Читать книгу Cathy Kelly 6-Book Collection: Someone Like You, What She Wants, Just Between Us, Best of Friends, Always and Forever, Past Secrets - Cathy Kelly - Страница 32

Emma sat at her desk and opened the second drawer. Like everything else in her pristine office it was scrupulously tidy, with a box of spare staples, another of spare paperclips and several pens and post-its neatly arranged on top of a couple of ring notebooks. Emma reached into the back of the drawer and took out a small toiletry bag. Her emergency kit, as she called it, contained tampons, a spare pair of knickers, a pair of barely black tights, an old foundation compact and some make-up in case she ever needed to go anywhere after work and forgot her make-up, and painkillers.

She needed them now. Her period had only just started but already she could feel the agonizing cramps she suffered from every three to four months. She’d barely popped the pills in her mouth when Colin Mulhall appeared at the door with an ‘I’m bored and want to chat’ expression on his face.

Emma took a swig of water and swallowed, mentally cursing the fact that Colin was the one to catch her self-medicating. By lunchtime, it’d be round the office that poor Emma had a headache/period ache/brain haemorrhage/ whatever. Colin liked to exaggerate. When the receptionist was off for three months with glandular fever, Colin had had her diagnosed as dying with cancer, until she came back and quickly scotched the rumours by appearing healthy. Whoever said that women were the worst gossips had obviously never met Colin, Emma thought grimly.

‘Not well?’ Colin enquired silkily, perching on Emma’s spare chair. He was wearing a red spotted bow-tie today. It looked ridiculous.

‘Headache,’ Emma said sharply.

‘I find meditation really helps,’ Colin said. A devotee of anything New Age, he never stopped telling everyone exactly how they could improve their life the way he had. All you needed was time and an open mind, he’d say piously, as though he was open-minded and the rest of the office were cretinous oiks.

‘I find paracetamol helps,’ snapped Emma. ‘Was there something you wanted, Colin?’

‘Yes. Finn isn’t in and Edward came to me about the plans for the conference.’

Emma bridled. Finn was the charity’s press officer. He and Emma often worked closely together planning the yearly conferences. If Finn wasn’t in, the last person Emma expected Edward to approach about it was the odious Colin, who couldn’t type four lines without making eight errors. Imagine asking him about the forthcoming conference on child safety. The words ‘piss-up’ and ‘brewery’ came to mind.

‘Did he?’ was all she said. Her head ached with the desire to tell Colin he was a jumped-up little idiot who wouldn’t do himself any favours trying to leapfrog over her to a senior managerial position in the company. But being a bit sharp with Colin was about as forceful as Emma had ever been, so she held her tongue.

‘He wanted to see what we’d been planning publicity-wise and I took the opportunity of putting my oar in with regards to how long the conference will last,’ Colin said smugly.

Irrationally, Emma found herself taking offence. Working out how long conferences lasted and organizing every detail was her job. Helping Finn as publicity officer was Colin’s job. Not that he did that very well, Emma thought crossly.

‘Isn’t that a bit beyond your remit?’ she said.

‘Well, you see,’ Colin’s beady little eyes looked earnest, ‘I’ve been talking to journalists and they say if we want to really get the message across that we’re a serious agency concerned with children, then we should be having week-long conferences, maybe outside of Dublin, you know. So people can go away for a week and concentrate on them.’ He was getting into his stride now. ‘It’d be a wonderful idea, maybe go to Limerick or Galway and take over a small hotel where we can have guest speakers…’

‘Go away for a week?’ Emma was incredulous. ‘How is KrisisKids supposed to finance that sort of conference? The costs would be ruinous. And I don’t know which journalists you’ve been talking to, but it’s difficult enough to get one full day out of most of them because they’ve so many other events to cover. Only a small percentage will make the second day of the conference this time – and you want them to go away for a week! You’ve no idea, Colin, really you don’t.’

Colin sniffed and got to his feet, tossing his head back in pique. ‘Edward thought it was a wonderful idea,’ he said. ‘He said he’d talk to you about it, but I thought I’d mention it first so you wouldn’t be surprised. I wish I hadn’t bothered. I remember when you were a nice person, Emma. I don’t know why you’ve changed, but you have – and not for the better, either! You’ve turned into a jealous bitch.’ With that, he swept out of Emma’s office.

Emma stared at the door open-mouthed. Had she been awful to Colin? Had she been professionally sharp or merely unprofessionally bitchy because she felt threatened? Was Colin right – had she changed so much? It was hard not to when life was so difficult, she reasoned. Everyone and their granny had what they wanted and she didn’t. One baby, just one small baby, that’s all. Was that so much to ask for? How could anyone expect her to be serene and happy when this crippling need for a child was taking over her whole damn life! Crack. Emma looked down and saw that she’d broken one of the pale green KrisisKids pencils. Snapped it right in two.

Horrified, she realized she’d just gone off on to another baby rant in her head. Thinking about her baby was taking over her entire life. Work, home, play, sex: you name it, longing for a baby drowned every other emotion and overwhelmed all other parts of her life. Now it was affecting her at work to the point where she had lost her temper with a junior member of staff who was doing nothing more than trying to come up with new ideas. Colin was a terrible gossip, for sure, but he wasn’t a bad person. Perhaps he did have a problem with Emma being his superior, but it was up to her to make sure that her subordinates worked with her and not against her. If Colin didn’t like having a woman boss, or if he was genuinely trying to make her look foolish, Emma should have dealt with it in a professional way and not by snapping his head off. It had to stop, she decided.

Edward was on the phone when she knocked on his door but he motioned her to come in anyway.

When he had finished the call, he smiled at her a tad nervously and said he was glad she’d come in because there was something he wanted to discuss.

‘Colin Mulhall came up with quite a good suggestion earlier and I wanted to talk it over with you,’ he said hesitantly. He was never usually hesitant. Edward was the most direct and uncompromising person she’d ever met. But she instinctively knew he was wary of telling her this because he was afraid she’d go ballistic. How awful that she’d changed so much and nobody had told her.

‘I know you see the conference as solely your baby,’ Edward said.

She winced at his choice of words.

‘And for that reason, I don’t want you to get upset at this, but we must consider all ideas, you understand?’

Emma put him out of his misery. ‘Edward, I know what you’re going to say because Colin told me a few minutes ago – and I’m ashamed to say I was angry with him. I blew his suggestion out of the water because I was jealous and felt threatened, and I’m on my way to apologize to him. I just wanted to drop in to ask if you think I haven’t been doing my job properly lately, or if I’ve been difficult to work with…’ It was a tough question to ask but Emma’s high standards demanded it.

Edward’s momentary hesitation told her everything.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said before he could speak. ‘There really is no excuse, Edward. I’m going to see Colin now, then I’m going home. When I come in tomorrow, I’ll be my old self again.’

‘Promise?’ Edward said.

She nodded.

Colin was sulking and immediately picked up his phone to make a call when Emma walked slowly to his desk. However, when Emma began to apologize profusely and explain that she was under a lot of strain about something entirely unrelated to work, he cheered up.

‘I thought you must be stressed out about something,’ he said. ‘I said to Finn only the other morning that you weren’t your lovely, smiling self and we couldn’t imagine what it was. We all know what it’s like to be under strain too, and if you ever feel like an old chat over a cappuccino, talk to me. You know I’d never breathe a word about anyone’s personal business.’

‘I know you wouldn’t, Colin,’ Emma agreed, thankful that she still had a sense of humour. ‘We’ll talk about your idea tomorrow, but I’m going to take a half-day today, so I’ll see you in the morning.’

At home, Emma threw her self-help books in the bin and then cleaned out her secret hoard from the bottom of her wardrobe. It broke her heart to throw out the pregnancy guide, the how-to-feed-your-baby guide and the lovely baby clothes she hadn’t been able to resist buying. The tiny yellow bootees were the worst: hand-made chenille from a craft shop, they were exquisitely made. So dainty and small. When she’d bought them, she’d wondered how any baby’s feet could ever be that tiny to fit inside the little shoes. It had been ages since she’d taken them out and touched them. She allowed herself one brief caress, then she bundled them into the bin liner with the other things. She threw the baby lotion she used as make-up remover into the kitchen bin and dragged her bag of goodies outside. Double-parking at the Oxfam shop, she left the bag just inside the door and then hurried off. She cried as she drove away. It was so final, so absolutely final. There was no hope for her and she was only tormenting herself by thinking that there was. Apparently, she was tormenting other people too. If she couldn’t have a baby, then she couldn’t and that was that. What was the point of destroying her life and Pete’s into the bargain because she couldn’t come to terms with it?

She went to the supermarket and bought her groceries, including stacks of cleaning equipment. It was odd, being in the supermarket in the early afternoon. Usually, she went at the weekend or late at night when the place was full of harassed career women and men flinging microwaveable meals into trolleys. Today, there was a different type of harassment in the air: that of exhausted mothers with young children, trying to drag youngsters in primary school uniforms away from the chocolate biscuits while simultaneously consoling the sobbing toddler jammed in the trolley seat.

Emma pushed her trolley to the check-out with the shortest queue. Ahead of her was a petite Chinese woman with a small baby in one of those chunky carry seats. Emma tried not to look at the baby as the woman threw groceries on to the conveyor belt. She couldn’t help it. Dark, slanting eyes stared solemnly at her from a tiny face topped with a bright pink hat.

The baby waggled her fingers at Emma imperiously, demanding attention. Tiny fingers ending with minuscule translucent nails. It never ceased to amaze Emma that a creature so small could be such a perfect version of an adult, with fingers, toes and a little button nose that was scrunched up now in dismay because nobody was paying her enough attention.

‘Isn’t she lovely,’ said an elderly voice behind her.

A fragile old lady with just a few things in her trolley was smiling at the baby, making coo-coo noises. ‘They’re lovely at that age,’ she said to Emma.

‘Yes,’ Emma replied faintly. Talk about attacks from every side.

‘Do you have any yourself?’ the old lady asked.

Emma wondered how rich she’d be if she had a pound for every time she’d been asked that particular question. She’d also wondered how astonished the questioner would be if she were to scream, ‘No, I’m infertile, you nosy, insensitive bastard!’ at them. But you couldn’t say that, especially not to a little old lady who was probably lonely and wanted company.

‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ she replied.

The old lady smiled. ‘There’s plenty of time, love, you’re only young.’

‘Why don’t you go ahead of me in the queue,’ Emma suggested to her. ‘You’ve only got a few things and I’ve loads.’

‘That’s kind of you, love,’ said the woman. ‘I can’t hold those baskets any more and I have to get a trolley no matter how few things I want.’

She moved ahead of Emma and began chatting to the baby’s mother. Emma picked up a magazine she hadn’t wanted from the rack beside the check-out and started reading. She didn’t really want to know how to transform her house with painting techniques as seen on TV, but anything was better than talking about babies nonchalantly, as though every fibre of her body didn’t long for one.

Once she’d unpacked the shopping at home Emma changed into old clothes and started on a frenzied clean up. She’d scrubbed their bathroom and the main bathroom, and was busily thrusting the Hoover nozzle into the corners of her wardrobe when she heard the phone ring. It was Hannah.

‘Hi,’ said Hannah guardedly. ‘Are you ill? I rang the office and they said you’d gone home early.’

‘No, I’m fine,’ Emma replied. ‘How are you? Are you still on for next week?’

