Читать книгу The Secret in His Heart - Caroline Anderson - Страница 8

WAS THIS WHY she’d wanted to see him? To ask him this?

He searched her eyes, and they didn’t waver.

‘What are you saying, Connie?’ he asked quietly, but he knew already, could feel the cold reality of it curling around him like freezing fog.

He saw her swallow again. ‘I wondered—I don’t know how you’ll feel about it, and I know Joe’s not here now, but—James, I still really want a baby.’

He stared at her, saw the pleading in her eyes, and he felt suddenly drenched with icy sweat. She meant it. She really, really meant it—

He shoved the stool back abruptly and stood up, taking a step away on legs that felt like rubber. ‘No. I’m sorry, Connie. I can’t do it.’

He walked away, going out onto the veranda and curling his fingers round the rail, his hands gripping it so hard his knuckles were bleached white while the memories poured through him.

Cathy, coming into their bedroom, her eyes bright with joy in her pale face, a little white wand in her hand.

‘I might’ve worked out why I’ve been feeling rough …’

He heard Connie’s footsteps on the boards behind him, could feel her just inches away, feel her warmth, hear the soft sigh of her breath. Her voice, when she spoke, was hesitant.

‘James? I’m sorry. I know it’s a bit weird, coming out of the blue like that, but please don’t just say no without considering it—’

Her voice cracked slightly, and she broke off. Her hand was light on his shoulder, tentative, trembling slightly. It burned him all the way through to his soul.

‘James? Talk to me?’

‘There’s nothing to talk about,’ he said, his voice hollow. ‘Joe’s dead, Connie. He’s gone.’ They’re all gone …

Her breath sucked in softly. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you really think that in the last two years I haven’t noticed? But I’m still here, and I’m alive, and I’m trying to move on with my life, to rescue something from the wreckage. And you could help me do that. Give me something to live for. Please. At least think about it.’

He turned his head slightly and stared at her, then looked away again. ‘Hell, Connie, you know how to push a guy’s buttons.’ His voice was raw now, rasping, and he swallowed hard, shaking his head again to clear it, but it didn’t work this time any more than it had the last.

‘I’m sorry. I know it’s a bit sudden and unexpected, but—you said you would have considered it.’

‘No, I said I might have considered it, for you and Joe. Not just for you! I can’t do that, Connie! I can’t just hand you a little pot of my genetic material and walk away and leave you on your own. What kind of person would that make me?’

‘Generous? I’d still be the mother, still be the primary carer, whatever. What’s the difference?’

‘The difference? The difference is that you’re on your own, and children need two parents. There’s no way I could be responsible for a child coming into the world that I wasn’t involved with on a daily basis—’

‘So—what? You want to be involved? You can be involved—’

‘What? No! Connie, no. Absolutely not. I don’t want to be a father! It’s not anywhere, anyhow, on my agenda.’

Not any more.

‘Joe said you might say that. I mean, if you’d wanted kids you would have got married again, wouldn’t you? But he said you’d always said you wouldn’t, and he thought that might be the very reason you’d agree, because you might see it as the only way you’d ever have a child …’

She trailed off, as if she knew she’d gone too far, and he stared down at his stark white knuckles, his fingers burning with the tension. One by one he made them relax so that he could let go of the rail and walk away. Away from Connie, away from the memories that were breaking through his carefully erected defences and flaying him to shreds.

Cathy’s face, her eyes alight with joy. The first scan, that amazing picture of their baby. And then, just weeks later …

‘No, Connie. I’m sorry, but—no. You don’t know what you’re asking. I can’t. I just can’t …’

The last finger peeled away from the railing and he spun on his heel and walked off, down the steps, across the garden, out of the gate.

She watched him go, her eyes filling, her last hope of having the child she and Joe had longed for so desperately fading with every step he took, and she put her hand over her mouth to hold in the sob and went back to the kitchen to a scene of utter chaos.

‘Oh, Saffy, no!’ she wailed as the dog shot past her, a slab of meat dangling from her jaws.

