by Anne Mather
CHAPTER SIX
'Brad!' Abby blinked, and then, as the whole weight of what her father was suggesting became apparent to her, she struggled up into a cross-legged position. 'What? What are you saying?'
'Abby, Abby ...' Professor Gillespie tried to calm her. 'Surely you've guessed. A woman doesn't get morning sickness for no reason. Didn't it occur to you before? My God! I half suspected it yesterday, and now this seems to confirm it.'
'But I don't—I can't—that is, I can't have a child!' stammered Abby unsteadily. 'You know that. You know I can't.'
'Obviously you can,' retorted her father flatly. 'These things happen, even in the best of families.' He caught his lower lip between his teeth. 'I only wish Rachid‑' He broke off abruptly. 'The sooner you get your divorce the better.'
Abby stared at him, her fingers clenching convulsively on the blankets, squeezing and unsqueezing, trying desperately to make sense of what her father was saying. But all that was beating at her brain was the unlikely possibility that she was pregnant, with Rachid's child, and for the moment that was hard enough to absorb. How long was it since she had experienced her usual bodily function? Five weeks? .Six? That trip to Ireland with Brad had thrown her out of key, and she had had so much else on her mind, she had not bothered to keep count of the days. Besides, it was not something she gave much thought to these days, and particularly not since she left Rachid.
'I suppose it happened when you were in Ireland,' her father was saying now, pressing his balled fist into his palm. 'No wonder he was so worried about you yesterday! I had my suspicions, but‑'
'Dad, what are you saying?' Struggling to surface from her own bewilderment, Abby found her father's ramblings hard to understand. 'What has Brad to do with this? You can't imagine he and I‑' She shook her head disbelievingly. 'Dad, my relationship with Brad is completely platonic.'
'Then who‑' Comprehension dawned. 'Not—Rachid?'
'Of course Rachid,' exclaimed Abby crossly, the chaotic turmoil of her thoughts temporarily banishing the feelings of nausea. Pushing back the covers, she swung her legs out of bed, searching blindly for her slippers, and when she found them, padding restlessly over to the window. 'How could you think it was anyone else?'
Her father rose unsteadily. 'But—you seemed so—so opposed to him when he was here. You refused to listen to him, you behaved as if you hated him!'
'I did. I do!' she got out chokingly. 'I—I despise him‑'
'Yet you're pregnant by him,' observed her father dryly: 'Which doesn't quite add up, does it?'
Abby swung round wearily, tears trembling on the curling length of her lashes, tiny silver jewels sparkling on spears of gold. 'It was the night I went to his hotel,' she admitted, clinging to the ledge behind her for support. 'He—he took advantage of the situation, and I—and I let him.'
'Well, I'm glad you're honest, at least,' commented the Professor rather dryly. 'If you'd told me it was all his fault, I'd have found that very hard to believe. As it is, I can only abhor your recklessness in the circumstances.'
'I didn't think it would matter,' Abby muttered, bending her head. 'I mean—Oh, God! How was I to know I might get pregnant? I never have before.'
Her father shrugged. 'It was always a possibility, surely you realised that.'
'No.' Abby turned her face to the wall. 'No, I didn't realise it. Dad, Rachid and I were married three years— three years!'
'That's not so long,' replied her father quietly. 'And towards the end you denied him your bed, didn't you?'
Abby sniffed. 'I don't want to talk about that.'
Professor Gillespie shook his head. 'I suggest we go downstairs and have some breakfast. You'll feel better after you've eaten. At least this may encourage you to eat more sensibly. You'll find your appetite will definitely improve.'
'Oh, Dad ...' Abby turned back, resting her head against the wall behind her, her cheeks streaked with tears. 'Dad, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?'
'You're going to come downstairs and have some breakfast,' replied Professor Gillespie reasonably, 'and then we'll talk about it afterwards.'
Gathering up the dressing gown she had shed, he brought it to her, and obediently, she pushed her arms into the sleeves. But as he slipped it over her shoulders, he took a gentle hold on her, pulling her back against him for a moment and laying his cheek against her hair.