They’d planned a trip to the theatre to see Les Liaisons Dangereuses.

‘Yes,’ Hannah said slowly. ‘It’s just that I wanted to tell you something beforehand. I didn’t want to land it on you next week.’

Emma was intrigued. ‘Felix is playing Valmont as a surprise?’ she said, amazed to find she could make a joke despite how depressed she felt. ‘You’ve won the Lotto?’

‘No.’ Hannah sounded so serious.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m pregnant. I wanted to tell you myself, I didn’t want Leonie to have to tell you. Because I know how hard it’ll be for you…’

Emma made a harsh sound that she managed to turn into a little hoarse laugh. ‘Why should I be upset, Hannah? I’m delighted for you. You must be so thrilled, and Felix, of course. When’s it due?’

The words stuck in her throat like lumps of stone but she had to say them, had to say the right things to dear Hannah who’d been such a friend to her.

‘The beginning of December. Actually, I’m scared stiff, Emma,’ she revealed, unable to help herself. ‘I know it sounds terrible, but I’d never thought that long about having a baby and, now that I am, it’s wonderful and all that but…I’m terrified. What if I’m not the maternal type? What if I’m hopeless at it? Everyone seems to think it comes naturally, but people are always telling you certain things come naturally and that’s rubbish.’

‘Stop panicking,’ Emma said reassuringly. ‘Hannah, you’re a competent, intelligent woman who can run an office, who has successfully changed careers and who’s well able to apply herself to anything. Are you trying to tell me that you’ll fall to pieces at the sight of a nappy, or collapse when you have to purée a carrot?’

Despite herself, Hannah laughed.

‘It’s common sense, Hannah,’ Emma continued. ‘It’s going to be your baby and of course you’re going to love it. You may not turn into Mrs Earth Mother in floral frocks who grows her own organic rhubarb, but you’ll be great. You’ll do it your way, right?’

‘I suppose,’ Hannah said. ‘It’s just that Felix seems to think that now I’m pregnant, this maternal glow surrounds me like some madonna in a medieval painting. I don’t even think he fancies me any more,’ she admitted.

‘That’s not unusual either. Some guys can only cope with one concept at a time. It’s that madonna/whore balance. You were the whore – not you personally, Hannah, but because you were his sexual partner. Now you’re the mother of his child, so you’re off-limits sexually.’

‘You’d make a great psychiatrist,’ Hannah remarked. ‘I just thought Felix was being his moody old self.’

‘Hey, you’re his fiancée. You should know. Perhaps I’ve been reading too many self-help books,’ Emma said drily, thinking of the pile of books she’d dumped a few hours previously.

‘You’re a great pal,’ Hannah said warmly. ‘I was dreading telling you about all this. Listen, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to show a house to two morons who haven’t a clue what they really want. I’ll see you and Leonie next week, OK?’

‘OK,’ Emma answered automatically and hung up.

She was glad she’d thrown away all the baby stuff. She didn’t want it in the house, mocking her by its very existence. But she still allowed herself to cry bitterly at the irony of it. Hannah, who didn’t want children, was unexpectedly pregnant. And she, who did…What was the point of going over it all again? At least she’d managed to lie convincingly to Hannah about her true feelings. She wouldn’t make much of a psychiatrist, but she was a good liar.

The notion of psychiatry hit her – why didn’t she see a counsellor? Everybody went to therapists these days. It might help her deal with how she was feeling, it might unlock the painful knot that threatened to take over her whole body. It might be a complete disaster, of course, but she’d give it a try.

Checking the phone book for registered counsellors, she came upon a list of names. Several lived nearby and she closed her eyes and picked one.

Elinor Dupre. It sounded exotic and French. Maybe she didn’t speak English and it’d be very easy, Emma thought, therapy where neither party understood the other. She dialled the number, expecting an answering machine or a secretary and a waiting list at the very least. To her surprise, a woman answered in crisp, received pronunciation tones:

‘Elinor Dupre speaking.’

‘I…er, hello, my name is Emma Sheridan and I got your name from the phone book,’ stammered Emma. ‘Do I need to get a referral from a doctor or anything…?’ she broke off.

‘No, you don’t. It would help if you told me why you wanted to see me, though. I may not be able to help.’

Her voice was soothing, calming. Emma had this ridiculous desire to spill out everything over the phone, but confined herself to saying: ‘I can’t have children and it’s taking over my life, that’s all.’

‘I think that’s a very big problem in anybody’s life,’ replied the calm voice as if she understood everything instantly. ‘I certainly wouldn’t dismiss it as “that’s all”,’ she added gently. ‘When would you like to see me?’

Emma didn’t know why but she began to cry into the phone. ‘So sorry,’ she blubbed. ‘This is stupid, I don’t know why I’m crying or why I’m calling you.’

‘Because it’s the right time to do so,’ said the woman firmly. ‘You have made a decision and when that happens, there is a certain release experienced. I have an unexpected cancellation tonight at six thirty. Would you like to come then?’

‘Yes, please,’ Emma said fervently. She didn’t know how she’d even wait until half six. Suddenly, talking about how she felt to someone who could understand was the most important thing in the world.

Elinor Dupre’s home was a tall Georgian house at the end of a small cul-de-sac. Her office was in the basement and Emma could see a light shining in one of the basement windows as she parked the car. Before she’d had the chance to knock on the door, it was opened.

‘Do come in,’ smiled Elinor Dupre, her natural warmth belying the formality of her words. A serene-faced woman in her late fifties, Elinor wore a striking, richly patterned kimono and her long dark hair was tied up in a simple knot. She wore no make-up and her only jewellery was a watch hanging from her slender neck on a long chain.

She led Emma downstairs to an airy room with a fireplace, bookcases and two armchairs in it. On a small table beside one of the armchairs was a box of tissues.

Elinor sat down in the other chair, putting a notebook and pen on her lap, leaving Emma to sit beside the tissues.

She arranged the cushion behind her so that it felt comfortable, then sat looking around anxiously, suddenly not wanting to meet Elinor’s gaze. Now that she was here, she didn’t know why any more. What was she going to say? Was this all a ridiculous waste of time and money? And why didn’t Elinor speak? She did this all the time; it was her job; she knew what came next. Emma hadn’t a clue.

As if intuitively knowing what was going on in Emma’s mind, Elinor finally spoke: ‘There are no rules to these sessions,’ she said. ‘It seems strange at first when you’re waiting for something to begin, but psychology is not like that. You’ve come here because you needed – ’

‘Your help,’ interrupted Emma.

‘Actually, you will be helping yourself, Emma,’ Elinor said gravely. ‘There are different types of psychoanalysis, but I practise cognitive therapy, whereby you will really be solving your own problems. I will be a guide, a helper, that’s all. Sometimes I will ask you questions to help me understand but, for the main, you are in the driving seat.’

Emma laughed hoarsely at that one. ‘I wish,’ she said bitterly.

Elinor said nothing but angled her head slightly, as if asking why.

‘I don’t know why I said that,’ Emma said quickly.

‘Because you feel it is true?’ Elinor asked.

‘Well, yes…sometimes…I don’t know.’ Emma stared around her blankly. She didn’t know what to say.

‘There are no right or wrong responses,’ Elinor said. ‘Say what you feel, how you feel, why you think you’re not in the driving seat.’

‘Because nobody ever listens to me!’ said Emma, astonishing herself with the ferocity of her answer. ‘Nobody. No, Pete does but he’s the only one. My mother, Kirsten, my father – never! He just walks on me and thinks I’m stupid. I hate that, I hate him!’

She stopped in shock. She’d said it and the sky hadn’t fallen down, nobody had looked horrified and said she should be ashamed of herself. In fact, Elinor was merely listening quietly, as if many other people had sat in her armchair and said terrible things about the people they were supposed to love most in the whole world.

‘I can’t believe I said that,’ gasped Emma.

‘But you’ve wanted to?’ Elinor asked in her low, soothing voice.

‘Yes. You’ve no idea what it’s like living with them. I love Kirsten, really I do, but she’s their pet and I’m not. I’m not even close. It’s not jealousy,’ she said helplessly, wanting to explain properly. ‘Kirsten is amazing, she’s so pretty and funny, I’m not jealous of that. But I don’t understand what I have to do to make them accept me for what I am. For him not to bully me or make little of me – does that make sense?’

Elinor simply nodded.

‘I’m thirty-two years old and they still treat me like a child – a stupid child at that. I can’t seem to break out of it. You know,’ said Emma, sitting back in her chair and looking up at the cornice behind Elinor’s chair, ‘I envy those people who emigrate, because they can leave all the hassle behind. Nobody treats them like a child, people respect their opinions. I thought of telling Pete – he’s my husband, by the way – that we should emigrate, I don’t know, to Australia or America. But it wouldn’t be fair. I mean, he loves his family. I love mine too,’ she added hastily, ‘it’s just…’

‘You don’t have to qualify statements here,’ Elinor smiled. ‘This room and this hour in your week is for saying what you really think.’

‘I never do that,’ Emma said. ‘Except at work, and I’m a different person there. But I can’t imagine ever saying what I really think to my parents, never. I feel so stupid and sad.’

She began to cry and, for once, wasn’t embarrassed at crying in front of another person who she hardly knew. It was obvious what the tissues beside her chair were there for.

By the end of the hour, Emma was shattered. She sat quietly for a moment while Elinor looked in her diary to make a firm appointment for the following week.

‘This was a cancellation,’ she explained. ‘You’ll have to come at a different time next week. Would half-past five on Monday suit you?’

Just over an hour after she’d arrived, Emma found herself outside the front door, feeling a little shell-shocked by the whole experience. She’d spent an hour with a stranger and yet still knew nothing about Elinor. Meanwhile, seamlessly and expertly, Elinor had elicited information about Emma’s life. There had never been a sense of being questioned, just of telling someone who needed to know. Occasionally, Elinor wrote something down in her notebook, but she did it so unobtrusively that Emma barely noticed.

And she hadn’t talked about wanting a baby at all, which was weird. That was the most important thing in her mind and it hadn’t come up.

She drove home feeling more drained than she ever had in her entire life. Watching the soaps on telly would be beyond her, she felt so weak. And sad. Which was also weird. She’d thought that therapy was supposed to free you from past demons and make you into this wonderfully strong person. All she felt was miserable and exhausted. It could only get better.

It got worse. The following week, Emma was a bit more prepared for the emotional upheavals of talking to Elinor and determined not to cry. How pathetic to sob like a child. It was wasting valuable time when she could have been working on making herself stronger and more positive.

‘It’s about power, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I have power but I don’t use it, or I let them take it away from me.’

Elinor angled her head. She did that a lot, Emma thought with a grin. It meant ‘elaborate on that statement’, without actually saying anything.

‘I could say to my father to piss off but I don’t because, as soon as I see him, he makes me feel about four again.’

‘Would it make you feel better to say “piss off” to him?’ Elinor asked.

Emma rotated her right ankle as she thought about this. ‘Maybe not. He’d go ballistic but would it be worth it…? My friend Hannah’s father is an alcoholic and she’s told him to piss off on numerous occasions, but I think they have a very different relationship from my father and I.’

‘Hannah is one of your friends from the holiday?’ Elinor asked, pen poised to write down some factual information.

‘Yes,’ Emma said. ‘She’s pregnant.’

