sides towards gently rolling hills. The summer solstice was nearly upon them and it was barely dark out, more of a gloomy dull grey. Like his mood.
There was no reason for him to feel so...so what? Slighted? Gabe sighed; he really needed to get over himself. One kiss did not equal any kind of relationship.
And if it did he would be headed the other way, right back to France.
It was just, if Polly Rafferty had really indulged in a night of meaningless, no-holds-barred, anonymous sex he wished she’d indulged with him.
He could be wrong, she might often go out prowling bars and clubs for one-night stands but he would bet the oldest bottle of wine in the vineyard’s formidably stocked cellars that this had been a one-off occasion. And pregnant or not she was unlikely to indulge again.
‘This doesn’t have to change anything. It doesn’t change anything.’ Her voice penetrated his thoughts. Gabe risked a glance across at his reluctant passenger. Polly had pulled herself upright and was
looking straight ahead, her jaw firmly set. ‘The timing is awful but I could make it work.’
‘Didn’t you want children?’
There was another long pause. ‘I don’t know children,’ she said after a while. ‘I don’t know how families work, normal ones. Raff and I were raised by our grandparents and they sent us away to school when we were small. It’s not something I’ve ever thought about.’ She huffed out a small laugh. ‘Not every woman hits thirty and starts counting down her biological clock, you know.’
‘But your house, it’s begging for a family.’ Five bedrooms, the large garden full of hidden corners and climbable trees. Despite the low ceilings and homely furnishings it felt too big, too echoey for just two people. And she had been living there alone for three years.
‘It’s just a building.’ Her voice was dismissive.
Gabe shrugged. He was no psychologist but he had been through enough counselling—support groups, family therapy, grief counselling, chronic illness groups—to know a little bit about the subconscious. The cottage was a family-home wish come true.
‘If you say so.’
She shifted, turned to look at him. ‘How about you? Dreams of petits enfants clustering around your knee one day?’
‘I’m a good uncle,’ he said shortly.
‘Guys can say that, can’t they? No pressure to settle down, get married, churn out kids. You have all the time in the world.’
‘None of us know how much time we have.’ He meant to say it lightly but the words came out too quick, too bitter. He shot her a quick glance. ‘I had cancer in my teens, a lymphoma. It teaches you to take nothing for granted.’
Polly gasped, a loud audible intake of breath as she put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Gabe. I am so sorry. I didn’t mean...’
‘It’s fine.’ This was why he hated people knowing. A brush with mortality and they never treated you the same way again. It was as if you were tainted with the mark of Death’s scythe, a constant reminder that no one was safe.
‘Besides, I can’t.’ The words were out before he knew it, the darkness beginning to shadow the car giving it the seal of a confessional, somewhere safe.
‘Can’t what?’
‘Have children. Probably. Chemotherapy, stem-cell treatment...’ His voice trailed off; he didn’t need to add the rest.
‘Oh.’ Understanding dawned in the long drawn-out syllable. ‘Didn’t they freeze any?’ Her hand was back over her mouth. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.’
‘They didn’t think it would have any long-term effects.’ He smiled wryly. ‘I was seventeen. To be honest it was the last thing I was thinking about—or my parents thought about. But it took longer, needed stronger drugs than they expected. It’s okay. I’d rather be healthy.’
Her hand had crept to her stomach. ‘Of course.’
‘They did say it can change in time but I have never been tested. There’s no point. I don’t want them anyway,’ he surprised himself by offering. ‘The worst part of being ill was seeing my parents suffer. I’m not sure I’m strong enough to put myself through that.’
‘I watched my father die.’ Her voice was flat. ‘That wasn’t much fun either.’
They didn’t speak the rest of the way there. Gabe was too absorbed in his thoughts and Polly had returned to jabbing furiously at her phone as if it could give her all the answers she needed.
Following the signs, he navigated his way around the roundabouts that ringed the old town, pulling off into an ugly development of warehouses and cavernous shops.
‘We’re here,’ he said.
Polly didn’t move, just looked out of the window at the neon orange streetlamps and the parking signs. ‘Okay.’
‘Why don’t I go for you?’ he suggested but she was already shaking her head.
‘Thank you but I really need to do this by myself.’
* * *
‘Are you sure you have enough?’
Polly bit her lip. Maybe two each of five different brands was slightly excessive but she had to make sure. If Gabe was potentially harbouring an alien life form inside him he would want to know one hundred per cent too.
‘No.’ She twisted the bag nervously. ‘Do you think I should have got three of each?’
‘I think you should leave at least one test on the shelves, just in case someone else is tearing through the night in need of answers.’
‘Let’s just get home.’ She tugged impatiently at the car door, glaring at Gabe as he made no move to unlock it.
‘Are you sure?’