'Don't worry, my love,' he assured her gently, 'whatever happens, I'm always here. We'll work something out, never fear.'
She let him hold her for a few moments, and then she drew away, .turning to put her palm against, his cheek. 'Thanks, Dad,' she said, brushing away her tears with an impatient finger. 'What would I do without you?'
Her father prepared the meal, and Abby tucked in to two boiled eggs and a mountain of toast and marmalade. If anything was needed to convince her that her body was undergoing a change, the amount she ate would have done it, particularly as breakfast had never been a favourite meal. Two cups of coffee and half a slice of toast was all she had ever wanted, but suddenly she could eat generously and still feel hungry.
Nevertheless, she did feel marvellously well afterwards, and in spite of her problems there was a growing feeling of excitement inside her. She was pregnant! She was actually going to have a baby, and as she dressed she viewed her body with enlightened eyes. Was it true? Could it honestly be? Had Rachid seeded his child inside her? She felt both ecstatic and apprehensive, and unwilling to look beyond this moment to the future and all it portended.
Her father was waiting for her in the living room when she came down the stairs, and she joined him rather reluctantly, aware of what he was likely to say. Even though he had tried to reassure her upstairs, she was not unaware of his admiration for Rachid, and it was reasonable that he would expect her to tell her husband what had happened. How Rachid might react was another matter, and she crossed the room stiffly, seating herself opposite her father and viewing him with guarded eyes.
'It's just as well I don't have a tutoring session this morning,' Professor Gillespie remarked, pulling out his tobacco pouch and filling his pipe. 'I don't honestly feel up to teaching anyone today, and I wish you'd stop looking at me as if I was about to lecture you.'
Abby relaxed, and draped a jean-clad leg over the arm of her chair. 'I'm sorry. I'm tense, I suppose.'
'Not unnaturally,' observed her father, lighting his pipe. 'But not with me, I hope. I shan't try to make you do anything you don't want to do, Abby. But I have to say, Rachid will have to be told.'
Abby caught her breath. 'I suppose so.'
'There's no suppose about it,' said her father levelly. 'Naturally, first of all, we'll have to have our diagnosis confirmed, but if it's positive, and I can't see it being otherwise, he must be informed.'
'Yes, all right.' Abby was offhand.
'That is what you want, too, isn't it?' her father enquired, looking at her over the top of his spectacles, and she moved her shoulders helplessly.
'It doesn't much matter what I want, does it?'
Professor Gillespie sighed. 'Now don't let's be silly about this, Abby. You have a responsibility to the child, whatever else is involved.'
'I know.' Abby shifted restlessly. 'I'm not arguing, am I?'
'So what do you plan to do?' her father asked, studying the bowl of his pipe. 'Will you return to Rach‑'
'No!' Abby sprang abruptly to her feet, pacing jerkily across the floor. 'No, I won't do that.'
'Why not?'
'You ask me that?'
'Oh, Abby ...' Professor Gillespie made a soothing gesture. 'Doesn't this shed a different light on the situation? I mean—all right, there was another woman‑'
'I only know of one. There could have been others!'
'—and you feel bitter. But have you considered? If the child is a boy, he will be his father's heir?'
Abby sucked in her cheeks. 'You forget, Rachid has agreed, to our divorce‑'
'Abby!' Her father shook his head.
'You can hardly blame him for that.'
Abby opened her mouth to respond- and then closed it again. What was the point of labouring Rachid's responsibility for what had happened? Whatever the provocation, she had responded to his lovemaking, and even now, with the disruptive result of her recklessness destroying her hopes for the future, she was unable to deny the stirring of her senses at the memories aroused. For the first time she considered how it would be if she did return to Abarein, and the blood pounded in her ears at the prospect of living with Rachid again.
Realising her father was speaking again, she thrust these disturbing thoughts aside and concentrated on what he was saying.
'I suggest you make an appointment to see Doctor Frazer, as soon as possible,' Professor Gillespie advised her. 'Then we can decide how you're going to tell Rachid.'
'Yes.'