With that, the tears started rolling down her face. She wasn’t sobbing or weeping hysterically, just crying in silence as if the word ‘pregnant’ had been a signal to open a dam. ‘I don’t know why I’m crying,’ she said stupidly. But she did know, of course she did.

‘You must go through a lot of tissues,’ she whispered, grabbing a handful.

Elinor let her cry. Eventually, she asked: ‘Have you cried about this in front of anyone else?’

‘Hannah and Leonie when we met on holiday. I was sure I was pregnant…Everybody asks do I have children,’ she said hoarsely. ‘In the supermarket last week, a woman asked me. On Sunday at my mother’s house, a relative arrived and she asked me when would I think about having children. I’m sick of it. I want to tell them all to fuck off.’

‘I think you need to work on saying what you want,’ Elinor said slowly. ‘You have to feel confident enough to say “this is what I want” and to know that if your needs upset other people or surprise them, that’s not your problem. How you feel is your problem. And how they react to that is their problem. You cannot be responsible for other people’s feelings.’

Emma sat in wonder. She never said what she felt. Then she realized that she had to say this out loud.

‘I never say what I feel or need, or only rarely and to certain people. I don’t know why.’

‘You’re trying to be approved of,’ Elinor said. ‘Even when it’s about something desperately painful to you, you say nothing. You wait and gauge what other people want, then you adjust your needs to that. So you know that when you speak, you’ll be saying what they want to hear. But why should you do that? What does that gain for you, other than making you sublimate your needs and desires for others? Think about it this way: do you know anyone who simply says what they think, no matter what? Someone who wouldn’t dream of saying they wanted a glass of white wine, purely because the white was opened, when they really wanted red?’

‘Kirsten. That’s Kirsten to a tee.’

‘Do people approve of her?’

‘Yes, people adore her. She’s mercurial but she says what she wants.’

‘Which means that you can do that and be loved and approved of. So why can’t you do it? Do you think you’re somehow less loveable than Kirsten? That she can get away with it but you can’t?’

‘Actually, yes. I do think that,’ Emma admitted. ‘That’s wrong, isn’t it?’

‘Right and wrong don’t come into it,’ Elinor explained. ‘But it’s not good for you. Being like that is having a negative effect. Tell me one thing: what did the doctors say about your infertility?’

Emma sat very still. ‘I haven’t seen any doctors,’ she confessed.

‘No?’ said Elinor in that pleasant, almost uninterested tone.

‘Well, it’s just that I haven’t ever wanted to talk to anyone about it…’ Emma tried to explain.

Elinor was still looking at her with a hint of expectation on her face.

‘Nobody has ever said I was infertile,’ Emma said finally. ‘I know I am, it’s simple. Some women can tell the moment they get pregnant; I know that I can’t ever be. I can’t explain it.’

‘Is that the reason you’ve never seen a doctor about it,’ Elinor asked, ‘because you know without any tests?’

‘It’s obvious I can’t have children,’ Emma said stubbornly.

‘Why?’

‘Because I can’t, because it’s been years and it hasn’t happened, that’s why,’ Emma replied in exasperation. ‘Didn’t you ever know something, Elinor? Know it without having to be told.’

‘Sometimes,’ Elinor said noncommittally. ‘Do you often know things without being told?’

‘Not really,’ said Emma tetchily. She felt irritated by this line of questioning. It was as if Elinor doubted what she was saying. She’d kill to be able to have a baby. She just knew she couldn’t.

Elinor’s clock struck the half-hour. Their time was up. She was glad to leave today.

Emma mulled it all over in her mind as she drove home. The one thing which struck her as odd about the whole experience was the fact that Elinor didn’t treat the whole baby thing as the main reason why Emma was seeing her. She hadn’t said, ‘Eureka, now we’re talking about the real subject!’

She obviously felt that there was much more to it than that. Emma sighed. Anybody who thought talking about your innermost fears was enjoyable must be off their trolley.

She told Pete about her therapy sessions the following Sunday morning when they were in the car on the way to her parents for lunch.

‘I don’t want you to think I’m cracking up or anything,’ Emma said, staring straight ahead at the red traffic lights.

Pete’s hand found its way from the gearshift on to Emma’s lap and round her tightly clenched hand. She clung to his fingers.

‘I don’t think you’re cracking up, Emma,’ he said gently. ‘I know you’re under a lot of strain with your mother and…everything.’

Even now, it was unspoken between them, her hunger for their child. She didn’t know which of them was worse: her for becoming obsessed with it, or Pete for being so scared of upsetting her that he never mentioned children at all.

‘I just want you to be happy, love, and if talking to someone helps, then that’s great. I’d just hate to think you couldn’t talk to me. You’re the most important person in the world to me and I love you.’

He had to take his hand away to shift into second gear. Emma nodded, too emotional to say anything for a moment.

‘I can talk to you, Pete,’ she managed finally. ‘It’s just that there are some things I’ve got to sort out in my head and it’s easier to talk to someone who doesn’t know me or isn’t involved in any way. I don’t want you to be angry with me for doing it in the first place. It’s not about you and me, Pete. I love you to bits, you know that.’

He put his hand back on hers. ‘I know, you big dope. If I thought for a minute we were having problems, I’d be the one dragging you off to marriage guidance counselling. I’m not going to lose you, Em. I know you’re finding it hard to cope with your mum and dad, and,’ he paused, ‘the whole baby thing.’

‘How did you know?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘I’d want to be blind not to notice you’re dying to get pregnant, Emma. I know you love children, it just takes time, that’s all.’

She nodded, not sure if she was relieved or not. Pete knew she wanted a baby but hadn’t a clue of the desperate, agonized longing she had for one. Or of her conviction that she couldn’t have one because it was all her fault, that the worst-case scenario was just waiting to happen. She wasn’t simply slow getting pregnant: she was infertile, barren, hopeless and useless as a woman. She knew one thing: she didn’t want to talk to him about this deep-seated fear, not yet.

‘Pete,’ she interrupted, ‘we have to talk about it, but I don’t think I can do it yet, please? Soon, hopefully, but not now.’

‘If that’s what you want, OK. But we’ve got to talk about it soon, Em. We’re young, we’ve got loads of time. I promise.’

Emma couldn’t speak. She sat with her lips pressed tightly together, almost not believing they were having this conversation. Pete thought he knew how she felt, but he didn’t. He was trying his best, but nobody could understand this except another woman. That was the tragedy. It would pull them apart if she let it.

She reached over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, Pete.’

Her mother was polishing the brass knocker on the front door when they arrived. ‘Hello, dears,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’m polishing.’ She went back to her task, ignoring them.

Pete and Emma exchanged glances.

Inside, Emma was surprised to see Kirsten there, although not surprised to see her sprawled on the couch reading the beauty supplement to one of the Sunday papers. Her sister was not the sort of person to help out with cooking lunch if she could possibly get away with it. The roast could ignite in the oven before Kirsten would stir from her prone position.

‘Oh, hi, guys,’ she said, looking up briefly.

‘Have you seen what Mum is doing?’ Emma asked.

‘Polishing something, isn’t she?’ Kirsten said, focused on her magazine again.

‘Polishing the front-door knocker, Kirsten, which is strange behaviour for her on a Sunday morning. Mum never does housework on Sundays, apart from cooking. Don’t you think she’s behaving oddly?’

Kirsten sighed heavily and laid down her magazine, as if to say it was obvious she wasn’t going to be left in peace to read it. ‘Not really, Emma. She’s ridiculously houseproud, you know that. I wouldn’t be surprised to see her doing any housework.’

Emma began to lose her temper. ‘Kirsten, do you ever notice anything except what’s going on in your own private little world?’

Her sister sniffed. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, Emma. I’m the one in the middle of a nightmare.’

‘What do you mean?’ Emma perched on the edge of the couch.

‘Patrick and I are fighting. He’s such a bastard. You don’t know how lucky you are, Emma.’ Kirsten looked meaningfully at Pete, who had taken up one of the papers and was pretending to be immersed in the sports section so he wouldn’t get roped into any argument.

‘What happened?’ Emma said flatly. She wasn’t interested in Kirsten’s histrionics today. As a result of the usual skyscraping Visa bill, Patrick had probably made a mild comment about her shopping addiction and how she’d have to cut back. He never lost his temper, amazingly for someone who lived with Kirsten. ‘I suppose you’ve been shopping like there’s no tomorrow as usual? You should have shares in Gucci by now.’

‘You can mock, but it’s serious this time,’ Kirsten retorted. ‘Very serious.’

Emma couldn’t believe this. ‘Describe “serious” to me,’ she said acidly.

‘He’s talking about going to stay in his brother’s house for a few weeks.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Emma was shocked out of her coolness.

‘You can say that again,’ Kirsten said moodily, getting up and leaving the room.

Emma followed her. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked, seeing no sign of him anywhere.

‘Some emergency at Aunt Petra’s, apparently. She’s probably just found the remains of the gas man she locked in the garage when he went to read the meter ten years ago. I hope Dad hurries back soon, I’m ravenous.’

She gazed into the oven with the helpless expression of a time-travelling Victorian faced with the space-shuttle controls.

‘You are so useless around the house, Kirsten.’ Emma checked out the roast and, seeing as it was nearly done, turned the temperature down and started preparing the vegetables.

‘I better learn, then. Patrick says he has no intention of keeping me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed and that I can get a job. Sorry, the exact words were “bloody job”.’

‘What did you do, Kirsten?’

Kirsten blinked a couple of times. ‘Slept with someone else.’

‘Oh. Do you love him?’ Emma asked tentatively.

‘No. I was pissed, it was a mistake really. Well, not totally because he was very good,’ she added reflectively.

‘You stupid cow!’ Emma was furious with her sister. Talk about reckless behaviour. Imagine doing that to poor, trusting Patrick.

‘What people don’t know about doesn’t hurt them,’ Kirsten retorted, ‘and what do you know about it anyway?’ she added sarcastically. ‘Miss Bloody Perfect! Just because you’ve never had the urge to have a fling doesn’t mean the rest of the world feels the same.’

‘I’m not Miss Perfect,’ shouted Emma. ‘I’m upset because I care about Patrick and because you don’t give a shit about this guy. If you loved him, then I’d stand by you every step of the way, but you don’t. He was nothing more than a quick drunken shag. You just don’t give a shit about other people, do you, Kirsten?’

It was all coming out now. Emma couldn’t stop herself. Her mouth was running away with her, saying all the bitter, resentful things she’d been thinking ever since Kirsten had blankly refused to even discuss their mother’s condition. Together, they could face whatever was wrong with Anne-Marie and tell their father what they feared. But without Kirsten’s help, Emma was afraid to take that first step. ‘Self-absorbed doesn’t come close with you – you’re self-obsessed!’ she hissed.

They glared at each other across the kitchen, Kirsten’s eyes blazing.

‘You think you’re the sensible, dutiful one, don’t you?’ spat Kirsten. ‘For sensible, read “walked on”!’

‘I don’t want to break up the heavyweight boxing final of the year, but I think one of you should come and get your mother inside,’ said Pete, peering round the kitchen door as if expecting to get hit with a flying saucepan.

‘What’s she doing?’ Emma asked, row forgotten.

Pete grimaced. ‘Listen,’ was all he said.

The sisters could hear their mother shouting, roaring really: ‘Get away from here, you bastards! Get away!’

