Her Pregnancy Bombshell

by Liz Fielding

  ‘Not just outside the gates.’

  ‘I’ll take it over the road and set it free in the trees. Will that be far enough?’

  She looked doubtful but she nodded and said, ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You’ll have to let go,’ he said with regret but the last thing he wanted was for the spider to take the opportunity to disappear.

  ‘Yes…’ Her fingers were bunched tight around his shirt front and it took a mental effort for her to open them, to take a step away from the protection of his arms. He had his own battle with the desire to wrap his arms around her, hold her, never let her go. Instead he caught the towel, which was the only thing between her and decency, before it dropped to the floor and, his eyes not leaving her face, he wrapped it around her and tucked the end between her breasts.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said, his voice struggling through a throat stuffed with hot rocks.

  Andie fought against the urge to grab him, keep him with her. Working in such a male environment, she’d had to put on the anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better façade. The slightest sign of weakness would have been ruthlessly exploited.

  That didn’t matter here and she didn’t take her eyes off Cleve until he disappeared into the bathroom, backing as far away from the door as physically possible.

  He left a few moments later with the spider caught in a towel and, released from her terror, she scrambled into the first clothes that came to hand: a pair of cropped trousers and a vest top.

  She combed through her hair, tied it back with a hairband and went to the kitchen. The kitchen was old-fashioned, with a dresser that would have to be stripped down, the china washed, and a large wooden table that they’d sat around for supper.

  A search of the cupboard under the sink revealed an inch of liquid soap in a plastic container and she filled a bowl with hot water. By the time Cleve returned she’d stripped one shelf of china and piled it in and was giving the draining board and plate rack a thorough going-over.

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘You already have.’ Deeply embarrassed by the exhibition she’d made of herself, she cleared her throat. ‘Thank you for rescuing me.’

  ‘Any time.’ He picked up the kettle and leaned in close to fill it at the tap. She was still shaky and the brief touch of his shoulder made her feel safe all over again. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked, moving away to put the kettle on the hotplate. ‘Miranda?’

  ‘I’ve tried the talking cure. It didn’t help.’

  ‘Talk to me.’

  She glanced up. He’d turned his back on the stove and was looking at her so intently that she forgot what she was going to say. The only thing in her mind was how it had felt to be held, trembling, in his arms. The beat of his pulse against her ear, his hands spread across her naked back, keeping her safe.

  ‘It can’t hurt.’ He moved away from the stove, was one step, two steps closer and all she could see was his mouth… ‘I don’t want to scare you but this house has been empty for a while. That spider is not going to be the only creature crawling out of the cracks in the walls.’

  ‘The lizards don’t bother me.’ She forced herself to look away, look up at the little gecko sitting high on the wall near the ceiling. ‘They eat mosquitoes and flies.’

  ‘So do spiders.’

  ‘They also have a million legs and eyes.’

  ‘A million?’

  She heard the teasing note in his voice, knew that a tiny crease would have appeared at the corner of his mouth and, unable to help herself, she responded with a smile.

  ‘Okay, eight,’ she said as, suddenly self-conscious, she began rubbing at a stubborn spot of dirt, ‘which is at least four too many and when they move it looks like a lot more. Plus they’re hairy. And they have fangs.’

  ‘That’s all you’ve got?’

  Still teasing.

  How long had it been? Not since a party in the mess, when one of the engineers had had a crush on her and she’d had to hide in the ladies’. Rachel hadn’t been there that night and Cleve had smuggled her out the back way.

  Unable to help herself, she gave him a sideways look. His face was thinner, the crease deeper than she remembered.

  ‘In my head I can rationalise it. I know that they’re more frightened of me than I am of them. But then I see one and all that goes out of the window.’

  He leaned back against the drainer and folded his arms. She’d seen him do that a dozen or more times when someone was rambling on, full of excuses. He never said anything, just waited until it all came out.