Abby nodded, but inside she was still less than convinced. What if it was all a ghastly mistake? she hazarded anxiously. What if she was only suffering from some awful psychological complaint, that described all the symptoms of pregnancy, without any of the substance? She had heard of cases like that. Could she conceivably have willed herself into a state of mock-pregnancy?
Even after seeing the doctor that afternoon, she found it incredibly difficult to believe what he had told her. It was like a dream, or perhaps a nightmare, she acknowledged, with all the inbuilt fears that waking up might bring. For so long she had longed for this day, but now it was here she was too stunned to feel anything but apprehension.
For the first time she allowed herself to wonder what Rachid's reaction might be. It wasn't easy to speculate on his feelings. After the way he had spoken about their divorce, it was always possible that he might deny all responsibility for it. Like her father, he already suspected Brad's affection for her, and that night at his hotel seemed such an unlikely explanation.
Then she hunched her shoulders and mentally shook herself. Who was she fooling? Whatever his faults, Rachid was not a man to shirk his responsibilities, and when he learned she was carrying his child, she doubted any force on earth would prevent him from taking what was his. He had wanted this child, just as much as she did—but for different reasons.
She returned to work the following morning, much to her father's disapproval.
'I really think you should give up your job now, Abby,' he told her brusquely the night before, but Abby was determined not to be intimidated.
'I still have my own life to lead, Dad,' she insisted firmly, and Professor Gillespie shook his head in anxious exasperation.
'What about Rachid?' he persisted, voicing the problem Abby had been trying to avoid, and she managed to divert his tenacity only with difficulty. Eventually she succeeded in placating him by promising to write to Rachid at the weekend, but as she seated herself behind her desk that morning, she realised she might well be in Scotland by then.
Brad was delighted to see her, though he commented on her pale complexion, a hangover from the nausea she had suffered again that morning. 'Are you sure you're well enough to be back at work?' he asked doubtfully. 'You still look-very peaky. Have you seen a doctor?'
Abby hesitated. She knew she owed him nothing less than the truth, but she was stupidly loath to share her secret with anyone else. 'I have seen a doctor,' she admitted now, and at Brad's enquiring glance: 'He said it was nothing to—to worry about. I'll be fine, honestly.'
'Well, if you're sure ...' Brad shook his head. 'It seems to me you could do with a holiday. You haven't looked yourself since—well, since Rachid was here, if you must know. I think you need a change of scene.'
'Oh, Brad!' Abby bent her head to the papers on her desk. 'It's kind of you to care about me, but it's really not necessary. I'm just a little under the weather, that's all. Everyone gets a bit depressed at this time of year.'
'What? With Christmas only weeks away?' Brad shook his head. 'Abby, stop making excuses. You don't have to. I can guess what's wrong with you.'
'You can?' Abby looked up at him, half in apprehension.
'Yes.' Brad made an impatient gesture. 'It's this divorce that's getdng you down, isn't it? I read the papers, too, you know.'
Abby gulped. 'The papers?'
'That article in the evening press, the day Rachid was here. I saw that he wanted a divorce. That was why he was in London, wasn't it?'
Abby closed her eyes for a moment, and then opened them again. 'I don't think I can discuss it, Brad,' she murmured, despising her own duplicity. 'Do you mind? It—it is rather—personal.'
'Of course.' Brad was all understanding now he thought he had discovered the truth. 'Anyway, what I was about to say, regarding this fixation I have about you needing a holiday ...' He grinned. 'How about spending Christmas with me in Mexico? The weather is ideal at this time of year, and the meetings I have to attend wouldn't take up more than half our time. We could divide our time between Mexico City and Acapulco, and we might even get to see some of those Mayan sites Bob Morris is always talking about.'
'I can't.' Abby's refusal was immediate, but she hastily qualified it by adding: 'I couldn't leave Dad at Christmas, Brad. It wouldn't be fair.'
She could also have added that the idea of leaving England at this time filled her with alarm, and she realised she wasn't going to be able to keep her condition from him for long.
'All right.' He shrugged now, obviously disappointed, but willing to make a compromise. 'After Christmas, then. We'll go in January. It will be something to look forward to while everyone here is trying to keep warm. I'll make the arrangements as soon as I can.'
