‘I’ve brought you a magazine.’ Joe assessed Layla with a rapid onceover.
She was still processing the news of his divorce but glanced at the collection piled on the coffee table. ‘Because I don’t have enough?’
‘You look amazing in those.’ He pushed the one he was holding into her hands. ‘This one’s different. Light at the end of the tunnel? See for yourself. Page fourteen. Did you know he has a kid?’
Grudgingly she flicked to where he said. She failed to ignore Nick’s wayward smile beaming out from between the covers. He’d been photographed accompanying his mother to a red-carpet event with Beth between them smiling as confidently as her dad. The picture knocked her sideways. Tight-lipped she checked the date on the cover.
‘Some of the papers slagged you off. Said you’re not good enough for him. If you ask me it’s the other way around – he’s not good enough for you.’
He sat on sofa in the spot that had always been his. ‘Thanks for that.’ Deflated, defeated she walked over to the under-stairs cupboard eager for him to take his things and leave. Guilt jabbed at her. She changed her mind and sat down next to him. The bag she’d hidden rustled under the cushion behind her back. ‘What happened? With you and Lainy?’
‘She left me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Ophelia had been lying in front of the fireplace. She got up, stretched and pottered across to sit next Layla, leaning against her legs. She reached down and tousled her fur.
‘I shouldn’t have got married in the first place. It was a mistake. My parents are furious.’
‘Why did you?’
He sighed, got up and headed for the kitchen. ‘Got any beers?’
‘A couple in the fridge.’ She did a double take at her automatic response.
‘Want one?’ The familiarity of the sound of Joe opening a drawer to get the bottle opener and popping the top stunned her.
‘No!’
Slugging the beer, he slumped back into the space beside her. ‘I missed you.’
‘So you married my double?’
‘I know, right?’ He chortled.
She couldn’t believe her ears. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘And that lot is?’ He pointed at the coffee table. ‘I’m back for good. Why don’t we draw a line and start again?’
‘You mean, when your divorce comes through?’
‘Why wait? The divorce is just a detail.’
‘A significant one.’
Thinking it over, he knocked back another slug of beer and made himself comfortable stretching out his legs in front of the fireplace and crossing them at the ankles. He was settling in as if he was at home. ‘Aren’t you happy? I thought you’d be up for it.’
‘You want a second chance?’
‘You forget Lainy and I forget … him. It’ll be like they never happened.’
‘I can’t forget.’ Her head was spinning. There was one sure way to kill off Joe’s ideas of getting back together. ‘And another thing – I may be pregnant.’
Flummoxed he stared at her. ‘You’re kidding.’
‘I don’t know for sure. I might not be. But the point is – it’s a real possibility. It’s not …’ She hooked her fingers in the air ‘… just a detail!’
‘Does he know?’
She shook her head, sorry she’d said anything.
‘Face it. He’s gone. He’s not coming back.’
She trembled. It was true, but hearing him say it knifed her in the soul. ‘I know,’ she whispered.
‘It’s early. You could terminate. If you want to.’
‘I’m perfectly aware of my options,’ she said frostily.
Joe stood up abruptly, set his beer on the mantelpiece and started pacing the living room. ‘We can work it out,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re not. We need to find out. If you are …’ He stopped pacing. ‘… Why tell him? He doesn’t need to know. No one does. Have the baby and we’ll bring it up together. We’ll get married.’
‘When your divorce comes through.’ It was stating the obvious, but the fact needed clarifying.
‘A proper wedding. Not a silly after party.’
‘You’re unbelievable.’
He reacted as if she meant in a good way. ‘I know. We’ll sort it, one way or another. If there’s a baby it can be our secret. What do you say? You and me? The way we were before. Let’s unpack my things.’
‘Stop.’ She jumped up from the sofa and held up the palm of her hand like she was directing traffic.
‘Too fast?’ He looked optimistic, like a more measured approach might work.
‘I love him.’
‘No, you don’t.’ He paced again suppressing her words. ‘I thought I loved Lainy. I didn’t. I love you.’ He wheeled round, and stared at her intensifying her confusion.
‘I’m not in love with you,’ she said as clearly as possible.
He started moving again, walking back and forth, tracing a triangle between the spot where she stood, the front door and the kitchen. ‘You’re angry. You’re possibly hormonal.’ He paused, briefly computing what she’d said. ‘What’s your problem? You should be grateful I want you back. What more do you want from me?’
Frazzled, she didn’t answer. The room felt too small and a nasty silence hung in the air. She wanted to throw him out and fling his bags after him. She hesitated.
He stopped pacing and confronted her. ‘You can’t rely on him. He used you. Like he does. He’s a player, he’s well-known for it.’
‘You don’t know him.’
‘You’re deluded.’
The conversation she’d had with her mother rattled in her head. She’d thought her dad was unreliable – he was the opposite. The intensity of young love had burned out, but he’d stuck with his decision, taken the responsibility of becoming a dad seriously, and done the best he could – for all his flaws.
‘Maybe I am. I know one thing for sure though. You don’t love me. If you did, you wouldn’t have gone away when I needed you. And you wouldn’t have married someone who isn’t me.’
‘How many times do I have to say it? I made a mistake. So did you. The way I see it, we’re even. Admit it, Nick Wells doesn’t give a toss. Get over it and get back with me.’