  ‘When I was eight a boy at school put a huge spider down my back. I could feel it wriggling inside my blouse and I was hysterical, tearing at my clothes, screaming.’ Even now, thinking about it made her skin goose. ‘There were buttons flying everywhere and he and his beastly little gang were laughing so much that they were rolling on the floor when one of the teachers came running out to find out what was happening.’ She swallowed. ‘It wasn’t even a real spider but one of those horrible rubber things you can get from a joke shop.’

  ‘Why did he pick on you?’

  ‘Apparently his father had called him a fool for letting a girl beat him in a maths test.’

  ‘What a pity you can’t suspend parents for bad behaviour.’

  She shook her head. ‘The poor kid was to be pitied but it doesn’t alter the fact that every time I see a spider I’m eight years old again and I can feel all those legs wriggling against my skin.’

  ‘That’s classic PTSD.’

  ‘Not the kind anyone takes seriously.’ She rinsed the cloth under the tap. ‘I’ve learned to deal calmly with the occasional spider in the bath and believe me I checked before I got into the tub. I was washing my hair and I’d closed my eyes when I rinsed off the shampoo. When I opened them it was right there on the wall, thirty centimetres from my face.’

  ‘It would have given anyone a bad moment.’ He turned away, looked at a damp patch in the corner of the ceiling. ‘I hate to say this but, looking at the state of this place, I’m afraid you’re likely to meet a few of that chap’s relations if you stay here. Why don’t you move into a hotel?’

  ‘I’m not here for a holiday…’ Before he could ask why she was here, she said, ‘Probate is moving at the speed of a glacier, Posy is tied up until later this summer and meantime this place is going to rack and ruin.’

  He frowned. ‘Should you be here if the estate isn’t settled? Where did you get the key?’

  ‘Sofia gave a set to Grandma the last time she was here. She must have known she was dying.’

  ‘Posy’s godmother? Why was she living here?’

  ‘Sofia Romana? I don’t suppose you’ve heard of her but she was one of the early supermodels. There’s a photograph of her in the hall. She knew everyone, mixed in high society and when she had an affair with King Ludano, he set her up in this villa.’

  ‘An interesting choice as godmother.’

  ‘She and my grandmother were best friends. They started kindergarten on the same day. Mum and Dad were totally tied up trying to keep Marlowe Aviation afloat after Granddad died so suddenly and Grandma used to bring us here for the holidays. It was enormous fun. Film stars used to come to her parties.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We grew up and life got serious.’ She looked up, gazed out of the window. ‘We sent cards for Sofia’s birthday and Christmas. Little gifts, but I wish…’ She shook her head. ‘Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘No, but your kindly neighbour brought you cornetti as a peace offering.’ He tore open the bag that he’d retrieved on his way back inside, releasing the scent of the warm, cream-filled pastries. ‘I hope you’re going to share.’

  Her stomach gave a warning lurch and she looked quickly away. Not now… Please, not now…

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine.’ She plunged her hands back into the water, produced a plate and put it on the rack. The soap had a faint le
mony scent and she concentrated hard on that. Cleve picked up a cloth and reached for the plate. ‘It’s more hygienic to let them drain,’ she said.

  ‘Is it? What can I do to help?’

  ‘Nothing. Why don’t you take your breakfast outside? They’ll taste better in the fresh air.’

  ‘Will they?’ He bit into one of them, releasing a wave of buttery, creamy, sugary scent. ‘I don’t think that’s possible. Is there any coffee?’

  Coffee…

  She didn’t need the smell; the word was enough. She just about managed a strangled ‘No—’ before, clamping a wet hand over her mouth, she ran for the cloakroom.

  Afterwards, she splashed her face with cold water and when she looked up Cleve was leaning against the door frame, arms folded, his face unreadable.

  ‘Am I the last to know?’ he asked.

  ‘No!’ This was a nightmare. Exactly what she hadn’t wanted to happen. ‘No one knows.’

  ‘I think Lucy might have a good idea.’

  ‘I haven’t told her. I haven’t told anyone.’

  He nodded. ‘So when were you going to tell me?’