It was the last straw. Sinking down on the floor next to the ravaged shopping bags, Connie pulled up her knees, rested her head on them and sobbed her heart out as all the hopes and dreams she and Joe had cherished crumbled into dust.

It took him a while to realise the dog was at his side.

He was sitting on the sea wall, hugging one knee and staring blindly out over the water. He couldn’t see anything but Connie.

Not the boats, not the sea—not even the face of the wife he’d loved and lost. He struggled to pull up the image, but he couldn’t, not now, when he wanted to. All he could see was Connie’s face, the hope and pleading in her eyes as she’d asked him the impossible, the agonising disappointment when he’d turned her down, and it was tearing him apart.

Finally aware of Saffy’s presence, he turned his head and met her eyes. She was sitting beside him, the tip of her tail flickering tentatively, and he lifted his hand and stroked her.

‘I can’t do it, Saffy,’ he said, his voice scraping like the shingle on the beach. ‘I want to help her, I promised to look after her, but I can’t do that, I just can’t. She doesn’t know what she’s asking, and I can’t tell her. I can’t explain. I can’t say it out loud.’

Saffy shifted slightly, leaning on him, and he put his arm over her back and rested his hand on her chest, rubbing it gently; after a moment she sank down to the ground with a soft grunt and laid her head on her paws, her weight against him somehow comforting and reassuring.

How many times had Joe sat like this with her, in the heat and dust and horror of Helmand? He stroked her side, and she shifted again, so that his hand fell naturally onto the soft, unguarded belly, offered with such trust.

He ran his fingers over it and stilled, feeling the ridges of scars under his fingertips. It shocked him out of his grief.

‘Oh, Saffy, what happened to you, sweetheart?’ he murmured. He turned his head to study the scars, and saw feet.

Two feet, long and slim, slightly dusty, clad in sandals, the nails painted fire-engine-red. He hadn’t heard her approaching over the sound of the sea, but there she was, and he couldn’t help staring at those nails. They seemed so cheerful and jolly, so totally out of kilter with his despair.

He glanced up at her and saw that she’d been crying, her eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, her cheeks smudged with tears. His throat closed a little, but he said nothing, and after a second she sat down on the other side of the dog, her legs dangling over the wall as she stared out to sea.

‘She was injured when he found her,’ she said softly, answering his question. ‘They did a controlled explosion of an IED, and Saffy must have got caught in the blast. She had wounds all over her. He should have shot her, really, but he was racked with guilt and felt responsible, and the wounds were only superficial, so he fed her and put antiseptic on them, and bit by bit she got better, and she adored him. I’ve got photos of them together with his arm round her in the compound. His commanding officer would have flayed the skin off him if he’d known, especially as Joe was the officer in charge of the little outpost, but he couldn’t have done anything else. He broke all the rules for her, and nobody ever said a word.’

‘And you brought her home for him.’

She tried to smile. ‘I had to. I owed it to her, and anyway, he’d already arranged it. There’s a charity run by an ex-serviceman to help soldiers bring home the dogs that they’ve adopted over there, and it was all set up, but when Joe died the arrangements ground to a halt. Then a year later, just before I went out to Afghanistan, someone from the charity contacted me and said the dog was still hanging around the compound and did I still want to go ahead.’

‘And of course you did.’ He smiled at her, his eyes creasing with a gentle understanding that brought a lump to her throat. She swallowed.

‘Yeah. Well. Anyway, they were so helpful. The money wasn’t the issue because Joe had already paid them, it was the red tape, and they knew just how to cut through it, and she was flown home a month later, just after I left for Afghanistan. She was waiting for me in the quarantine kennels when I got home at the end of December, and she’s been with me ever since, but it hasn’t been easy.’

‘No, I’m sure it hasn’t. Poor Saffy,’ he said, his hand gentle on her side, and Connie reached out and put her hand over his, stilling it.