‘Jesus,’ said Kirsten, shocked.

‘I tried to make her come in but she won’t,’ Pete said.

They rushed to the front garden where Anne-Marie was standing at the gate, waving her fists belligerently at bemused passers-by. ‘Get out of here!’

‘Oh, Christ, I can’t look!’ said Kirsten and rushed back into the house. Pete touched his wife’s hand briefly and then they both approached Anne-Marie.

‘Come on in, Mum,’ Emma said in her softest voice. ‘Let’s have a nice cup of tea, shall we?’

Hannah had spent the past month practising what she’d say to David James.

I’m leaving because I’m pregnant, so thanks but no thanks to your fantastic job offer in Wicklow. And thanks for all your faith in me, promoting me from office manager and giving me a real career.

No matter how she said it, it still sounded terrible. Halfhearted and ungrateful.

She was getting used to the idea of being pregnant, and was secretly thrilled at the idea. She’d been reading pregnancy books and was policing her daily intake of calcium and all the right foods. Although he too was delighted at the idea, Felix still kept trying to give her glasses of wine in nightclubs and couldn’t understand why she didn’t want him smoking near her. Telling people was the difficult part. The rigorous self-control bit of Hannah hated having to tell anyone she was unexpectedly pregnant. An unplanned pregnancy smacked of some flibbertigibbet who let things happen to her rather than made them happen.

Her mother had been delighted at the news and they still had to brave a visit to Connemara where her father would be let loose on poor Felix.

‘Your father will be delighted,’ Anna Campbell had insisted on the phone. ‘He loves children.’

Felix wanted to get married before they went visiting the various in-laws, and Hannah, who had visions of her father yelling blue murder about being denied a big bash for his only daughter, was inclined to agree with him. Anna Campbell wouldn’t mind being presented with a fait accompli as far as the wedding was concerned. Stoic was her middle name. Hannah would have quite liked to have met Felix’s family first, but he was strangely reticent about them and Hannah, who understood that, didn’t push him.

But before weddings and family reunions, Hannah simply had to tell her boss. For some reason, she hated doing it.

She’d picked a Friday evening so she could skive off afterwards without having to face David’s disappointment for the rest of the day.

‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’ she asked him at five thirty that evening.

‘Sure. Come into my office in five minutes,’ he said.

He was still on the phone when Hannah went in and stood, feeling like a schoolgirl about to be bawled out for faking period pains for the second time in a month in order to miss games.

David smiled at her as he listened to the person on the phone and gestured to her to sit down. Oh hell, she thought miserably, sitting. She felt terrible. He must guess what she was going to say. Surely guilt shone out of her like a beacon. But what did she have to feel guilty for? She was pregnant and engaged to be married. What was wrong with that. Absolutely nothing!

David put the phone down and sat back in his chair with a sigh.

Temporarily buoyed up, Hannah launched into her spiel at breakneck speed: ‘David, I’m pregnant. Felix and I are getting married and we’re going to live in London.’ There. Done it.

‘Oh,’ was all he said. Hannah had expected more. She wasn’t sure what, but more…

‘So I won’t be able to take the job in Wicklow, even though you were so good to offer it to me,’ she rushed on, frantic now to fill in the gaps in the conversation and get out of there.

David steepled his fingers and looked at them thoughtfully as if trying to figure out some arcane puzzle that lay hidden therein. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, without looking at her. ‘We will miss you round here and I had great plans for your future. You’re a natural at this game.’

‘Sorry,’ she said lamely, looking down at her own hands now. She was sorry she hadn’t worn her engagement ring to give her confidence, but she deliberately hadn’t been wearing it into work until she’d officially announced it.

‘Felix is a lucky man,’ he added lightly. ‘Do I get asked to the wedding because I inadvertently introduced you?’

Hannah instinctively felt that the last thing David wanted was to be at her wedding to see her marry Felix.

‘We’re probably going to get married abroad,’ she said, avoiding eye contact. ‘I’ll work out my month’s notice here, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘Hannah…’

The way he said her name, softly, caressing, made her look up at him. He normally sat up so straight in his chair, ramrod straight in an almost military way. Now he was leaning against the desk with his arms resting tiredly on it and the lines on his face made him look suddenly old. He needed a holiday, Hannah thought fiercely. He worked so hard and never took time off. A few weeks away, letting the sun tan the strong, hard planes of his face and lifting the lines that seemed ingrained around his dark eyes: that’s what he needed. But she wouldn’t be around to suggest it in a half-bossy, half-motherly fashion, the way she might have before.

‘Don’t lose touch, will you?’ he asked, his eyes boring into hers. He looked sad somehow, terribly desolate.

‘I won’t.’

She got up to go and he did too, walking towards her to open the door.

Impulsively, Hannah threw her arms round him. It was the closest she’d ever come to him before, apart from that strange pub lunch when he’d held her hand. As her arms went around his shoulders, his closed round her waist, pulling her closely to him.

Suddenly, he lowered his head to hers and kissed her gently on the lips, his five o’clock shadow grazing her chin. It was a kiss redolent of regret. Not hard and sensual, the way she’d imagined he’d kiss, yet intensely moving all the same. For some strange reason, Hannah wanted it to go on: she wanted to feel his huge hands circling her waist as if she were a slender little thing; she wanted to feel his body crushed against hers and to run her fingers through the salt-and-pepper hair. She wanted to bring him home and tell him he needed a day off, a week off, and…

He pulled away slowly. ‘I meant that,’ he said. ‘Don’t lose touch. I’m your friend, Hannah, and I’m here if you need me. There’ll always be a job for you here.’

Nodding, Hannah hurried out the door, scared that if she didn’t get away, she’d say something she’d regret.

‘What did he mean there’ll be a job for you?’ said Gillian, who’d been standing conveniently beside the photocopier which stood outside David’s office. For a second, Hannah was horror struck at the notion that Gillian might have witnessed the kiss, but then she realized that David’s blinds were down.

‘I’m leaving, Gillian,’ Hannah said far more pleasantly than she felt. She may as well tell them all now.

‘Leaving?’ asked Donna, who was tidying up her desk.

Hannah nodded. ‘Felix and I are getting married. We were going to anyway,’ she said with a sidelong glance at Gillian, ‘but I got pregnant, so we’ve pushed the date forward.’

Gillian was magnanimous in victory. Her most hated enemy was leaving and she could afford to be nice.

‘I’m soo delighted for you, Hannah,’ she said, eyes roving over Hannah’s belly speculatively to figure out how pregnant she was. ‘When’s the happy date? The wedding, I mean?’ she said with a little tinkling laugh.

‘The baby’s due in December and we haven’t organized the wedding yet.’

Thankfully, Gillian’s phone rang so Hannah was spared more questions.

Donna gave her a congratulatory hug. She was happy for Hannah, but her reservations showed in her eyes.

‘You don’t think I’m doing the right thing, do you?’ Hannah asked quietly.

The other woman shrugged. ‘You’re pregnant, in love and about to get married. What could be wrong with that?’ she said wryly.

‘If it’s not too personal a question,’ Hannah said tentatively, ‘why didn’t you stay with Tania’s father? Don’t feel you have to answer.’

‘I did for a while,’ said Donna, speaking quietly so Gillian wouldn’t hear. ‘I thought you had to make a go of it with the father of your child, but he wasn’t worth it. She was, but he wasn’t. I’d made a mistake so I got out of it. Tania and I are better off without him.’

‘Is that what you think about me and Felix?’ Hannah asked fearfully.

Donna shook her head. ‘It’s not my place to say what I think is right or not, Hannah. You’re a grown woman. I respect you and I respect your judgement. You have to do what you think is right. Tell me, are you allowed even half a glass of wine? With enough mineral water added, we could make you a spritzer to last all evening.’

But their plans for a quiet drink went awry as soon as Hannah went out to her car. She was going to meet Donna in McCormack’s and had just phoned Felix on her mobile, leaving a message on his, to say she’d be a bit late. She’d only just unlocked the door when someone said, ‘Hello, Hannah.’

Whirling around, she saw the last person she’d expected: Harry. ‘How dare you creep up on me like that!’ she said, her heart rate belting along with the shock.

‘I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he said apologetically. ‘I wanted to talk to you and I was afraid if I went into the office, your fiancé,’ he said the word with heavy irony, ‘would be coming to pick you up and would thump me.’

‘Brave as ever, eh?’ Hannah said sharply. ‘So you decided to scare me instead?’

She briefly wondered what Felix could have said to make him so frightened. Probably stole the lines from some gangster movie and told Harry he’d be wearing concrete shoes and swimming with the fishes if he didn’t leave her alone.

‘Don’t be like that, Hannah. I wanted to talk to you, that’s all,’ Harry said, going into his sweet little boy mode. He brushed back a lock of long hair and smiled engagingly.

It didn’t work. The bits of Hannah that would have once trilled with excitement at the sight of Harry, trilled no longer.

‘Why?’ she said wearily. ‘I’m meeting someone and I’m too tired to stand up here arguing with you, Harry. I thought I told you I didn’t want to see you again.’

‘You look tired,’ he remarked.

Hannah glared at him. ‘Ever the charmer. Have you thought of giving lessons?’ she asked sarcastically.

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

Hannah wanted this conversation to end. She didn’t want to be standing by the side of the road talking to a man who’d put her through so much pain. Harry was the past. She had a future and it involved Felix and a baby – she pushed David James and his distracting kiss out of her mind.

‘I am tired, as it happens. It’s called pregnancy,’ she said coldly. Let him put that in his pipe and smoke it.

Harry’s mouth dropped open so wide that she could see his fillings. He had loads of them, she noticed. He’d always had terrible teeth. Hannah couldn’t help smiling to herself. This was the man who’d driven her to distraction when he left her and now she was looking coolly at him, utterly unmoved by his presence and noticing the state of his dental work. Time, and the love of a sexy man, were great healers.

‘Pregnant?’ he repeated.

‘Not the sort of thing you’d be keen on, Harry,’ Hannah said bitchily. ‘Pregnancy is the ultimate in – what was it you said? “Stagnation”, that was it. Aren’t you lucky you escaped without me ever getting pregnant. Then you’d really have been trapped with me.’

Harry stopped trying to look boyishly lovable. ‘You must really hate me, Hannah,’ he said dully.

She leaned against the car, no longer bothered that it was dusty and would mark her suit.

‘I don’t hate you, Harry,’ she told him. ‘I gave up hating you a long time ago. It was too exhausting. I’ve moved on with my life and I wish you’d do the same. What’s the point of coming to see me all the time? I’m with Felix and that’s not going to change. I’d love to be one of those people who stayed best pals with their exes, but I’m not. I’m too black and white for that and, anyhow, the way you left more or less ruined that little idea. I have my pride, you know.’

Harry grinned sheepishly. ‘Yeah, going out to dinner with the guy who ran off on you doesn’t fit in with the “let’s all be pals” scenario,’ he said. ‘We were good together, though, weren’t we?’ he added wistfully.

‘Great,’ Hannah said, thinking of what a bone-idle, daydreaming creature Harry had been when they were living together. He’d done her a favour by dumping her. Otherwise, they’d still be together: him making grandiose plans about the big novel he was going to write and her, adoring as ever, washing and ironing his clothes and playing second fiddle to his ego.

‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Take care, Harry. I mean it,’ she added. She kissed him lightly on the cheek, then got into her car and manoeuvred out of the parking space. In her rear-view mirror, she could see him loping off down the street. She’d told him the truth: she didn’t hate him any more. Harry was out of her life, like David James, she reminded herself firmly. It had been a day for ending things. Closure all round.

The Egypt reunion was due to take place in a Japanese restaurant because none of them had been there before and it had been getting rave reviews in the papers. But Hannah had phoned on Tuesday, the day before, to explain that she dare not eat anywhere raw fish was part of the menu because it might be dangerous to the baby.

‘Dangerous to the baby,’ Emma repeated bitterly as she marched from the bus stop to the Italian bistro where they were now going. It hadn’t taken Hannah long to change from irate career girl into earth mother extraordinaire, had it? One minute, she was afraid a child would cramp her style – now, she was talking about her baby as if nobody on earth had ever been pregnant before. Emma walked faster, panting at the speed she was going at.

There was no need to walk so quickly, but the bitterness that was fuelling her forced her to march at a fierce pace. Emma had promised her father she’d spend the next two nights looking after Anne-Marie, who now got incredibly upset if she was left on her own or with the neighbours. Emma wasn’t looking forward to it. She felt guilty when she thought about how much she’d prefer an evening with Pete to an evening following her mother around the house, closing cupboards and tidying up the things Anne-Marie wrecked. Tonight, stressed out because an all-day Krisis-Kids conference was being held in Burlington on Friday, she could have done with a quiet night at home rather than an evening of forced jollity. Now she’d have to sit and make congratulatory noises all night after a day of endless phone calls and problems. She had cried off from their last reunion, a trip to the theatre to see Les Liaisons Dang-ereuses, so she had to be there tonight. Leonie would have been so upset if she didn’t come.

She was the first one at the restaurant and sat down in a banquette. La Traviata playing on the sound system, the waft of garlic from the kitchens, red-check tablecloths and candle-grease-splattered wine bottles as candleholders all contributed to the effect of a wonderfully Continental restaurant. Emma ordered a glass of house wine, hoping that it might have a sedative effect on her. Calming down was what she needed.

Half-way down the glass, she was breathing normally and beginning to relax. Leonie and Hannah arrived together, wreathed in smiles as they gave their coats to the waiter. It was nearly six weeks since Emma had seen Hannah and she was astonished to see that Hannah’s belly was gently swelling. She must have been well over two months pregnant and Emma hadn’t expected there to be any obvious signs at all. But, incredibly, in a soft olive-green tunic top and matching clinging skirt, her pregnancy was just visible. Wicked darts of jealousy pierced Emma’s heart as she watched the waiter smile charmingly at Hannah and offer congratulations on her pregnancy in true Italian style. She couldn’t imagine a waiter of any other nationality doing such a thing, or even graciously leading them over to their table as if Hannah was about to give birth en route, extravagantly pulling out the table so that Hannah could slide into the banquette seat with Emma.

‘Emma! Hello, love,’ said Hannah, kissing her.

‘Hi, pet,’ said Leonie warmly, leaning over the candle to kiss Emma and nearly setting fire to her cardigan in the process. ‘Sorry we’re a bit late.’

‘My fault,’ Hannah said apologetically. ‘I’ve finally had to realize that you cannot get by with ordinary clothes when you’re growing as fast as I am.’ She smiled serenely. ‘I was wearing a pair of jeans with a jumper over them, but I couldn’t do the top button, so I had to keep poor Leonie waiting while I found this outfit.’

Under the table, Emma balled her left hand into a tight fist, nails digging into her palm. Anything to stop herself saying something vicious and bitter in response.

Hannah was glowing. Her face, always luminous, glowed with some hidden joy. Her dark hair was luxuriant and she looked, in short, like a woman deeply in love. Emma was horrified to discover how much she resented her friend for all this. It should have been her glowing in the early stages of pregnancy, not Hannah.

Finally getting a grip on her feelings, Emma attempted small talk. ‘You do seem to have expanded since the last time I saw you,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light and pleasant. ‘I didn’t think you’d look this pregnant yet.’

Hannah groaned. ‘Neither did I,’ she revealed. ‘Felix says it’s like sharing the bed with a baby elephant.’

Through two courses, and a lot of debate on what Hannah could and couldn’t eat on the menu, they discussed her pregnancy in fine detail. As Emma prodded her tagliatelle listlessly, she discovered that Hannah didn’t have morning sickness and, apart from two weeks when she was unaccountably tired and could barely get out of bed in the morning, she felt fantastic. Her nails were growing at a terrific rate, she was determined not to get stretch marks so was obsessively rubbing Body Shop stretch-mark lotion into herself twice a day, and Felix was being very funny coming up with the most bizarre baby names.

‘Honestly,’ giggled Hannah, ‘imagine calling a child Petal! My poor mother would disown me if I landed any grandchild of hers with a name like that. But Felix loves it. He’s mad.’

Emma thought her head would explode if she heard one more word. She felt as if she knew Hannah’s doctor intimately and, thanks to a lengthy discussion on expanding clothes sizes, could picture exactly what Hannah would look like naked: that elegantly curvy body now swollen in the most feminine way, breasts full and heavy, a precious swelling in her belly where the baby nestled.

Hannah, joy making her insensitive, continued rhapsodizing over being pregnant.

‘I never thought I’d feel this way about the baby,’ she said earnestly. ‘It’s like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. Half the time I’m paranoid in case I’m doing something that’ll be bad for the baby, the other half, I’m reeling around happily.’

Leonie smiled at her friend and then noticed Emma’s stricken face. She was white, her eyes like two hollows in a skull. Poor, poor Emma. Hannah had forgotten how awful it was for her, Leonie realized with a pang. So had she, really. They’d both been so tied up talking delightedly about the happy event that they hadn’t remembered how devastating it must be for their friend. She felt terribly ashamed.

‘Girls, I almost forgot!’ she said brightly. ‘Hugh brought me to his house the other night and cooked me the most amazing dinner. Crab cakes to start, minute steak and stuffed aubergines and then,’ she paused for effect, ‘this sinful chocolate cake he’d bought. Eating it was like having a multiple orgasm.’

This revelation had the desired result. The other two laughed.

‘Trust you to think chocolate was orgasmic,’ chuckled Emma, thrilled at the change of subject.

‘It’s the only thing that is orgasmic,’ Leonie protested. ‘I’ve forgotten what sex is. My idea of sexual delight is a half-bottle of wine and a decent novel.’

‘You mean you haven’t gone to bed with him yet?’ Hannah was astonished. ‘You’ve been going out for ages.’

‘When you’re my age, you don’t rush into bed with people,’ Leonie said equably. ‘You have to wait three months for the anti-cellulite cream and the Weight Watchers dinners to work.’

‘I don’t know why you’re so keen on having people jumping into bed at the first minute, anyway, Hannah,’ Emma said hotly. ‘Not everyone is like you. There’s more to life than sex.’

‘I know there is,’ Hannah said in surprise. ‘I was joking, that’s all…’

‘Not all your jokes are funny,’ snapped Emma and, getting to her feet, she rushed off in the direction of the loos.

Hannah blinked back tears. She was so emotional these days. ‘What did I say?’ she asked plaintively.

Sighing, Leonie patted her hand. ‘It’s nothing you’ve said, Hannah. You know I’m utterly thrilled that you’re pregnant, but you’ve got to understand, it’s tough on Emma. She loves you but it’s got to hurt her to see you so blissfully happy about the baby when she’d do anything to be in your place.’

‘That’s not my fault,’ Hannah said stubbornly. ‘She could go and do something about it but she won’t. She probably still hasn’t told Pete she thinks she’s infertile. There’s IVF, fertility drugs, ICSI – there are loads of things they could have done.’

‘I know, I know,’ Leonie comforted. ‘Emma has this mental block about the whole thing. You know she’s convinced that if she has tests and they say she can’t have children, then she’ll have no hope left.’

‘That doesn’t explain why she won’t discuss it with Pete,’ Hannah said.

‘I know. But we could make it a bit easier on her and not talk so exclusively about the baby.’

‘If she didn’t want to come tonight, she shouldn’t have,’ Hannah said. She was hurt that Emma couldn’t share her joy about the baby. She understood wanting something and not having it, but she wouldn’t begrudge Emma if she had something Hannah didn’t. When Hannah had been Felix-less, she hadn’t been jealous that Emma had Pete to come home to every night while she was stuck with the remote control and a dinner for one. How dare she bitch at Hannah now?

‘Don’t get upset,’ Leonie begged, seeing the anger glittering in her friend’s dark eyes. ‘We have been a bit insensitive talking about the baby all night. Give her a break.’

Her face set darkly, Hannah nodded. ‘I don’t want to bore anyone,’ she sniffed.

‘You’re not boring anyone,’ Leonie insisted. ‘I love hearing all about the baby and so would Emma, if only it wasn’t so painful for her. In your heart you know that. Quick, talk about something else. She’s coming back.’

‘Tell us more about the wonderful Hugh,’ Emma said tightly when she sat down.

Hannah said nothing but her full lips were pressed firmly together. Leonie said a silent prayer that they wouldn’t try and kill each other over dessert.

‘Hugh,’ she began cheerfully, ‘is wonderful…’

Normally, the Egypt reunions ended much later than originally planned because they all loved sitting talking, but this time the waiter had barely placed the cafetiere of decaf on the table when Emma announced that she really had to get home.

‘I’ve a busy day tomorrow,’ she said abruptly. ‘We’ve got two guest speakers coming in for the conference and I’m looking after them.’

She drank her coffee quickly, left money for the bill and then got to her feet.

Hannah gave her a brief, cool smile and leaned forward for a kiss on the cheek. The result was a classic air kiss, neither touching.

‘Bye, Leonie,’ Emma said, giving her a genuine hug.

She hurried away, snatching her coat from the waiter, not wanting to hang around in case she either burst into tears or screamed. Emma felt so emotionally charged that she didn’t know quite which emotion would emerge: rage or misery.

As she waited for the bus, she wondered how she’d explain why she was home so early to Pete. He’d be bound to notice that this dinner had been half the length of all the previous ones. He’d even teased her about it earlier, joking that if she came home plastered again, he wasn’t undressing her and putting her to bed.

‘I’ll be sending you to the Betty Ford Clinic for your next birthday if you keep up with these reunions,’ he laughed, his voice crackling on the mobile phone line. ‘I know you’re secretly out on the tear looking for men, I know your type Mrs Sheridan, leaving your wedding ring in your handbag…’

‘Pig,’ she chuckled into the receiver. ‘I must go, love. My other line is ringing. There’s a pizza in the freezer. I’ll see you later, Pete.’

Emma leaned wearily against the bus shelter, wanting to be home so she could feel Pete’s arms comforting her. Hannah was so pregnant, looking so blissfully maternal that it hurt. But, of course, she couldn’t explain that to Pete. What would he think of her if she revealed that a green-eyed monster raged through her every time she had to look at Hannah’s burgeoning belly? All evening, she’d had to look away or bite her lip to hide the intensity of her feelings. She was ashamed of herself. What sort of a friend was she? When the chips were down, she was more concerned about herself than about anyone else. Shame washing over her, Emma vowed to phone Hannah the next day and apologize. It was only fair. They were supposed to be friends.