  ‘Can I…?’ She indicated the doorway he was blocking. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’

  He moved aside, following her through the snug to the veranda. She sat on one of the steps and if he’d sat beside her, reached out to take her hand, if he’d said something…

  Instead he leaned against one of the pillars and the silence stretched out like an elastic band that you knew was going to come back and sting you if you didn’t do something.

  ‘I haven’t seen you, Cleve.’

  ‘You were the one who left that morning. You arranged your schedule so that we wouldn’t be in the office at the same time.’

  She stared at him. ‘What? No.’ She shook her head. ‘You did that.’

  ‘Me? Why would I do that? Damn it, Miranda, you saved me that night. If I’d got in the Mayfly I would have flown in a direct line to the coast and kept going until I ran out of fuel. You knew that,’ he said. ‘It’s why you stopped me.’

  ‘Yes…’ The word was no more than a whisper. His eyes had been dead.

  ‘It’s why you flew her back the next morning and left me your Nymph. I understood that and I came after you but you didn’t stay to see if I got her safely back to base.’

  ‘I knew you’d never do anything to damage her.’

  She’d seen him through his moment of crisis, given him the comfort of her body when he was in despair and then again in an act of healing. She’d seen him laid bare, held him while he’d wept in her arms. Watched him sleeping, all the tension of the last year wiped from his face.

  ‘Immi was expecting me.’

  ‘For the dress fitting. That was much more important, obviously. How did it go?’

  ‘The fitting?’ She frowned. Why on earth would he care? ‘Fine. No frills,’ she said, but in truth she scarcely remembered the dress, or Immi’s excited chatter about food, flowers, music.

  Her senses were totally swamped by the night she’d spent with Cleve.

  It was as if he’d been starving and he’d filled himself with every part of her, filled her with every part of him and she was hanging onto the memory of every touch of his hand, his mouth, his tongue. Storing it up like a squirrel hoarding nuts for the winter.

  The dressmaker, pinning the hem, had looked up as one of the tears that had been running, unnoticed, down her cheeks had dropped onto the dress. She’d passed it off, telling Immi that she had been remembering how sick she’d been, how there was a time when none of them could have imagined her becoming such a beautiful bride.

  But the tears were for Cleve, still so desperately in love with Rachel. And for her. Because, as for him, there could only ever be one love.

  Then, realising that he was making some kind of point, she said, ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I imagine she’ll have to let it out. The dress. If you’re keeping the baby.’

  ‘If—’ She was on her feet without knowing how she’d made it, facing him.

  ‘Isn’t that why you haven’t told anyone?’ he demanded, before she could say another word. ‘Why you’re hiding away in this crumbling pink birthday cake of a house? Why you’re running away?’

  ‘No—’ Her mouth was so dry that the word snagged in her throat.

  ‘It never occurred to me…’ He caught himself, staring up at the sky as if for inspiration. ‘How could you have taken such a risk?’

  ‘Risk?’ She took a step back, stumbled and if he hadn’t shot out a hand and grabbed her arm she would have fallen, but the minute she regained her balance she shook him off. ‘The only thing on my mind that evening was you, falling apart in front of me. Not contraception, not STDs. And my only concern since the stick turned blue has been that the news would be the final straw that broke you. Well, clearly I need have no worries on that score. You’re about to become a father. Live with it.’

  ‘Andie—’

  He reached out to her but she lifted her arm out of reach and, because she didn’t want to go back into the house with its cobwebs and spiders, turned and headed into the garden, pushing her way through overgrown shrubs and weeds until she found the hidden stone arbour where she and Immi had hung out.

  It was too early for the roses that scrambled over it but the buds were beginning to form. Another few weeks and the air would be full of their scent.

  *

  Cleve put his hand to his heart as if he could somehow slow it down, catch his breath. Miranda Marlowe was going to have his baby and it was as if time had just been turned back, he was twenty-four again with the most beautiful girl in his arms and a world to conquer.