‘James, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just—it was the last piece of the puzzle, really, the last thing we’d planned apart from bringing Saffy home. We’d talked about it for so long, and he was so excited about the idea that maybe at last we could have a baby. He didn’t know what you’d say, which way you’d go, but he was hoping he could talk you into it.’

And maybe he could have done, she thought, if James had meant what he’d said about considering it. But now, because Joe was dead, James had flatly refused to help her because she’d be alone and that was different, apparently.

‘You know,’ she said softly, going on because she couldn’t just give up on this at the first hurdle, ‘if you’d said yes to him and then he’d been killed in some accident, for instance, I would still have had to bring the baby up alone. What would you have done then, if I’d already had a child?’

‘I would have looked after you both,’ he said instantly, ‘but you haven’t had a child, and Joe’s gone, and I don’t want that responsibility.’

‘There is no responsibility.’

He stared at her. ‘Of course there is, Connie. I can’t just give you a child and let you walk off into the sunset with it and forget about it. Get real. This is my flesh and blood you’re talking about. My child. I could never forget my child.’

Ever …

‘But you would have done it for us?’

He shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not, but Joe’s not here any more, and a stable, happily married couple who desperately want a baby isn’t the same as a grieving widow clinging to the remnants of a dream.’

‘But that’s not what I’m doing, not what this is about.’

‘Are you sure? Have you really analysed your motives, Connie? I don’t think so. And what if you meet someone?’ he asked her, that nagging fear suddenly rising again unbidden and sickening him. ‘What if, a couple of years down the line, another man comes into your life? What then? Would you expect me to sit back and watch a total stranger bringing up my child, with no say in how they do it?’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘That won’t happen—and anyway, I’m getting older. I’m thirty-six now. Time’s ebbing away. I don’t know if I’ll ever be truly over Joe, and by the time I am, and I’ve met someone and trust him enough to fall in love, it’ll be too late for me and I really, really want this. It’s now or never, James.’

It was. He could see that, knew that her fertility was declining with every year that passed, but that wasn’t his problem. Nothing about this was his problem. Until she spoke again.

‘I don’t want to put pressure on you, and I respect your decision. I just—I would much rather it was someone Joe had loved and respected, someone I loved and respected, than an anonymous donor.’

‘Anonymous donor?’ he said, his voice sounding rough and gritty to his ears.

‘Well, what else? If it can’t be you, I don’t know who else it would be. There’s nobody else I could ask, but if I go for a donor how do I know what they’re like? How do I know if they’ve got a sense of humour, or any brains or integrity—I might as well go and pull someone in a nightclub and have a random—’

‘Connie, for God’s sake!’

She gave a wry, twisted little smile.

‘Don’t worry, James. It’s OK. I’m not that crazy. I won’t do anything stupid.’

‘Good,’ he said tautly. ‘And for the record, I don’t like emotional blackmail.’

‘It wasn’t!’ she protested, her eyes filling with tears.

‘Really, James, it wasn’t, I wouldn’t do that to you. I wasn’t serious. I’m really not that nuts.’

He wasn’t sure. Not nuts, maybe, but—desperate?

‘When it happens—promise me you’ll take care of her.’

‘Of course I will, you daft bastard. It won’t happen. It’s your last tour. You’ll be fine.’

But he hadn’t been fine, and now Connie was here, making hideous jokes about doing something utterly repugnant, and he felt the weight of responsibility crush him.

‘Promise me you won’t do anything stupid,’ he said gruffly.

‘I won’t.’

‘Nothing. Don’t do anything. Not yet.’

She tilted her head and searched his eyes, her brows pleating together thoughtfully. ‘Not yet?’

Not ever, because I can’t bear the thought of you giving your body to a total stranger in some random, drunken encounter, and because if anybody’s going to give you a baby, it’s me—

The thought shocked him rigid. He jack-knifed to his feet and strode back to the house, his heart pounding, and after a few moments he heard the crunch of gravel behind him on the path.

