Читать книгу Apple of My Eye: The gripping psychological thriller from the USA Today bestseller - Claire Allan, Claire Allan - Страница 14

It’s just after 9.30 p.m. when my mother, seeing how hard I’ve been trying to stifle my yawns, orders me off to bed. I don’t argue. I’m bone tired but thankful that I’m also feeling soothed by my chat with Mum.

I plug my phone in to charge, rest it on the bedside table and climb under the covers. I’m just about to close my eyes, when it rings.

I see Martin’s name on the screen and, suddenly, I desperately want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice. I even think, maybe, just maybe, my mother’s right and I should tell him I know about the sex of the baby.

I don’t have to tell him she’s a girl. I can leave that surprise for him for the big day, but I shouldn’t keep from him the fact that I know. Not when I know how much of a spin it’s put me in to think he could be keeping something from me.

Answering the call, I do my best to sound jolly, to sound just like the Eli he fell in love with and not the grumpy wife he’d had words with last night.

‘Hi, baby, how’s your day been?’ I say.

He sighs, or maybe it’s a yawn. ‘Long and busy, but I wanted to check in with you before I settle down for the night. I didn’t like how we left things last night.’

‘We were both tired, let’s just file it under a “bad day” and let it go,’ I say.

‘How’s everything?’ he asks.

‘It’s fine, Martin. Mum came down early and made a big pot of her famous chicken soup. She insisted on doing the washing-up herself and packing me off to bed. I was just settling down. I’m in bed already.’

‘I wish I was there with you,’ he says softly.

Something in me, the part of me that needs this man always, tightens. I wish I could see his face, feel his breath on my face, his skin touching my skin.

‘I wish you were here, too,’ I tell him. ‘I really do.’

‘I’ll be home in a few days,’ he says. ‘We can make up for it then. At least you’ve got your mother there for company while I’m gone.’

‘That’s true, but she’s not as good at spooning me as you are,’ I say.

‘Well, I do make for a very good big spoon,’ he says and I hear the longing in his voice.

It makes me feel loved. It makes me feel love for him. It makes wonder how I could ever doubt him.

He yawns and I know he’s too tired to launch into any deep conversation, so I tell him I love him and promise to talk to him tomorrow. Maybe I’ll tell him about the baby’s gender then.

I also make a promise to myself to take the stupid note out of my bag in the morning and throw it in the bin where it belongs. And to leave it there this time.