She let herself into the house. The hall was in darkness. Good. Pete wasn’t home yet. He’d mentioned that he might go for a drink with Mike after work. At least his absence gave her a chance to go to bed. And if he came in after a few drinks, he wouldn’t be intuitive enough to notice her downcast eyes.

Emma left the hall light on and went upstairs to bed. She got as far as taking off her blouse when the wave of utter hopelessness hit her and she had to sit down on the edge of the bed and weep. Great gusts of sobs came from her, her chest heaved with each breath and she cried until her face was red and raw. Would she ever get over this pain of being childless? She’d stopped wondering if she’d ever have a child: that seemed too hopeless now. All she wanted was for the pain of wanting to abate somewhat, so she could cope.

‘What’s wrong?’

Startled, Emma looked up to see Pete standing in the doorway in his ancient leather jacket and faded jeans.

For a brief moment, she thought of lying. Then Elinor Dupre’s voice sounded in her head: ‘What’s so wrong about saying what you want, Emma?’

Elinor was right. She couldn’t hide it any more. ‘Hannah’s pregnant and it’s killing me. I can’t bear to think I’ll never have my own baby. I think I’m infertile,’ she said bluntly.

‘Oh Em,’ said Pete. ‘I’m so sorry, my love.’ He looked at her helplessly, his normally merry face miserable.

Suddenly, Emma regretted telling him. As if it wasn’t bad enough that she was upset, now he was too.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she backtracked. ‘Let’s forget I ever said that.’

‘Forget it?’ Pete said incredulously. ‘Why should I forget it? This involves me too, Emma, in case you’ve forgotten. There are two of us in this marriage, you know. Nothing annoys me more than the way you feel you have to shoulder all these things on your own,’ he said fiercely. ‘You’ve never let me stand up to your father, even though he bullies you; you insist on keeping secrets like this to yourself and you let Kirsten get away with murder when it comes to family responsibilities. You just won’t let me help. Why the hell are you pushing me away? You’re destroying our marriage, in case you hadn’t noticed. Stop locking me out of your life!’

She’d never seen him so angry. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘Why can’t you see that I love you, Emma? I love you,’ he yelled. ‘Not the person you think you have to be to be loved!’

‘I know,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t want to tell you…’

‘In case I’d be angry with you,’ he roared, ‘like your bloody father?’

She flinched at the rage in his voice. ‘No,’ she protested, ‘not because of that. Because…’ she faltered.

He waited angrily.

‘Because I thought that if I said anything, it wouldn’t just be in my head, it would be real: I couldn’t have a baby. It would be the worst possible result, I just know it.’

‘Jesus, Emma, that’s stupid,’ he said, but she could see the anger fading from his eyes. ‘That’s superstitious rubbish. Did you really think that saying the words would jinx us? Because if you do, then there’s no point in us seeing an ordinary doctor about this. We might as well see a witch doctor or a voodoo queen. Or, better still, I’ll buy tarot cards and use those to work out why you haven’t become pregnant.’

‘You can’t buy tarot cards for yourself,’ Emma said in a small voice. ‘They only work when somebody else has bought them for you. I read that somewhere.’

Pete laughed and pulled her into his arms. ‘As you read so much, have you ever read about all the medical stuff they can do for childless couples?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Right. If they can clone sheep, pigs and the Boys from Brazil, they can help us have a baby. Infertility isn’t half as complicated as cloning, so I think we’re in with a chance. We’re young, we’re healthy – we’ll do anything, right?’

‘I hated the thought of putting you through all that investigative stuff,’ Emma said, her face buried in his shoulder.

‘You mean being locked in a room with a paper cup and the entire back catalogue of Hustler?’ he asked wickedly. ‘You may have to come in and help me with that, Em. But we can do it. Hey, who knows, there may be nothing wrong with either of us. You could be panicking unnecessarily. It takes time to make a baby, you know.’

‘It’s over three years,’ Emma reminded him. ‘That’s a long time to be using no contraception and still not be pregnant.’

‘OK, OK, maybe there is a problem, maybe there isn’t. But let’s find out for definite before we jump to conclusions. First thing tomorrow, phone the doctor and make an appointment. He can refer us to the specialists to get checked out, both of us.’

‘You…you don’t mind?’

Pete took her thin face in his hands, staring deep into the anxious pale blue eyes. ‘I love you, Emma. I’d love us to have children. And if there’s a medical reason why we can’t, then we’ll try our best to sort it out. But if nothing works and we can’t have them, I can live with that. I’ve got you, we’ve got each other. Right?’

Emma nodded tremulously.

‘Promise me one thing, Em. Don’t keep secrets from me any more. Promise? It’s been tearing me up, knowing things weren’t right but not able to get close to you.’

‘I promise I won’t keep any more secrets. It was just so hard for me to tell you…to talk about it. I wanted to keep it to myself…’

‘That doesn’t work, Emma,’ Pete interrupted. ‘Do you think I haven’t spent months worrying about you getting more and more introverted, worrying that I was doing something wrong, that you didn’t love me?’

‘You know I love you,’ she protested.

‘How can I know that when you keep this most important thing from me?’ he demanded. ‘I’m not very good at working out what people are thinking, Em, I’m sorry. I’m not a mind-reader. I need to be told. I was nearly going to ring Leonie and ask her. I mean, you tell her more than you tell me.’ He sounded so bitter.

‘Oh, Pete,’ Emma said, feeling worn out, ‘I love you. And, no, I don’t tell Leonie everything. I did tell her about how I felt about the baby,’ she admitted. ‘That’s all. I can’t explain why I couldn’t tell you.’ She sighed miserably. ‘Everything’s always my fault. I thought this would be too.’

‘Cut the bullshit,’ snapped Pete fiercely. ‘That’s your bloody father speaking. He’d love everything to be your fault, but that doesn’t mean it is. It simply means he’s a spiteful old bastard who wants to control your every thought by making you feel useless. If you want that therapist to give you your money’s worth, get her to exorcize your father’s malignant presence from your head!’

‘I never knew you felt that way,’ gaped Emma.

He smiled, looking like her good-humoured Pete again. ‘We’re both learning things tonight. The most important one is that we have to stick together, Emma. Don’t you agree?’

She nodded.

‘You know what, Pete?’ she said, eyes shining with unshed tears. ‘I love you.’

When you were older and falling in love, the problem wasn’t meeting your beloved’s parents, Leonie mused. Difficult prospective in-laws were no longer the major obstacle. Wary, exacting children were. She was about to meet Hugh’s two kids and she’d heard so much about them that she was as nervous as a vasectomy patient letting the doc touch his nether regions for the first time. Terrified was not the word.

It must have been the same for Fliss meeting Danny, Mel and Abby, she realized wryly as she got ready that momentous Saturday afternoon. Although that might have been easier. At least if you had children, you knew how territorial they could be and you could gird your loins for a certain amount of dislike/sheer naked hatred when Daddy or Mummy brought home a new ‘friend’. But if you were childless like Fliss, you probably laboured under the misapprehension that children were dear little things too busy thinking about their own prospects with the opposite sex to worry about anything their wrinkly old parents were doing. Wrong. Children who felt they were being sidelined could hate far more effectively than any estranged, bitter spouse.

Luckily for Fliss, the kids clearly adored her. She was briskly chatty and too confident to be affected by teenage prejudices. There hadn’t been any option but for them to adore her.

They were adoring her now, for sure. What kids wouldn’t adore a stepmother who had whisked them off for a thrilling long weekend in Cannes and all the shopping Mel could dream of?

Ray had begged Leonie to let them all go for a week. ‘We’ll be in France for a fortnight and it seems crazy not to have the kids with us for at least one week,’ he’d said.

‘Mel and Abby have school,’ Leonie replied. ‘They can’t just take a week off like that in the middle of May. They’ll be getting their proper holidays in a month. And Danny has important exams coming up, so he can hardly go for a week.’ She didn’t mention anything about Danny’s conviction that he wouldn’t pass half his exams.

‘Well, a weekend, then,’ Ray had pleaded.

Leonie had been working late in the surgery on Thursday evening and couldn’t drive the twins and Danny to the airport. She’d planned to book a taxi but Doug insisted he’d drive them.

‘Only if I get a 101 Dalmatians mug as a present,’ he told the twins.

At least she was footloose for the weekend, even if it did mean that the twins had more time to become besotted with their stepmother.

Leonie wondered how Hugh’s kids would view her.

‘They’ll love you,’ Hugh had said as he set about arranging a quick drink between the four of them.

Despite his assurances, she had a premonition of disaster. It wasn’t particularly to do with Stephen, who sounded a bit like Danny with the same GameBoy thumb and a penchant for spending entire weekends in bed finding personal meaning in the lyrics of Oasis songs. But Jane, beautiful, talented Jane, sounded like Trouble. Leonie couldn’t quite put her finger on why she thought this: something to do with the way Hugh spoke about his twenty-two-year-old daughter perhaps? In tones of pure adulation, as if Jane was Marie Curie, Mother Theresa and Julia Roberts all rolled into one adorable package. You didn’t need an IQ in the stratosphere to figure out that Jane could do no wrong. Which, conversely, meant that if Jane didn’t take an immediate shine to Leonie, it was curtains for Daddy’s new friend.

The meeting was a quick one on a Saturday afternoon in the National Gallery. A suitably innocent venue.

Thinking of how Fliss would have played it, Leonie dressed in her usual clothes – Prussian-blue silk shirt, black velvet trousers and an embroidered violet angora shawl she’d picked up in a charity shop in Dun Laoghaire – and did her best to feel nonchalantly confident. Not trying too hard, because that would be a mistake both for her personally and for Hugh. She dearly wanted his children to like and approve of her, but it had to be approval on real terms.

She didn’t want to transform herself into something she wasn’t just so she passed muster with a teenage boy and his twenty-something sister. Well, that was the theory, anyway.

It was only ‘a quick drink to meet the kids’, as Hugh had put it. Not a grilling in the High Court. But her theory wasn’t working very well and she still felt worried. I mean, she thought, desperate to bolster herself with courage, she had kids and she knew how to handle them. If she knew how to deal with the dizzying combination of Mel and Abby, surely Jane would be a doddle. Older and more mature, obviously…?

Hugh was waiting in the National Gallery restaurant when she arrived, hot from rushing from the car park and mentally berating herself for never going to the gallery normally except when she was meeting people in the restaurant. She must try harder to fit some culture into her life. Hugh was sitting at a small table at the back and there was someone with him, Leonie realized: a young woman in denims.

Her first thoughts were that he’d met someone he knew while waiting for all of them. It couldn’t be the fabled Jane.

Jane was, in her father’s words, ‘beautiful, stunning,’ and Leonie had had a mental picture of a girl with her father’s confident, laughing gaze and the bone structure of a gazelle.

This dumpy young woman with a denim jacket welded unflatteringly on to her could not be Jane. Short dark hair, not even washed, plump features and small eyes under over-plucked brows. This was not gazelle material, unless gazelles were blessed with suspicious eyes and a scowl.

‘Leonie!’ Hugh got to his feet and greeted her as though he’d just spotted a distant acquaintance and, after racking his brains for ages, had finally remembered her name. He patted her back energetically. Normally, he kissed her.

‘Meet Jane, my pride and joy. Jane, this is a friend of mine, Leonie.’

