Hired Girlfriend, Pregnant Fiancée?

by Nina Milne

  ‘You make it sound like a car.’

  ‘A relationship is like a car—Gran told me she and Gramps had to work at theirs. Sometimes it needs fuel, sometimes it needs fine-tuning, sometimes it needs a polish.’

  ‘So you do know what you’re doing?’

  ‘Nope.’ She shook her head, chestnut strands shaking in emphasis. ‘In real life I have no clue how to look after a car, and I don’t have any idea with relationships, either. Been there and have the T-shirt.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘I think I wanted it to work too much. Then I couldn’t figure out how to make it work, and the harder I tried the more panicked I became. That had a knock-on effect and made me madly insecure and needy. That made both Steve and Miles run for the hills—or rather run to other women.’

  Her tone was light, but he knew how hurt she must have been. ‘Whoa... Hold on a minute. That was their fault—they were the ones who were wrong, not you.’

  ‘I know. I get that. And to be fair they got that, too—they both did feel really bad about their behaviour. They accepted complete responsibility...gave me the whole “it’s not you, it’s me” spiel.’

  ‘They got that right,’ he pointed out and heard the anger in his voice. It was an anger aimed not at Gabby, but at the unknown Steve and Miles. Anger at how they must have made her feel. Gabby’s mother had made her feel not good enough, and they had added to that. ‘They were schmucks. They weren’t worth it and they weren’t worthy of you. You’re well rid of them.’

  ‘I tell myself that, but I do also accept that it’s possible that there isn’t a Mr Right out there for me. Both Steve and Miles seemed so right—good, normal, ordinary blokes.’ She sipped her champagne and then smiled. ‘Don’t get me wrong—I’m happy on my own. I love my job and I have security, a home, food on the table, consistency. And I have Gran—which is amazing, given she’s ninety. I’m lucky and I know that.’

  Yet once her grandmother passed on, and in the scheme of things that could happen sooner rather than later, Gabby would be alone. No wonder she wanted a family, and had wanted her relationships with Steve and Miles to work out too much.

  Without thought, Zander shifted a little closer to her and she rested her head on his shoulder.

  ‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘Enough about me. Let’s talk about you.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What were you like as a child? What did you want to be when you grew up?’

  ‘That’s easy. I wanted to be a success. Simple as that. I didn’t care how I did it or what I did—I wanted success.’

  She frowned. ‘So you were always ambitious? It’s funny—I don’t remember that about you at school.’

  ‘Sixth form was a strange time for me.’

  It was the time when he’d just started seeing Claudia. He had been unable to read, but had been incredibly popular—a success on the sporting field, a cool kid, a rebel who had hardly any qualifications but seemingly didn’t care. A kid on the path to success of the wrong type. Then had come the dyslexia diagnosis—a turning point and a time when everything had changed for him. A vista of possibilities had opened up, and his determination and drive had been focused around conquering the written word.

  His relationship with Claudia had deepened at a time when his ambition had been muted, and with hindsight he could see that perhaps it meant Claudia hadn’t known the real Zander. And perhaps he hadn’t known the real Claudia—he had been grateful she had gone out with him, someone ‘stupid’, but in reality she had been happy to go out with someone cool. But that didn’t answer Gabby’s question.

  ‘I was always determined to succeed. I think because my sisters had set the bar so high and I hated being the stupid one. I was always intent on equalling them.’

  Her forehead creased in thought and then she sighed. ‘Yet you gave up that dream for Claudia because you loved her. You were happy to accept that her dreams were different. That is how relationships work—two people willing to compromise. You obviously understood the maintenance manual. That’s why you truly don’t need to feel guilt because you achieved success after her death.’

  The words hit him like individual pellets and he had to force himself not to wince with each blow. Yet she sensed something; it clearly hadn’t been possible to keep the tension from his body.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reminded you.’ Her voice was small, sounding suddenly almost defeated. ‘Of what you’ve lost.’

  Jeez. Each word poured salt into the wound, and for a moment he hesitated, wondered if he could admit the truth, air his guilt and the baseness of his soul to her. But that wasn’t the issue. Sharing his flaws meant a betrayal of Claudia. It would humiliate her memory.

  ‘You haven’t.’

  How to explain that he couldn’t talk about Claudia? Not without conjuring up all his guilt and sadness...not without confessing that in fact he’d had no idea at all about relationship maintenance or compromise. That in fact his love hadn’t survived marriage, living together, a real relationship.

  He could see compassion in Gabby’s eyes, along with a frisson of sadness, and then she shifted, moved in and kissed him softly on the lips. Her sympathy was so wrong he moved away. Then he saw hurt in her eyes and wished it were possible to kick himself round the whole of Sintra.

  ‘Gabby...?’

  ‘It’s fine. Really.’

  It wasn’t, but he didn’t have a clue how to make it better. Whatever he said would make it worse, because he couldn’t tell her the truth.

  ‘What did you want to be when you grew up?’ As a question it was abrupt, gauche, stupid, but it was all he could come up with. ‘Did you always want to be a librarian?’