Saffy was already there at his side, glued to his leg, and as he walked into the kitchen and stared at the wreckage of his shopping bags, she wagged her tail sheepishly, guilt written all over her.

A shadow fell across the room.

‘Ah. Sorry. I was coming to tell you—she stole the steak.’

He gave a soft, slightly unsteady laugh and shook his head. ‘Oh, Saffy. You are such a bad dog,’ he murmured, with so much affection in his voice it brought a lump to her throat. He seemed to be doing that a lot today.

‘She was starving when Joe found her. She steals because it’s all she knows, the only way she could survive. And it really is her only vice. I’ll replace the steak—’

‘To hell with the steak,’ he said gruffly. ‘She’s welcome to it. We’ll just have to go to the pub tonight.’

Better that way than sitting alone together in his house trying to have a civilised conversation over dinner and picking their way through this minefield. Perhaps Saffy had inadvertently done them both a favour.

‘Well, I could have handled that better, couldn’t I, Saff?’

Saffy just wagged her tail lazily and stretched. James had gone shopping again because it turned out it was more than just the steak that needed replacing, so Connie was sitting on a bench in the garden basking in the lovely warm June sunshine and contemplating the mess she’d made of all this.

He’d refused her offer of company, saying the dog had spent long enough in the car, and to be honest she was glad he’d gone without her because it had all become really awkward and uncomfortable, and if it hadn’t mattered so much she would have packed up the dog and her luggage and left.

But then he’d said ‘yet’.

Don’t do anything yet.

She dropped her head back against the wall of the cabin behind her and closed her eyes and wondered what he’d really meant by ‘yet’.

She had no idea.

None that she dared to contemplate, anyway, in case a ray of hope sneaked back in and she had to face having it dashed all over again, but he’d had a strange look about him, and then he’d stalked off.

Run away?

‘No! Stop it! Stop thinking about it. He didn’t mean anything, it was just a turn of phrase.’

Maybe …

She opened her eyes and looked up at the house, trying to distract herself. It was set up slightly above the level of the garden, possibly because of the threat of flooding before the sea wall had been built, but the result was that even from the ground floor there were lovely views out to sea across the mouth of the estuary and across the marshes behind, and from the bedrooms the views would be even better.

She wondered where she’d be sleeping. He hadn’t shown her to her room yet, but it wasn’t a big house so she wouldn’t be far away from him, and she felt suddenly, ridiculously uneasy about being alone in the house with him for the night.

Crazy. There was nothing to feel uneasy about. He’d stayed with them loads of times, and he’d stayed the night after Joe’s funeral, too, refusing to leave her until he was sure she was all right.

And anyway, what was he going to do, jump her bones? Hardly, James just wasn’t like that. He’d never so much as looked at her sideways, never mind made her feel uncomfortable like some of Joe’s other friends had.

If he had, there was no way she would have broached the sperm donor subject. Way too intimate. It had been hard enough as it was, and maybe that was why she felt uneasy. The whole subject was necessarily very personal and intimate, and she’d gone wading in there without any warning and shocked his socks off.

It dawned on her belatedly that she hadn’t even asked if there was anyone else who might have been a consideration in this, but that was so stupid. He was a fit, healthy and presumably sexual active man who was entitled to have a relationship with anyone he chose. She’d just assumed he wasn’t in a relationship, assumed that just because he’d never mentioned anyone, there wasn’t anyone.

OK, so he probably wasn’t getting married to her, whoever she might be, but that didn’t stop him having a lover. Several, if he chose. Did he bring them back here?

She realised she was staring up at the house and wondering which was his bedroom, wondering where in the house he made love to the femme du jour, and it stopped her in her tracks.

What was she doing, even thinking about his private life? Why the hell was she here at all? How had she had the nerve to ask him to do this?

But he’d said ‘yet’ …

She sighed and stopped staring up at the house. Thinking about James and sex in the same breath was so not the way forward, not if she wanted to keep this clinical and uninvolved. And she did. She had to, because it was complicated enough. She looked around her instead, her eye drawn again to the cabin behind her. It was painted in a lovely muted grey-green, set up slightly on stilts so it was raised above the level of the garden like the house, with steps up to the doors.

