“No, I don’t think you should do that, not unless you have some actual proof. No lacy knickers in his suitcase or dodgy phone calls?” Helen tried to keep her voice light, to show how little she thought either of these things were a possibility, and prayed she was right.
Dawn shrugged. “No, nothing like that. Just a feeling.”
“Talk to him!” Helen urged again. “You can’t make guesses. You said he’s home at the moment. Book a table at your favourite restaurant, pour him a large glass of wine, and try and pin him down.”
“I’m scared.” Dawn’s voice was so low Helen had to strain to hear it over the noise of the coffee machine and the chef’s singing in the kitchen.
“What can be worse than not knowing?” Helen thought privately that not knowing was the most awful feeling in the world.
“What if I’m right; what if he leaves me? What will I do then?”
Helen thought back to a time, not that many weeks ago, when she was asking the same of Dawn.
She reached her hand across the table to give Dawn’s slender fingers a squeeze of support.
“Strength will come.”
When she got home Helen disabled the voice on her email account, turned off her telephone, and assigned her weekend with Marcio the mental file marked History.
Determined nonetheless to take something positive from the experience she decided to follow Marcio’s sister’s advice and join a baby group.
When the midwife had given her details of antenatal groups for mothers expecting twins Helen had dismissed them, with the view that swapping stories of swollen ankles and weird dreams was a recipe for misery.
Now, though, she thought it might be nice to have other mums to talk to once the babies came. Sharni and Dawn were great but one friend shuddered at even the thought of childbirth and the other had lived it all so long ago it had entered the realms of blurry memory.
Digging out her pregnancy notes, Helen began calling the numbers on the sheet. On her third attempt she found an antenatal group that still had a vacancy. It was money she could ill afford but she decided it was probably a sound investment.
Chapter Fourteen
The relief Marcio felt to be driving out of the hills and down into the city gave him a stab of guilt. Normally spending time with his family grounded him. No matter how much he looked forward to returning to his boat or apartment it was always tinged with regret at being away from them. Today, as he pulled into the harbour to move Marisol back to her normal dock, even the prospect of being aboard the yacht failed to excite him.
The paper with Helen’s details on was calling to him from its safe location inside his wallet. He had promised himself that once Marisol was safely stowed he would find an internet cafe and email her, tell her how much he missed them all. He hurried towards the locked harbour door, not even aware of anyone else in the area until he bumped into a young girl. Spinning round with the momentum, he called a sincere apology to her retreating form and turned again to the locked door.
Reaching into his pocket for his keys his heart began to thump, and bile rose in his throat. He patted frantically at all his pockets, repeating the process twice more before conceding the search was futile.
He didn't know whether to laugh or yell. After all his warnings to Helen he'd been caught by the oldest trick in the book.
I didn’t bump into that girl at all; she picked my damn pocket. He still had his keys so he let himself through to the harbour, leaden feet dragging him to where Marisol bobbed in greeting.
For the first time the sight of her failed to raise a smile. It wasn't the stolen money or the cards he'd need to cancel, annoying as all that was. No, it was the small piece of paper tucked into the wallet that was causing his heart to sink to the bottom of the harbour. Although he'd studied it a couple of times he hadn't made any effort to memorise the details. Marcio boarded Marisol and tugged hard at the mooring rope, almost toppling himself into the water.
What an idiot! I don't even know her surname, just that she lives near Earl’s Court. Bollocks. I should have given her my number, or gone straight to town to email her when I dropped her at the airport.
Trying to quell the growing sense of panic, Marcio ran through all the things he did know about Helen; her photography, the twins, there must be a way to track her down. As his rage cooled however, rationality returned.
I can just imagine the response I’ll get if I start ringing midwives. I’ll get arrested.
Marcio frowned down at the deck as the Marisol chugged along the coast. An image of Helen’s camera, lying there next to a picnic blanket, popped into his head. Her assignment. Of course. I just need to call some magazines.
Feeling buoyant, Marcio started to compile a list in his head. Helen hadn't mentioned which publication she was working for, but he'd seen her photos so had a rough idea where to start. Still, it made him sick to think of Helen waiting for his call, checking for mail. He hoped he found her soon or she might never forgive him. Hers was a life already too full of care.
The open sea calmed his agitated mind and hardened his resolve to get back to dry land, and then back to London, as soon as possible.
Marcio found himself wandering the streets of Earl’s Court, as if he might bump into Helen if he tried hard enough. When the weather turned wet he gave it up as a stupid idea.
No pregnant woman in her right mind would be wandering round London in this god-awful rain.
He rummaged through his memories for something that might help. With effort his brain threw out the name of a coffee shop Helen said she liked to haunt in Earl’s Court, so he decided to track it down.
After the third morning in a row hugging a cold cup of filter coffee for an hour, staring blankly at the rain obliterating the view through the café window, Marcio stood up and decided it was time to formulate an alternative plan.
Pulling up his hood against the relentless rain, he made for the exit, nearly bumping into a large woman wrapped in a flowery raincoat, who was gripping the door frame as if waiting for the strength to go inside.