  For a moment he thought she wouldn’t answer, then she shrugged, accepted the conversational gambit. ‘I wanted to be safe. I still do. You want success—I want security. As a child I don’t think I much cared how I got it, but as I grew older I did realise I had a choice. My priority was and is a regular income. Though I did once toy with the idea of being a writer.’ She said it as though the idea was a crazy one.

  ‘What did you want to write?’

  ‘Happy stories,’ she said without hesitation. ‘But also stories that make you think. For kids. Books were an incredible solace for me, growing up—they allowed me to escape from a difficult world into a fantasy one. I used to imagine the pages literally swallowing me up. And I was glad of it. I’m sorry that you didn’t have that.’

  He shrugged. ‘Some people say you can’t miss what you never had, but I think what’s worse is desperately wanting something you can’t have. I used to think I’d wish away my soul if I could just decipher the meaningless jumble of shapes that everyone else could read.’

  Gabby moved back closer to him, so close a silken strand of her hair brushed his cheek. ‘That truly sucks.’

  ‘Yeah. But, hey, somehow the conversation seems to have come back to me. What about you? Do you still want to write a book?’

  ‘No. There wouldn’t be any point.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’d rather focus on a job that brings me money.’ She paused. ‘Like this one.’

  It was a timely reminder to them both that this was a job—that these few days were not real.

  He took a breath. ‘Perhaps writing a book would make you money.’

  ‘Unlikely. The chance of success in the current competitive market is minuscule.’

  ‘But if you don’t try you won’t succeed for sure. Why not write in your spare time? Not for the money, but for the kudos of publication. You already have a job and security.’

  ‘Exactly. I’ve achieved the important things. The whole “write a children’s book” thing was just a daft dream.’

  ‘Dreams are important.’

  ‘Sure they are—but not dreams that can’t be achieved a
nd will most likely open you up to rejection.’

  ‘But you might get accepted.’

  ‘Unlikely—and getting rejected sucks. So I can’t see the point of inviting it.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There is no but. Subject closed. Let’s not spoil this with a pointless argument.’

  Stop. Quit.

  Gabby was right. Yet he couldn’t shake the idea that he was missing something, and he asked a question on instinct. ‘You’ve already written it, haven’t you?’

  There was a silence. Then a shrug. ‘Yes. Though I don’t know how you figured that out.’

  Instinct, and the knowledge of Gabby he had somehow garnered. ‘Then why not send it out?’

  ‘I didn’t write it for publication. I wrote it for me.’ A small shrug and then, ‘Maybe if I ever figure out relationships and have children, I’ll read it to them.’

  Children. The word was another reminder of just how different he and Gabby were. Gabby could picture a world where she was a parent—she actively wanted that responsibility. Zander couldn’t and didn’t. But right now that didn’t matter.

  ‘Anyway...’ She said the word with finality. ‘Can we change the subject?

  He bit down on his instinct to urge her to send her story off, to do what he would do—strive after success. Gabby had been deemed not good enough by her mother, not good enough to give up her lifestyle for. She had been terrified she wouldn’t be good enough to be kept by her grandparents, and she believed she had played a part in both her relationships ending in infidelity. Perhaps it was no wonder she didn’t want to risk being judged not good enough again.

  No wonder she wanted to settle for an ‘ordinary’ bloke. Maybe the best thing he could do was tell her that he thought she was good enough.

  ‘Yes, we can. But first I want to say I believe that those children of yours will be really lucky. To have the chance to listen to your story, but most of all to have you as a mum.’

  For a second he’d have sworn a tear glistened on the end of one of those impossibly long eyelashes, but then she pulled him towards her and her generous lips curved into a smile of sheer beauty.

  ‘You say the loveliest things. But now I think it’s time to stop talking.’

  He laughed, ‘And show you some action?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  GABBY ROLLED OVER, felt the last vestige of sleep slip away from her and tried to hold on to it. She knew that she didn’t want to wake up just yet.

  Drowsily she reached out a hand, expecting to encounter Zander’s warm, comforting bulk next to her. Instead her hand met cool sheets and now she did open her eyes. Remembered. This was it. The morning of their flight back. She needed to be up and packing. It was over.

  A queasily familiar sense of impending unhappiness washed over her but she forced herself to jump out of bed instantly, to infuse her movements with purpose even as memory strummed a chord. This was akin to how she’d felt as a child, when her mother had returned to pick her up from her grandparents’. She’d packed her suitcase then with the same dread, with the knowledge that her safe time was over and she didn’t know when or even if it would come again.

  To her horror, this was actually worse. Back then there had been hope—even the probability that she would return, perhaps in days, perhaps in months. But this was different. This would never happen again. She’d asked him to be her Mr Right for the Weekend—and the weekend was over.

  But she would not, could not regret it. Their moment had been joyous and joyful—and, dammit, she’d had fun. So now she would act with dignity and she would not repine.

  Gabby snapped her suitcase shut and switched on her brightest smile, preparing to descend from the mezzanine and face him.

  ‘Good morning!’ Her words came out too cheerful, too shiny and bright, but he didn’t comment.

  ‘Good morning.’