She wondered what he used it for. It might be a store room, but it seemed far too good to use as a glory-hole. That would be such a waste.

Home gym? Possibly, although he didn’t have the sort of muscles that came from working out. He looked like more of a runner, or maybe a tennis player. Not that she’d studied his body, she thought, frowning at herself. Why would she? But she’d noticed, of course she had.

She dragged herself back to the subject. Hobbies room? She wasn’t aware that he had any. James had never mentioned it, and she realised that for all she’d known him for years, she hardly knew him. Not really. Not deep down. She’d met him nine years ago, worked with him for a year as his SHO, seen him umpteen times since then while she’d been with Joe, but he didn’t give a lot away, at least not to her. Never had.

Maybe that was how she’d felt able to come down here and ask him this? Although if she’d known more about how he ticked she could have engineered her argument to target his weak spot. Or had she inadvertently done that? His reaction had been instant and unmistakeable. He’d recoiled from the idea as if it was unthinkable, but then he’d begun to relent—hadn’t he?

She wasn’t sure. It would have helped if Joe had paved the way, but he hadn’t, and so she’d had to go in cold and blunder about in what was obviously a very sensitive area. Pushing his buttons, as he’d put it. And he’d said no, so she’d upset him for nothing.

Except he hadn’t given her a flat-out no in the end, had he? He’d said don’t do anything yet. Whatever yet meant.

She sighed. Back to that again.

He didn’t really need another trip to the supermarket. They could have managed. He’d just needed space to think, to work out what, if anything, he could do to stop Connie from making the biggest mistake of her life.

Or his.

He swore softly under his breath, swung the car into a parking space and did a quick raid of the bacon and sausage aisle to replace all the breakfast ingredients Saffy had pinched, then he drove back home, lecturing himself every inch of the way on how his responsibility to Connie did not mean he had to do this.

He just had to stop her doing something utterly crazy. The very thought of her with a total stranger made him gag, but he wasn’t much more thrilled by the idea of her conceiving a child from a nameless donor courtesy of a turkey baster.

Hell, it could be anybody! They could have some inherited disease, some genetic disorder that would be passed on to a child—a predisposition to cancer, heart disease, all manner of things. Rationally, of course, he knew that no reputable clinic would use unscreened donors, and the checks were rigorous. Very rigorous. He knew that, but even so …

What would Joe have thought about it? If he’d refused, what would Joe and Connie have done next? Asked another friend? Gone to a clinic?

It was irrelevant, he told himself again. That was then, this was now, this was Connie on her own, fulfilling a lost dream. God knows what her motives were, but he was pretty sure she hadn’t examined them in enough detail or thought through the ramifications. Somehow or other he had to talk her out of it, or at the very least try. He owed it to Joe. He’d promised to take care of her, and he would, because he kept his promises, and he’d keep this one if it killed him.

Assuming she’d let him, because her biological clock was obviously ticking so loud it was deafening her to reason. And as for his crazy reaction, that absurd urge to give her his baby—and without the benefit of any damn turkey baster—

Swearing viciously under his breath, he pulled up in a slew of gravel, and immediately he could hear Saffy yipping and scrabbling at the gate.

‘Do you reckon she can smell the shopping?’ Connie asked, smiling tentatively at him over the top, and he laughed briefly and turned his attention to the shopping bags, wondering yet again how on earth he was in this position. Why she hadn’t warned him over the phone, said something, anything, some little hint so he hadn’t been quite so unprepared when she’d just come out with it, though quite how she would have warned him—

‘Probably,’ he said drily. ‘I think I’d better put this lot away in the fridge pronto. I take it she can’t open the fridge?’

‘She hasn’t ever done it yet.’

‘Don’t start now,’ he said, giving the dog a level stare immediately cancelled out by a head-rub that had her shadowing him into the kitchen.