Leonie had been struck dumb on very few occasions in her life. Such a thing was unheard of in a woman who so hated gaps in the conversation that she would babble ceaselessly in company when there was an awkward silence just to fill in the blanks. Now, she smiled gormlessly at her boyfriend and his daughter, wondering how in the hell even a besotted father would describe Jane as ‘stunning’. But then, how awful of her to judge the poor girl on looks alone. Perhaps Jane lit up with some inner flame when she spoke and laughed.

‘I’ve heard so much about you, it’s lovely to meet you,’ she said, finally finding her voice and shaking Jane’s hand warmly.

‘I’ve heard almost nothing about you,’ Jane replied primly, shooting a look at Hugh.

She shouldn’t purse her mouth like that, Leonie thought absently. She’d have terrible lines when she was older.

‘Oh dear,’ Leonie said jokily. ‘Am I your father’s big secret?’

She intercepted a glare from the girl to her father. ‘I think so,’ Jane said sharply.

Hugh smiled helplessly at Leonie. ‘It’s no big secret at all,’ he said with the false bonhomie of a man facing the firing squad and turning down the use of a blindfold. ‘Leonie is my new friend and I wanted you and Stephen to meet her. It’s simple. We’ve only been out three times but you know I wouldn’t want you to feel left out, Jane, sweetie.’ He shot an imploring look at Jane.

Leonie felt that now wasn’t the time to point out that they’d been on ten dates and one heavy petting session where only the presence of her period and a pair of horrible big knickers had stopped them getting naked on the couch in Hugh’s apartment. She had long-range plans for a romantic scene that included bikini waxing, nice, non-grey underwear and fake tan to camouflage the flabby bits with a nice golden glow. These plans seemed very long range at this present moment. She’d thought she was his girlfriend, but he hadn’t made that clear to anyone else.

On the phone, he’d been murmuring sweet nothings and saying things like, ‘You’re incredible, Leonie.’ Now, in the presence of the Inquisitor General, he was a squirming mass of manhood who’d deny his romance with a ‘Makin’ Whoopee’-singing Michelle Pfeiffer herself if it would keep him in his daughter’s good books. Leonie felt betrayed. What was more, she felt like getting up and leaving them to it. But she didn’t. It would be unfair. As a mother, she knew how hard it was to draw the line between living your life for your children and giving them the ultimate power over your life. There was a balance, and poor Hugh needed help finding that balance.

She would help. If it was the last thing she did.

‘Don’t be silly, Daddy,’ Jane said. ‘I don’t feel left out at all. It’s just that I know all your friends. If I’d known you were meeting work people, I wouldn’t have bothered to come. Which branch are you working in?’ she asked Leonie.

Those last two sentences clarified matters for Leonie. It was obvious that Hugh hadn’t told his kids who she was or that they were going to meet her today. Either that, or Jane was determined not to acknowledge the existence of any woman in her father’s life and was therefore casting Leonie in the role of an unattractive colleague her father took pity on and brought out occasionally. And calling him ‘Daddy’! Most kids got over the Daddy stage when they went to big school and moved on to a bored-sounding Dad.

Leonie smiled at Hugh.

He was gazing at her hopefully, hope-you’ll-lie-fully she reckoned.

‘I’m a veterinary nurse. And I’m not one of your father’s colleagues,’ she said pleasantly, ‘I’m a friend.’

‘Oh.’ Jane’s mouth pursed into a little moue of disapproval.

‘Your father has been telling me all about you,’ Leonie went on gamely. ‘He says you’re getting on brilliantly in work and are up for promotion. Well done.’

‘Daddy!’ hissed Jane furiously. ‘That’s private.’

‘Oh, look,’ said Hugh in desperation. ‘Here’s Stephen.’

Tall and solid like his father, Stephen had a smiling face, wore clothes that looked as if he’d dressed in a hurry, and seemed to know who Leonie was.

‘Nice to meet you at last,’ he said, throwing himself into a chair. ‘About time the old lad found himself someone. Has anyone ordered? They do great cakes here.’

Jane glared at him instead of her father. ‘You might have told me,’ she said fiercely. ‘I feel as if I’ve been hijacked.’

It was Hugh and Stephen’s turn to exchange meaningful looks. What a family! Leonie wished they’d talk instead of staring intensely at each other. People said what they thought in the Delaney house, especially Mel, who’d be the person most likely to feel put out by Hugh’s existence.

At least with Mel, you’d hear how she felt, normally at eighty decibels. She wouldn’t have just sat there simmering in silence and glaring at people.

‘Don’t be daft, Sis,’ said Stephen. ‘What’s the fuss? I told you. You’re here to meet Leonie. What’s the big deal?’ He turned to Leonie. ‘Will I go up and order us something? I’m ravenous. Would you like coffee or cakes?’

He was sweet, she decided. Aware that his sister was furious, he was doing his best to defuse the situation.

‘I’d love some,’ she said. ‘I’ll come up with you and carry a tray. Coffee, Hugh?’ she asked pleasantly, determined not to let her expression betray the fact that she thought Hugh was acting foolishly by kowtowing to the awful Jane.

‘Yes,’ he said, looking her straight in the face for the first time in ages.

Leonie and Stephen examined the cake counter with interest. Normally, Leonie wouldn’t have allowed herself anything. But today, she wasn’t in the mood to deny herself.

‘I could murder some of that carrot cake,’ she said to Stephen, pointing out some fabulously succulent cake that probably contained the exact amount of calories a marathon runner needed in an entire week.

‘Me too,’ he agreed. ‘I bet Jane would love it too. She’s on this no-fat diet, but I can usually persuade her to give it up when she’s with me.’

Leonie wasn’t sure she could imagine anyone persuading Jane to do anything she didn’t want to.

‘She’ll be fine,’ Stephen said as if he could read her thoughts. ‘She’s a bit possessive about Dad. She’s his favourite and she doesn’t really get it that he needs someone in his life.’

‘I understand,’ Leonie lied. ‘But your mum has a new partner, doesn’t she? Isn’t that hard on Jane too?’

Stephen put three fat slices of cake on his tray. ‘Yeah, but Jane isn’t the same with Mum. They are, like, exactly the same. That’s why Jane doesn’t live at home any more. They kill each other. She’s cool about Kevin – he’s Mum’s boyfriend.’ They moved slowly along the queue towards the coffee machines. Stephen put a chocolate bar on his plate as well.

‘I worry about the old boy. He gets lonely. He’s happier since meeting you.’

‘Thank you,’ Leonie said sincerely. ‘It’s lovely of you to say that. I’m so very fond of your father and I wanted you both to know that. It’s hard that Jane seems set against me.’

‘It’s ’cos you’ve got kids,’ Stephen said sagely. ‘She’s terrified Dad’ll end up liking them more than us, or end up leaving them something in his will if you two get married.’

‘How do you know this? Jane didn’t seem to have heard anything about me before today.’

‘I know Jane,’ he said simply. ‘And she does know about you. I knew Dad would bottle out of telling her about you, so I did it for him. She’s pretending not to know just to get at him. Don’t be hard on her,’ he said suddenly. ‘She’s a bit…’

Spoilt, Leonie wanted to say.

‘…insecure,’ Stephen finished. ‘She adores Dad and he adores her back. If you were on the scene, it’d be a different ball game.’

‘Well, thanks for being so honest with me,’ she said. ‘Should I simply go home now?’

Stephen laughed. ‘Don’t be daft. Jane will be fine, eventually.’

They arrived back at the table with trays laden down with goodies. Jane and Hugh had been talking animatedly until they arrived, whereupon all conversation ceased. They all drank their coffee in stony silence. Leonie could hear her own jaw clicking as she ate her carrot cake.

Finally, she couldn’t take the silence any more.

‘I was thinking we could go to the cinema later,’ Leonie said brightly. ‘Why don’t you two come?’ Did I say that? she asked herself in horror. Please say no.

‘Why not? I’ve nothing else on tonight,’ Jane said ungraciously.

Leonie, Hugh and Stephen all wanted to see the new Bond movie but Jane wanted to see the latest art-house sensation, a grim, black-and-white production about youngsters getting involved in the murky world of international drug-smuggling. Leonie would rather have cut her front lawn with nail scissors than watch that type of film. However, it was Jane’s choice and, as Leonie was discovering, Jane liked to get her own way.

At least they had something to talk about afterwards, when they shared a pizza in Temple Bar. Stephen chatted happily about the film while Jane, who’d forced them to sit through it, decided she hadn’t liked it much at all.

Leonie’s palm itched with the desire to slap Jane’s sulky little face.

After an hour, when it became plain that Jane had no intention of leaving before Leonie did, Leonie gave in and announced that she had to go home.

‘I’ll walk you back to your car,’ Hugh said. She shot him a grateful look. Free from the horrid Jane at last.

‘Dad,’ Jane said in a childish voice, ‘can I ask you a favour?’

‘Yes, darling,’ he said fondly.

‘Could I use your credit card to book my holiday? Mine is maxed out and if I don’t book on Monday, I’ll lose my place. I’ll pay you back, of course,’ she added, giving him a beseeching, big-eyed look.

Leonie’s right hand clenched up into a fist.

Hugh ruffled Jane’s hair. ‘You don’t have to ask, pet, you know that.’

For the first five minutes, Leonie and Hugh walked in silence.

As they reached Nassau Street, Hugh took her hand in his.

‘Well,’ he said tentatively, ‘how do you think it went?’

‘It might have gone better if you’d told Jane about me,’ Leonie suggested. ‘It’s not easy meeting someone who’s under the impression that you’re nothing more than a colleague. I thought we were going out, Hugh, but listening to you earlier, you’d swear we were old, platonic friends on the verge of getting our bus passes.’

‘Sorry. It’s difficult, you know. Jane is…well, she’s sensitive.’

About as sensitive as a rhino, Leonie thought grimly.

‘I should have told her, Leonie. Please forgive me.’ He squeezed her fingers. ‘I’m afraid I’m one of those indulgent fathers who can’t deny my children anything. Jane expects nothing short of adoration.’

‘And the use of your credit card,’ Leonie remarked. ‘Jane mustn’t be very good with money if she’s got this wonderful job and still has to beg from you.’ As soon as she’d said it, Leonie regretted it. Criticizing your beloved’s children was a dating no-no, on a par with saying you’d got a letter from the clinic and the warts were practically all gone. She could have kicked herself. ‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘That was rotten of me.’

‘I thought you of all people would understand,’ Hugh said tightly. ‘Children are there to be nurtured and taken care of.’

Leonie nodded. She agreed with him. But Jane wasn’t a child. She was a manipulative grown-up and Hugh wasn’t doing her any favours by not seeing this. Treating her like an adored child was a recipe for disaster.

‘I know you love them to bits and I shouldn’t have said that,’ Leonie apologized. ‘I guess I’m a bit upset because Jane obviously didn’t approve of me.’

‘Silly,’ said Hugh sweetly. ‘She’ll love you when she gets to know you. It just takes time.’

Now where had she heard that before?

‘How did it go?’ asked Hannah when she rang the next day.

‘I am compiling research for a book called Dating Divorcés,’ announced Leonie, ‘and the longest chapter is going to be about meeting horrible, self-obsessed children who think you’re after their father for his money and who make it perfectly obvious that they hate you.’

‘You mean you’re not after him for his money?’ joked Hannah, trying to inject a note of humour into things.