Abby's head sank on to her upturned palm as soon as Brad disappeared into his own office. With her elbow propped upon the desk, she stared unseeingly through the window on to the rooftops of London. It she hadn't known better, she could almost have believed her father was at the bottom of Brad's proposition. It certainly made telling Rachid of paramount importance, unless she intended the staff to know before the child's father.
The trip to Aberdeen was postponed until the following week, and on Saturday Abby knew she had to knuckle down to writing to her husband. But what to say, and how to say it, made its composition formidable, and she was making her umpteenth attempt when the telephone rang.
Professor Gillespie was in his study, and as he didn't like to be interrupted when he was working, Abby went downstairs to answer it. But her mind was still active with the letter she had been composing, and her tone was absent as sha picked up the receiver.
'Yes?'
There was an ominous crackling on the wire, and then a voice she had never expected to hear said: 'Abby? Abby, is that you?'
'Rachid!' she almost dropped the Biro she had been tapping against her teeth. 'I—where are you?'
'Where do you suppose?' he enquired, his voice, more real than her own voice, echoing in her ears. 'I am calling from Xanthia. I understand you wished to speak to me.'
Abby sought the padded bench, mentally berating her father for his interference. It had to be him. No one else knew of her condition, and she felt aggravated that he had not even thought to warn her.
, 'Abby!' Rachid spoke again, his voice mirroring his impatience. 'You did wish to speak to me, did you not? I have not been misinformed?'
'No. No. That is‑' Abby moistened her dry lips. 'Oh, Rachid, I was just writing you a letter.'
'You—were writing to me?' He sounded as surprised as she might have expected. 'In what connection?' He paused. 'Ah, I comprehend.' His voice hardened. 'You have spoken to a lawyer?'
'No.' Abby was finding this twice as difficult as the written communication. 'Oh, honestly, this is very hard for me.'
'Indeed?' Rachid seemed sceptical now. 'However, as I do not know why you wished to speak with me, I am unable to help you.'
'Yes.' Abby expelled her breath on a sigh. 'I'm sorry. But I didn't expect—that is—how are you? Are you fully recovered? I expect you were glad to get home to‑'
'Abby!' There was a grimness to his voice now. '
I did not place this call to discuss the state of my health. Nor, I hazard, did you.'
'I didn't place the call,' Abby retorted swiftly, indignation making it easier. 'My father must have asked you to ring me. I—I knew nothing about it.'
There was silence for a few seconds, and then, when she was beginning to wonder if he had rung off, he said: 'Then it is your father who wishes to speak with me? I regret—I was given the wrong message.'
'No. Oh, no.' Abby cast about desperately for the right words. 'You're right, I—I did want to—to get in contact with you. It's just—oh‑'
'In the name of Mohammed, Abby, say what must be said,' he overrode her savagely, and taking a deep breath, she faltered:
'I—I'm pregnant, Rachid. I'm going to have a baby!'
The word he used she recognised as a crude blasphemy, but she could hardly blame him. She had been shocked herself, and she at least had the physical evidence of her condition to prove it. All he had was her distant word, and the unmistakable reluctance with which she had given him the news.
'Pregnant?' he said at last, the word still a question on his tongue. Then: 'I will fly to London tomorrow. This is not something I care to discuss by any other means than a personal one.'
'Oh, but‑'
Abby didn't know whether she could face Rachid so soon, nor indeed was she sure of her intentions. She needed more, .time to assimilate what this was going to mean to her, and she silently reprimanded her father again for precipitating the situation.
However, Rachid was not prepared to discuss it. 'Tomorrow,' he said, with finality in his tones, and rang off before she could say anything further.
Her father emerged from his study to find her still sitting by the phone, and he had the grace to look a little shamefaced when she raised reproachful eyes to his.
'All right, all right,' he said. 'I know what you're thinking. But I only did it for the best.'
'You should have told me,' she declared, getting to her feet rather uncertainly. 'If I'd known that it might be Rachid‑'