He wasn’t going to quit, but really, life just wasn’t giving him a break.
“Aspiration Publications, good morning.”
“Ah yes, good morning, I wonder if you can help me? I’m trying to track down a photographer. I’ve seen some of her images and am keen to speak to her. Unfortunately I only know her first name. Do you have a freelancer by the name of Helen working for you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that information sir.”
“Please,” Marcio could hear the receptionist was a young woman, “please, I’ll be honest with you. I’m looking for her because I lost her number and I have to find her.” The words sounded more stalker-like than sincere, even to him. He could hear the receptionist suck in her breath ready for one more denial. “Please, just her number, I miss her, them, so much.”
“Them? Is she pregnant?”
Marcio let out a gale of pent-up emotion. At last he’d found her. He’d been ringing magazines for three weeks now, whenever he had the chance, and so far he had met with nothing but stonewalling. No one would even admit to knowing a freelance photographer called Helen.
“Yes, she’s expecting twins.” He decided it was time to offer the whole truth. “We met while she was working in Barcelona, but I lost her number…” It sounded lame; it wasn’t going to win this receptionist round. More facts were needed, however inept it made him appear.
“My wallet was stolen, if you must know, with her phone number in it. I’ve been trying for weeks to track her down, but no one will even tell me if they know her. Please.”
The receptionist could hear the weariness in the voice on the other end of the line. She considered her options. It was company policy not to divulge personal details – as much to keep the freelancers on their own books as to protect their privacy. However she didn’t want to be the one standing in the way of romance, and she liked Helen. Whenever she came into the office she looked so beau
tiful and elegant, and always took time to smile and share a word with her.
Marcio hung on nervously, waiting for his fate to be announced. The silence was broken by the receptionist’s now lowered voice.
“I’ll give you her email address, sir, though I shouldn’t even do that. It’s less personal than a phone number though, so hopefully if she doesn’t know you she can block your address and that will be the end of it.”
“Thank you, you’re an angel.” Marcio felt he could weep with relief. He gratefully scribbled down the half-familiar address, wondering again where the nickname had come from. He also took the name of the receptionist, determined to send her some flowers to say thank you again.
Not wanting to lose another moment, Marcio pulled out his laptop and fired up the internet. Then he sat staring at a blank email, wondering what on earth to say to convince Helen he hadn’t stood her up. Would she buy the pickpocket story, after all the times he’d cautioned her?
I just have to hope Mum was right about her empathy.
Chapter Fifteen
It always made Helen smile to come into the office. It wasn’t just the human contact, although that was always welcome, especially now. More it was the feeling it gave her of having achieved something with her photography.
If Daniel could see me now, she thought, as she pushed her way through the rotating door. I’m sure he thinks I’m snivelling in a gutter, if he thinks of me at all. He’s not going to imagine me as a freelance photographer working for such a prestigious company.
Helen could feel the giant smile on her face as she looked around the spacious reception. Filling her lungs with air, she caught the scent of stargazer lilies and searched to find where the smell was coming from. It wasn’t hard to locate; the receptionist’s desk was dominated by the extravagant white and magenta blooms.
“Good morning, Lucy, gorgeous flowers.”
“Thanks, Helen, aren’t they just? I might have to ask if we can have flowers in here every week, loads of people have commented on them.”
“Any news on your article?”
Lucy had mentioned before that she wanted to be a journalist, but was waiting for her lucky break. She had written a piece for the Standard and was waiting to hear if it had been accepted.
“Nothing yet.” Lucy’s pixie face fell, but then brightened again. She looked as if she was about to speak, as the telephone rang.
Helen hovered near the desk, unsure whether to wait until Lucy had finished the call, not wanting to appear rude by cutting their conversation short.
As she gazed around idly, her eye caught the card stuck in the flowers and, although she didn’t mean to pry, she couldn’t help reading the words.
You’re an angel! Marcio.
The room went dark. Marcio. She didn’t expect to see or hear that name again. It wasn’t a common name in her experience. She wondered if it was a coincidence or whether this young lady who wanted to be a writer somehow knew her Marcio.
Helen’s vision blurred and she felt as if she might choke on the emotions jammed in her throat. Looking over the high desk at Lucy’s short purple hair, Helen tried to imagine the young girl with her Marcio.
It must be someone else. It can’t be him.
She wanted to ask Lucy, to demand an explanation. It seemed as if the conversation were coming to an end. Helen’s stomach twisted as she tried to find the words, to think of a casual way of asking about the flowers. All the while, the words swam in front of her eyes. You’re an angel, you’re an angel. It would certainly explain his long silence.
I wonder if he ever meant to get in touch. Maybe he had a girlfriend here in London all the time. I was just a weekend fling.
Seeming to sense the waves of emotion pouring off Helen, Lucy looked up from her call, motioning that someone was going on and on and she was trying to hang up.
Helen felt a shiver pass across her skin, covering her arms in goosebumps. Lucy was so attractive, so unencumbered by baggage, of course he would prefer her.