  His voice was pleasant, courteous—and so formal. Hurt twanged her nerves. The man she had come to know over the past forty-eight hours had vanished as completely as a mirage in the desert. That Zander had gone and she would never see that aspect of him again.

  ‘I’ve made coffee if you would like some.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  For a moment she wondered if he’d ask if she took milk or sugar—perhaps the past two days had been a figment of her fevered imagination. He handed her the mug with exaggerated care, careful to avoid even a brush of their fingers. On the table his netbook was open, and she had little doubt he had already been in contact with his office.

  The silence held a cloud of awkwardness and she forced herself to fill it. ‘Hopefully the flight won’t be delayed.’

  ‘Hopefully not. We should leave within the next half hour, if that’s OK with you.’

  ‘Traffic shouldn’t be too bad,’ she stated, as if she had any knowledge of traffic congestion in Portugal. Oh, God—they’d gone full circle. Their break had started with stilted conversation and so it would end. As if the middle had been no more substantial than a dream.

  They left the villa in silence and she forced herself to walk to the car without a backward glance. Better for it be preserved in her treasure trove of memories as a magical place untouched by shadows of regret.

  The whole car journey consisted of her fight to remain still, to contain her agitation and to focus on the scenery as it whizzed past rather than on Zander. Yet she couldn’t resist the occasional glance at his profile. His expression was unreadable—not even a hint of the man who’d just hours ago held her in his arms.

  Anger suddenly sparked that he could be so calm, so uncaring—that he could switch off his emotions so easily. But then again his emotions hadn’t been engaged, and in theory neither had hers. She shifted on her seat again, realising that now Zander’s fingers were drumming a tattoo on the steering wheel. An apology hovered on her lips but she bit it back—she had nothing to apologise for.

  Then in a smooth movement Zander put on the indicator and pulled into a lay-by. ‘Is something wrong with the car?’

  ‘No.’

  He unclicked his seat belt and turned to face her. ‘But something feels wrong. On the beach we decided to change the parameters of our relationship for the weekend, but we didn’t stop to think about what would happen next. And now we’re acting like strangers.’ His shoulders lifted in a shrug as his lips tipped up ruefully. ‘I’m not sure I even understand why, but I don’t like it.’

  Relief touched her that he didn’t want this stilted awkwardness, either. ‘I guess we need to figure out how to go back to friendship.’ Right, Gabs. Because that worked out so well last time. ‘Or to a working relationship at least. You’re paying me for a reason. We don’t want to blow it now.’ The reminder tasted bitter on her tongue.

  He nodded but made no attempt to restart the car. Instead, his fingers continued to drum the wheel as he gazed ahead at the dusty vista of the road.

  ‘There is another way,’ he said finally. ‘An option that has nothing to do with money. Whatever we decide I will pay you the agreed sum, because I’m paying you to convince my family that I have moved on. But, given that we are going to see a lot of each other until the wedding, we could make this into a real fun fling. Just for the next few weeks.’

  ‘I...’

  Yes! Hurry up and say yes, urged every instinct. For heaven’s sake, please don’t think about it. Even her brain chimed in. Go on, it makes sense.

  She had made the decision on those sands to grab the moment. This was her chance to extend it. To continue to enjoy the benefits that she knew with every millimetre of her body were infinitely pleasurable.

  Only her gut urged caution, informing her that it was too dangerous, that it would be too much.

  But it was too late for that consideration. For the next few weeks their relationship charade had to continue regardles
s. That necessitated her being with Zander, and it would take a person with more willpower than she had to turn down the option of more time in his arms and in his bed.

  ‘That would make sense,’ she said, keeping her voice cool and calm, as if they were simply negotiating a simple additional clause to their deal. Though her tummy somersaulted with doubt and anticipation, relief and anxiety in equal measure.

  ‘Good.’

  His smile was warm, his body language relaxed—a return to the Zander she’d got to know over the past three days and she smiled back.

  Now he did start the engine, and pulled out on to the road. They resumed their journey, still in silence, but this time it was a silence that spoke of relief, and of a disinclination to start any conversation that might convince them of the sheer idiocy of their decision.

  Four days later

  ‘Do I look all right? Does this work for a Grosvenor family lunch?’ Gabby surveyed her reflection in the mirror in Zander’s bedroom and then turned to look at Zander, who stood by the bed, smiling at her.

  It occurred to Gabby that they’d both smiled a lot since she’d arrived the previous evening, and an illogical frisson of unease touched her. Daft. Smiling was a good thing, right?

  ‘Hmm... I think I need to take a closer look.’

  As he advanced towards her, she gestured at the simple patterned drop-waisted dress. ‘I’ve gone for a casual, I’ve-tried-hard-but-not-too-hard look,’ she explained.

  He raised his eyebrows in genuine bemusement. ‘You know that makes no sense, right?’

  ‘It does to me. The point is, will your family think it’s OK?’

  ‘My family doesn’t have a dress code.’

  Now his smile had deepened, and she looked at him with a hint of suspicion as he stepped closer.

  ‘But let me quickly check something on the back of your dress.’

  She swivelled round and in one swift movement, he’d slipped the straps off her shoulders and bent down to kiss the nape of her neck.