Connie followed him, too, hesitating on the threshold. ‘James, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in a difficult position.’

He paused, his hand on the fridge door, and looked at her over his shoulder. ‘You didn’t,’ he said honestly. ‘Joe did. It was his idea. You were just following up on it.’

‘I could have let it go.’

‘So why didn’t you?’

Her smile was wry and touched with sadness. ‘Because I couldn’t,’ she answered softly, ‘not while there was any hope,’ and he straightened up and shut the fridge and hugged her, because she just looked so damned unhappy and there was nothing he could do to make it better.

No amount of taking care of her was going to sort this out, short of doing what she’d asked, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to do that, despite that visceral urge which had caught him off guard. Or because of it? Just the thought of her pregnant with his child …

He let her go, easing her gently away with his hands on her shoulders and creating some much-needed distance between them, because his thoughts were suddenly wildly inappropriate, and the graphic images shocked him.

‘Why don’t you stick the kettle on and we’ll have a cup of tea, and then we can take Saffy for a walk and go to the pub for supper.’

‘Are we still going? I thought you’d just been shopping.’

He shrugged. ‘I didn’t bother to get anything for tonight. The pub seemed like a good idea—unless—is Saffy all right to leave here while we eat?’

She stared at him for a second, as if she was regrouping.

‘Yes, she’s fine. I’ve got a big wire travelling crate I use for her—it’s a sort of retreat. I leave the door open all day so she can go in there to sleep or get away from it all, and I put her in there at night.’

‘Because you don’t trust her?’

‘Not entirely,’ she said drily. ‘Still early days, and she did pinch the steak and the sausages.’

‘The crate it is, then.’ He smiled wryly, then glanced at his watch. ‘Why don’t we bring your luggage in and put it in your room while the kettle boils? I would have done it before but things ran away with us a little.’

Didn’t they just? she thought.

He carried the dog’s crate, she carried her overnight bag and the bag of stuff for Saffy—food, toys, blanket. Well, not a blanket, really, just an old jumper of Joe’s she’d been unable to part with, and then when Saffy had come home she’d found a justification for her sentimental idiocy.

‘Can we leave the crate down here?’ she asked. ‘She’ll be fine in the kitchen, she’s used to it.’

‘Sure. Come on up, I’ll give you a guided tour. It’ll take about ten seconds. The house isn’t exactly enormous.’

It wasn’t, but it was lovely. There were doors from the entrance hall into the ground floor living space, essentially one big L-shaped room, with a cloakroom off the hallway under the stairs, and the landing above led into three bedrooms, two doubles and a single, and a small but well-equipped and surprisingly luxurious bathroom.

He showed her into the large bedroom at the front, simply furnished with a double bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers. There was a pale blue and white rug on the bare boards between the bed and the window, and on the edge of it was a comfy armchair, just right for reading in. And the bed, made up in crisp white linen, sat squarely opposite the window—perfect for lying there drinking early morning tea and gazing out to sea.

She crossed to the window and looked left, over the river mouth, the current rippling the water. The window was open and she could hear the suck of the sea on the shingle, the keening of the gulls overhead, and if she breathed in she could smell the salt in the air.

‘Oh, James, it’s lovely,’ she sighed.

‘Everyone likes this room.’ He put her bag down and took a step towards the door. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in.’

‘No need. I travel light. It’ll take me three seconds to unpack.’

She followed him back out onto the landing and noticed another flight of stairs leading up.

‘So what’s up there?’ she asked.

‘My room.’

He didn’t volunteer anything else, didn’t offer to show it to her, and she didn’t ask. She didn’t want to enter his personal space. Not under the circumstances. Not after her earlier speculation about his love life. The last thing she needed was to see the bed he slept in. So she didn’t ask, just followed him downstairs, got her walking boots out of the car and put them on.

‘In your own time, Slater,’ she said lightly, and he gave her one of those wry smiles of his and got off the steps and led her and Saffy out of the gate.