  He wanted to roar, shout the news to the world, punch the air, but he had to think about Miranda, how she must be feeling, and he rubbed his hands over his face to erase the grin before he went to find her.

  The paint had peeled from the bench leaving bare, silvery wood but it looked solid enough. She was sitting, eyes closed, legs stretched out in front of her, when she heard Cleve thrashing through overgrown paths as he searched for her. Muttering a curse as something whipped back at him.

  He didn’t call out, maybe he thought she wouldn’t answer and he was right, but eventually he stumbled onto the hidden arbour and the bench gave a little as he sat beside her.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She didn’t open her eyes. ‘I don’t want you to be sorry, Cleve. I don’t want anything from you. I’m nearly twenty-five years old and having a baby is not going to ruin my life.’ On the contrary his baby was a precious gift… ‘You can go now.’

  ‘I didn’t mean…’ He paused. ‘Will you look at me, Miranda?’

  It was easier when she wasn’t looking at him, but she raised her lids and turned to him. ‘You’ve scratched your face,’ she said.

  He raised his hand to his cheek and his fingers came away smeared with a little blood. ‘It was a rose that hasn’t been pruned in years.’

  ‘Sofia loved her garden.’ She found a clean tissue in her pocket and, resisting the urge to lean forward and wipe the scratch, she handed it to him. ‘It’s sad to see it so neglected.’

  ‘I think the house has more problems than an overgrown garden.’ He pressed the tissue briefly to the scratch then tucked it in his breast pocket without looking at it. ‘I’m sorry for what I said, implied…’

  ‘It was the natural thing for you to think but I didn’t run away. I left that morning without waking you because I didn’t want either of us to have to go through one of those awkward morning-after moments where you don’t know what on earth to say.’

  She’d lain, wrapped in his arms, until dawn. Not moving, willing him to stay asleep, drawing out the moment for as long as she could, only moving when he’d turned over, taking the covers with him.

  She’d held her breath, sure he would wake, but his face had been pressed into the pillow, his finely muscled back moving in the gentle rise and fall of the truly asleep. She
could have watched him for hours, but instead she’d written a note to tell him where she’d gone, quietly gathered fresh clothes that she kept at home and left.

  ‘I was going to call you from Cyprus.’ His arm brushed against hers as he raised his hand to drag his fingers through his hair. ‘I picked up the phone a dozen times.’

  Confirming that she’d been right.

  ‘We’ve been friends for a long time, Cleve. I didn’t need words. I’m just glad I was there when you needed someone.’

  ‘And now you need me.’ He took her hand, wrapped his cool, dry fingers around it. ‘What are the legal requirements here?’

  She frowned. ‘Legal requirements?’

  ‘How soon can we get married?’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ANDIE SQUEEZED HER EYES tight shut against the sting of tears as she shook her head, took back her hand.

  ‘Don’t!’

  ‘A baby needs two parents, Miranda. You can’t do that on your own. The only decision is whether we do it simply, here and now before the baby shows, or wait until after he’s born and have the whole nine yards in the village church.’

  ‘I won’t be on my own. I have a family who will do everything they can to support me.’

  ‘That would be the family you haven’t told about our baby.’

  Our baby…

  The words sounded so sweet. Cleve was offering her everything she’d ever wanted. Offering the big promise, the one about loving and honouring her for the rest of his life.

  That had been the dream in her eighteen-year-old heart when they’d crept away from her birthday party and in the darkness of the garden his white-hot kiss had seared her lips, his touch doing unimagined things to her body. Would have done everything if Posy hadn’t come blundering through the bushes and crashed into them completely pie-eyed from the champagne she’d been sneaking.

  Except it wouldn’t be like that. Honesty compelled her to admit that it had never been like that. She’d thrown herself at Cleve and he’d caught her with enthusiasm. She’d made sure she was there whenever he came to the factory that summer and there had been other hot kisses, stolen moments, but they’d never dated. He’d never come to the house and taken her out. It had always been hidden, a secret, never more than an opportunistic flirtation for him.