‘Hugh has less money than I do,’ said Leonie hotly, not seeing the funny side of it. ‘And now I know why. He gives it all to Jane, although I can’t think why, because she has a perfectly good job. She had the nerve to ask him if she could book her holiday using his credit card. I ask you – a twenty-something with a good job! It’s ludicrous.’

‘It didn’t go well, then?’ Hannah said tentatively.

‘His son is a darling and was very sweet to me, but the daughter, Jane,’ Leonie paused, ‘is hideously jealous. As if he can’t love her and me.’

‘Maybe she’s afraid that if you’re there the cheques will dry up,’ said Hannah pragmatically.

‘It’s more than that. It’s weird. She’s nuts about him, like a small child.’

‘Girls and their fathers,’ Hannah pointed out. ‘Somebody wrote a song about their heart belonging to Daddy.’

‘I don’t know any grown woman whose heart belongs to Daddy,’ said Leonie crossly. ‘Yours doesn’t and neither does Emma’s. Mel and Abby love Ray but they didn’t go into a flat spin when he married Fliss.’

‘That’s because they’re well-adjusted kids.’

‘Hugh’s well adjusted,’ Leonie argued. ‘How could he have a daughter like this?’

‘What’s his ex-wife like?’

‘Sounds perfectly normal. They get on well and the split was as amicable as any I’ve ever heard of.’

‘Ah well, that’s it,’ Hannah said sagely. ‘No split is ever amicable. It’s an oxymoron: the words “split” and “amicable” just don’t go together. Do you think Mummy is poisoning little Jane to loathe every woman who ever tries to replace her?’

Leonie gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I don’t think Jane needs anyone to poison her. She’s poisonous enough on her own. Hugh is so wonderful, but I can’t bear the thought of having to put up with Jane’s bitchiness for the rest of my life.’

‘Hugh thinks you’re wonderful,’ Hannah comforted. ‘That’s all that matters. Jane will come round, you’ll see.’

Leonie liked Hugh’s home. A three-year-old townhouse on the edges of Templeogue, it was pristine, still new looking and without any peeling paintwork or teenage detritus. Inside, it was wall-to-wall magnolia, enlivened by Hugh’s collection of old film posters, the bookcases that lined the walls and lots of curious collectibles like a wind-up gramophone and a huge marble chessboard with marble pieces fashioned into jungle animals. It was all very quirky and Leonie liked it. In fact, there was only one thing Leonie didn’t like in the house and that was the plethora of pictures of Jane all over the place. The mantelpiece was a veritable shrine to her, with seven separate photos of Jane looking winsome as a First Communicant, sulky as a teenager, and even sulkier on a variety of other occasions. There were only two of Stephen. Leonie hoped he didn’t mind, although he probably did secretly. Nobody could remain untouched by the fact that their parent preferred their sibling. Leonie hoped she’d never made one of her children feel they were less loved than the other two. The small back garden was like a rugby pitch, thanks to the antics of Wilbur, Harris and Ludlum, Hugh’s dogs. Leonie kept meaning to bring Penny on a visit to Hugh’s house but hadn’t got round to it yet. It seemed forward to bring her dog there, because investigating whether their animals got on was tantamount to discussing whether they should live together or not. Leonie was crazy about Hugh, but she didn’t think they were anywhere near that stage yet.

Tonight, they were reaching an important point in their relationship, however. Going To Bed Together. In Leonie’s mind, this event was in capital letters. It was immense, huge, a giant hurdle to be crossed.

They had been going out for four months and, although there had been some erotic moments, like that time in the Savoy Cinema watching a modern film noir, or the evening at Leonie’s when Danny and the girls had been out and they’d ended up getting very hot and bothered on the couch, they’d never been that intimate with each other.

It wasn’t that Leonie didn’t fancy Hugh. Far from it. She found him very sexy. He was actually slightly shorter than her, but she didn’t mind that. There was something virile about him. How virile, she planned on finding out tonight. That tonight was the night was an unspoken arrangement between them. Leonie had asked her mother to stay at the cottage with the girls, ostensibly because she was going away for the night with Emma and Hannah.

Claire – whom Leonie suspected knew exactly what was really going on but was too discreet to say ‘about bloody time!’ – had said she’d be delighted.

The girls taken care of, Leonie had splurged money she didn’t have on matching knickers and bra in silky coffee-coloured lace. She’d spent so long scrubbing herself in the bath that she reckoned she’d probably lost a pound in skin alone, and she’d massaged scented body lotion into every centimetre of her body.

Determined not to reproach herself for forgetting to rub the anti-cellulite cream into her bum and thighs, Leonie didn’t look at herself too long in the mirror. She was a forty-three-year-old woman, not a supermodel. Hugh liked her for what she was. She couldn’t change what she was, no matter how much she’d secretly like to.

Hugh had obviously made a similar effort in the cooking department. When she arrived, the three dogs chorused a delighted greeting and then raced back into the kitchen to stand guard over whatever delicious-smelling thing Hugh was cooking.

‘Beef?’ said Leonie, sniffing the air in the hallway and getting an enticing mix of garlic and onions with some subtle herbs.

Hugh, looking good in a cream cotton sweater over chinos, shook his head before kissing her hello.

‘It’s a surprise,’ he said.

‘I love surprises,’ she replied archly.

He kissed her neck too. ‘I’ve got another surprise for you later,’ he purred, making her giggle.

Dinner was wonderful, but Leonie found it hard to eat too much. She didn’t want her belly to be hanging out over her sexy new knickers purely because she’d stuffed her face with boeuf bourgignon and summer pudding with cream.

‘You don’t like it?’ Hugh asked anxiously when she insisted on only having a small portion of dessert.

‘I love it,’ she said. ‘You’re so good to cook for me, darling. I’m just er…not that hungry after the lovely beef.’

They shared a lingering kiss over the coffee and danced in the kitchen to the mellow sounds of Frank Sinatra. With her arms wrapped round Hugh’s neck, her body meltingly close to his, Leonie closed her eyes and thought how perfect it all was.

‘Shall we go upstairs?’ Hugh said thickly.

She murmured assent and, holding hands, they climbed the stairs. Leonie had only been in Hugh’s bedroom once when he’d shown her around the house. It wasn’t as tidy as it had been that day: obviously the strain of cooking up a cordon bleu feast meant he hadn’t had time for too much housekeeping. Clothes hung carelessly on the back of a chair by the dressing table, a towel graced the back of the door and a single sock peeped out from the half-open wardrobe. But the double bed was perfectly made up, with fresh smelling navy striped sheets reeking of flowery fabric softener. Leonie grinned until she saw the small table beside the bed.

A blue painted picture frame with a carved teddy anchored on one side sat beside a high-tech clock radio and inside the frame was a picture of Jane. The frame was more suited to a nursery than an adult’s bedroom.

‘Isn’t it lovely?’ Hugh said fondly, noticing the direction of her gaze as he hastily tidied up. ‘Jane gave it to me last week. She’s such a pet, always giving me gifts.’

Leonie gritted her teeth and vowed to dispose of some item of clothing so that it covered up Jane’s picture. There was no way she could make mad, passionate love with Hugh and have Jane’s smirking face watching every move.

Having Jane in the room with them was good in one way. It meant that Leonie didn’t have a moment to feel nervous about Hugh lovingly peeling off her blouse or helping her out of her skirt. She couldn’t concentrate on the awfulness of her thighs because she was thinking that it was as if Jane was in the room with them, watching, looking, sneering.

It was only when Hugh was down to his boxer shorts and led her over to the bed that Leonie decided she had to do something. While Hugh pulled the duvet back, she carefully moved the picture till it was facing the other way. When she turned back to Hugh, he was watching her.

‘Sorry, I feel uncomfortable being watched,’ she said nervously. ‘Having one’s children watching doesn’t feel right.’

‘Is that all?’ he smiled.

‘Mothers can be very prudish about things like that,’ Leonie said.

What they did next wasn’t prudish at all. Hugh buried his head in her cleavage and moaned happily as he nuzzled her breasts. Leonie stopped feeling upset and began to enjoy herself again. She enjoyed it when Hugh stroked her all over, telling her she was gorgeous and that he adored her beautiful, sexy underwear. She enjoyed touching a man erotically again, feeling him grow aroused because of her. And she adored it when she finally guided Hugh inside her, remembering how wonderful lovemaking felt and asking herself why it had been so long since she’d experienced it.

‘Oh, Hugh,’ she moaned as the tempo of their lovemaking increased.

‘Leonie,’ he murmured hoarsely, his naked body hard against hers.

Suddenly, Hugh’s body spasmed and he came, shuddering and calling, ‘Oh God, oh God,’ before slumping motionless on top of her.

A religious orgasm, Leonie thought unexpectedly, her own excitement quenched with his lack of activity. There were four types of orgasms, Hannah had gigglingly told them in Egypt: Religious, Positive, Negative and Fake.

Religious was ‘Oh God,’ at the moment of orgasm. Positive was ‘Yes!’ Negative was ‘No!’ And fake was the name of whoever you were with. ‘Oh, Hugh!’ in this case.

Leonie waited a moment, feeling Hugh heavy on top of her. She waited for him to murmur something about being sorry for coming too soon, she waited for him to insist on pleasing her. She’d read all the articles in magazines and newspapers: modern men knew what was expected of them in bed. The days of wham, bam, thank you, Ma’am were over. Men were sensitive creatures with instincts finely tuned to the needs of their women. Leonie had expected multiple orgasms, she’d read all about them in women’s magazines. Moments of such exquisite pleasure that she’d squeal like a turkey at Christmas and possibly wet the bed into the bargain. Men knew how to do that type of thing nowadays. The G-spot was as well known now as the offside rule in football.

Hugh moved. Leonie smiled with expectant pleasure. Now it was her turn. Hugh planted one sloppy, sleepy kiss on her shoulder and slid off her to lie on the other side of the bed. One leg was still resting heavily across hers. He moaned and began to snore gently. In the darkness, Leonie blinked fiercely with rage. He was asleep. Hannah would murder her if she knew Hugh had dropped into the Land of Nod without making even an attempt to satisfy her. Hannah only went out with New Men. Leonie got Neolithic Men.

Boiling with a combination of rage and unfulfilled desire, she lay beside the sleeping Hugh.

‘It’s all right, Jane, sweetie,’ she muttered, glaring at the turned-away photo. ‘You’d have been proud of your old dad tonight. There wasn’t anything for you to be jealous of.’

It was better in the morning. Leonie woke to find Hugh gently stroking her naked back. She stretched languorously but didn’t turn to face him. Let him turn her on this time. She didn’t want a repeat performance.

This time, when their naked bodies fused, Leonie was ahead of Hugh. With enough stored-up sexual energy to power the national grid, Leonie focused on making herself orgasm. When she screamed with pleasure, thrashing around in ecstasy, Hugh was the one who had to do the catching up.

‘That was amazing,’ he said afterwards.

Leonie just grinned.

‘It was better than last night.’

She couldn’t help herself. If they were to have a proper relationship, he had to know: ‘Last night, Hugh, you fell asleep as soon as you’d come and I didn’t come,’ she said.

He was contrite. ‘I didn’t know you hadn’t,’ he protested.

How could he not know? Still, she could teach him.

Leonie snuggled up to him. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘We’ve got lots of time to get to know each other in every way.’