She stared at him. ‘What? You want to pop out for a nice meal first? Maybe go for a moonlight stroll? Of course I’m sure.’
He didn’t react. ‘I meant maybe you wanted to take the test now. Find out one way or another.’
‘Oh.’ How had he guessed?
Polly looked around the car park. There were several chain restaurants but they were all showing signs of closing for the night. Or the supermarket toilets; they would still be open.
She bit back a hysterical giggle. She had never actually imagined taking a pregnancy test, let alone taking it in the strip-lit anonymity of a supermarket loo. It wasn’t the cosy scene depicted in the adverts.
But then she wasn’t the hopeful woman on the advert either.
‘There’s nowhere here.’
‘Not here exactly.’ Finally he clicked the button and the doors unlocked. ‘We can find somewhere a little more salubrious than this.’
It took him less than five minutes to exit the car park and start back round the ring road, retracing their earlier route.
‘Don’t worry,’ he said as Polly looked worriedly at the sign pointing the way back to Hopeford. ‘I’ve got an idea.’
‘I trust you.’ And she did. Maybe because she had nobody else—not even herself.
At the Hopeford roundabout Gabe took a different exit, driving into the car park of a large redbrick building. Polly must have driven past it dozens of times but had never registered it before. Why would she? Anonymous roadside hotels offering business deals and cheap weddings weren’t her usual style.
‘Wait here.’ He was gone before she could formulate a reply. Resentment rose up inside her. Who was he to tell her what to do? She half rose out of her seat, determined to follow him, to regain control.
But no, she reminded herself, she had relinquished control, tonight at least. Polly sank back into her seat and tried to control the panicked race of her heart.
The bag was on her lap, the sharp edges of the boxes an uncomfortable fit against her thighs. Pulling out a handful, Polly turned them this way and that, reading the fine print on them curiously. Fancy being thirty-one and never having even properly seen a pregnancy test before!
But why would she have? She had been good to study with but she had never been the kind of friend others turned to. Not for panicked confidences and surreptitious tests in the school bathrooms or university toilets.
And she had never been the type to slip up herself. Not careful Polly Rafferty.
Not until now.
How could she have not known? Suspected that the bug she just couldn’t shift might be something more? But she had continued with the pills her doctor had prescribed her for her trip, relieved to be spared the inconvenience of her monthly cycle, and missed nature’s most glaring warning.
‘Okay,’ she muttered. How hard could taking one of these be? A blue line, two pink lines, a cross for yes. A positive sign? That was a little presumptuous. Another simply said ‘pregnant’. She swallowed, hard, the lump in her throat making the simple act difficult. Painful.
She jumped as a knock sounded on her window, muttering as the packets fell to the floor. She hastily gathered them up. They felt wrong, like contraband. It was as if just being seen with them branded
her in some unwanted way.
Looking up, she saw Gabe. He must have seen her reading the packets. Heat flooded through her and she took a deep breath, trying her best to summon her usual poise.
She opened the door. ‘Hi.’
‘They have a room we can use.’ He stood aside as she got out of the car and waited while she gathered the dropped boxes, stuffing them into the carrier bag.
‘Won’t they wonder why we are checking in so late with no luggage?’
Gabe huffed out a short laugh. ‘Polly. They will think we are illicit lovers looking for a bed for an hour, or travellers realising we need a bed for the night. Or, more likely, they won’t think at all. Come on.’
He took the bag from her as if it were nothing, as if it didn’t carry the key to her hopes and dreams. To the freedom she had never even appreciated until this moment.
‘Come on.’ He strode off towards the hotel.
Polly hesitated. Maybe she could wait until she got home after all. In fact maybe she could just wait, wait for this nightmare to be over.
Her hand crept to her abdomen and stayed there. What if? There was only one way to find out.
The hotel lobby was as anonymous as the outside, the floor tiled in a nondescript beige, the walls a coffee colour accented by meaningless abstract prints, the whole set off by fake oak fittings. Gabe led the way confidently past the desk and Polly noted how the receptionists’ eyes followed him.
And how their eyes rested on her in jealous appraisal, making her all too aware of her old tracksuit, her lack of make-up. She lifted her head; let them speculate, let them judge.
They walked along a long corridor, doors at regular intervals on either side. ‘Aha, voici,’ Gabe muttered and stopped in front of one of the white wooden doors.
Number twenty-six. Such a random number, bland and meaningless. It didn’t feel prophetic.
He opened the door with the key card and stood aside to let Polly enter. Her eyes swept around the room. The main part of the room was taken up by a large double bed made up in white linen with a crimson throw and matching pillows. The same tired abstracts were on the walls of the room; a TV and a sizeable desk completed the simple layout.
The Heiress's Secret Baby Page 6