Stretching her rigid cheeks into some semblance of a smile, Helen signalled that she needed to go and hurried away.
In the ladies toilets Helen sat on top of the seat and sobbed. She tried to tell herself it was okay, she had already accepted that Marcio wasn’t interested. It didn’t help. Not wanting her was one thing, but leading her on when he was already seeing Lucy, that ripped at her peace of mind.
She was meant to be meeting her publisher to discuss a brief for a piece with a writer, but she wasn’t sure she was up to the meeting now. Pulling out her phone, she called the office that was just down the corridor and explained she was running late.
“Are you okay?” Her publisher’s voice was full of concern. “You don’t sound at all well.”
“I’m fine, Sandra, just a bit tired that’s all.”
“You need to take care of yourself and your little ones. Are you sure you’re up to doing this piece? Working with a writer is a bit more involved than just taking pictures. They’ll have a view of what they want you to do.”
“No it’s fine, I need the work. I’ll be in later to discuss it with you.”
“No need, if you’re sure you’re happy to do it, I’ll give you the details now and you can head over tomorrow. I think the piece is required for release this week. It’s at a day care centre on North Road, do you know it?”
Helen wrote down the details in her diary, hoping she would be able to decipher the shaky words later. “Yes, I know where that is. What time am I required and who is the writer?”
“Can you be there for 9am? The kids will be cleaner and better behaved in the morning.” Her voice resonated with the experience of a mother of four. “The writer’s name is,” Helen heard papers rustling as Sandra located the name, “Mr Thompson. I don’t have a first name.”
“Okay, no worries, I’ll find him. Do you have a contact number for him?”
Sandra read out a mobile number which Helen added under the name. Hanging up the phone, Helen dropped the handset into her lap and rested her head against the cubicle wall. She was glad the assignment was for the following day. As much as she needed to be busy, she didn’t think her steady hands would be in much evidence today.
Making her way out the cubicle Helen paused to examine her reflection to see if she was red and blotchy. Any kind of concern from Lucy at her appearance would probably break down the fragile wall she had built over the gaping hole in her heart.
Marcio checked his email for the tenth time that morning. Still no response from Helen. Was she really that mad at him? If that was the case there really wasn’t much else he could do. He wondered if it was worth trying to get Helen’s phone number from Lucy. If he could talk to Helen, maybe she would hear the sincerity in his voice. Then she might understand that the story about being pickpocketed wasn’t an excuse but the truth.
I’ll ring Lucy first thing tomorrow, she must have the flowers by now, maybe she’ll relent and give me Helen’s number.
The thought alleviated the greyness in his mind for the first time that day.
Chapter Sixteen
“You!”
A furious voice accosted Marcio as he arrived at his morning assignment. He was still standing on the pavement, double-checking he had the right place, and for a moment he didn’t realise the voice was directed at him.
“If I’d known the writer was you I’d have told them to stick their job. I’d rather starve.”
Marcio turned around and jumped when he saw who was shouting at him.
“Oh yes, you might look shocked. I bet you hoped you’d never see me again.”
Helen could almost hear the blood boiling under her skin. She felt the heat radiating from her face as the fury mounted. Suddenly all the tension from weeks of waiting, combined with the hurt from seeing Lucy’s flowers, bubbled over until she could barely contain her anger.
She was toying between slapping his handsome face and just stalking away when a voice in her head reminded her it wasn’t
only her that would starve. If she pissed off Sandra there might be no more work. I have to think of the babies. Damn him. Slapping him in front of a day care centre didn’t seem like a particularly good move either, so Helen settled for pouring all her fury into her eyes, glaring at him as if steel rods could come out of her pupils and stab him.
Even though he understood her anger, the look in Helen’s eyes almost stopped Marcio’s heart. He hadn’t realised how much he missed her, how much he cared about her, until it was clear that he had lost her.
Taking a deep breath, Marcio tried to find a way past the rage. “You have every right to be angry. Please tell me you at least got my email?”
A figure appeared behind the glass door in front of them and opened it to let them in. Marcio gestured for Helen to precede him into the day care building. She flashed him another livid look, not wanting to speak in front of the lady showing them to reception.
When the woman had returned to her classroom, Helen whipped her head round, almost lashing Marcio with her ponytail, and muttered in a furious undertone, “No, I didn't. No email, no phone call. The first time I realised you weren't dead was when I saw your name on some flowers sent to the lovely Lucy.”
Marcio's face blanched. A bottomless chasm he hadn’t even anticipated opened before him.
“Yes you might well look guilty.” She looked around to make sure they were still alone. “Your fickle behaviour was one thing, but to be moving on to that child so soon smacks of a callousness I hadn't realised you possessed. I wish I had never met you.” This last was said in almost a whisper, as they heard footsteps approaching them down the hallway.
Helen deliberately turned her back on Marcio and gazed around her at the day care reception; the children’s paintings, handprints, photographs that gave the space so much personality, clashed horribly with her black mood.
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