‘Be Lucky In Love!’ Despite everything, her grandmother had held firm to the hope that she’d found true love and that Layla would too. She counted to three in her head. ‘I’d like you to go now. This – what you’re proposing, isn’t going to happen, not now, not ever.’ Nick had gone, but in their short time together he’d shown her more kindness, cared more about her happiness, than Joe. That part, she knew, he hadn’t faked. ‘Be honest. This isn’t about what I want. It’s about you.’ She opened the under-stairs cupboard. ‘Your things are ready.’
‘You don’t know whether you’re coming or going.’ He started to pull the bags out of the cupboard. ‘Think it over. You’ll see it makes sense.’
Fury boiled inside her. She opened the front door as wide as it would go and stepped outside so that he could squeeze through with the overstuffed binbags. She breathed in the fresh sea air. She wasn’t going to lose it, she’d tell him once and for all. ‘For starters, you didn’t only hurt me, you hurt your parents, getting married without telling them.’
‘They didn’t say.’
‘Because instead of saying they were upset they worked like crazy to organize things. They practically stayed up all night to get your “silly after party” ready. And as for me?’ A seagull’s squawk from the roof distracted him. She stared hard at him, trying to figure out what she’d liked about him, how they’d got into a relationship and at a loss as to why they’d stayed together so long. ‘I’m not going to think it over. I don’t need to. The only place where what you’re saying makes sense is on Planet Joe. And I don’t live there anymore.’
Three binbags clenched in each fist, he loitered in front of the row of white cottages glaring like thunder. Like a little sentry on duty, Ophelia waited in the doorway.
‘If you think a baby’s going to make any difference you’re dreaming,’ he shouted.
‘Goodbye.’ Out of the corner of her eye she caught movement nearby. When she spun around to see who was watching the scene with Joe unfold, she found herself looking into the eyes of the man she’d become used to seeing only in magazines. ‘Nick!’ He was trailing the suitcase and holding a bottle of champagne.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked, eyeing Joe scornfully. ‘Are you okay? What’s the yelling about?’
‘Joe came for his stuff. He’s just leaving.’ She narrowed her eyes and fired off a look as if she could zap her ex with telepathy. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘don’t stand there gawping.’
Barking and jumping so that all four paws left the ground at once, Ophelia rushed into the lane to greet Nick. He bent down and rumpled her fur.
Joe smirked. ‘Oh, to be a fly on the wall,’ he sneered before loping off.
She turned from his retreating figure to Nick, her chin jutted out as she weighed him up. ‘Don’t ask me if I’m more pleased to see you or that suitcase.’
‘Is it a toss-up?’ A muscle twitched tightly in his jawline.
‘I’d like to say the suitcase, but as it happens, I may need to talk to you.’
‘You may?’ The familiar smile curved across his lips. ‘You didn’t answer my calls. Why have you been hiding?’
‘I wasn’t. I’ve been right here. Making plans. Getting on with my life.’ She put extra emphasis on ‘my’. ‘The only person I’ve been hiding from is me. Not anymore.’
‘It wouldn’t have hurt to answer one of my messages.’
She looked away unable to explain because that was it precisely – it would have hurt. She’d thought she could handle no ties, but Nick was something else.
‘Let’s go inside.’ The champagne and the suitcase balanced in one hand, he placed the other on the small of Layla’s back and directed her into the house, closing the door with a thud. He went into the kitchen to chill the bubbles.
Relieved to be back inside the cottage, not putting on a show for the neighbours, she jabbered. ‘So since you’re here … And if Joe’s got anything to do with it the rumour will soon be spreading round the village like wildfire …’
The fridge door clunked closed and he came back into the room. ‘What?’ His eyes flashed like a lightning strike.
‘… I might be pregnant.’ She dug under the cushion for the bag from the pharmacy.
Shock drained the colour from his gorgeous face. ‘I wasn’t expecting a life-changing announcement. More something along the lines of “Cup of tea?”’
‘Sorry. My manners have gone out the window. Would you like tea?’
‘No. I’d like to know why he’s the first to know.’ He threw a glance through the window.
‘He’s split up with Lainy.’
‘Hah! I knew it.’
‘It just came out. And he was here.’
‘Well I’m here now.’
‘He wants us to try again.’
‘That’s what you want?’
‘Not in a million years.’
He drew a deep breath. ‘Let’s back up. Have you got a pregnancy test?’
‘Lots.’ She held up the crumpled plastic bag pathetically. ‘In here. It’s probably a false alarm. We were careful.’
‘What about the green condom?’
She clapped her hand to her mouth. They’d been a little drunk and a lot crazy for each other the first night. ‘Maybe it was past its use by date. I didn’t check.’
‘Same.’ He pulled an apologetic face. ‘It wasn’t top quality in the first place.’
‘If I ever get a novelty condom in a goody bag again I’m binning it.’
‘No point beating ourselves up over how it may or may not have happened. Let’s find out.’
‘Right.’ She’d run out of reasons for putting off the moment of truth.
‘I’ll put the kettle on. You …’ He took her by the hand, led her to the bottom of the stairs, and gave her a gentle push towards the first step. ‘… Go do what you have to do.’
Numb she ran upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom. She balanced on the edge of the bath and opened all the packages. Drained and wondering what he was doing here and why on earth he’d brought champagne she perused the instructions that came with the various test kits.
Dread filled the place of her heart. A pregnancy wouldn’t trap her and Nick like it had her parents. Since Paris she’d done lots of thinking, realized the only person holding her back was herself. She’d changed everything about her work life. Her business plan for ‘Layla♥Art’ had fallen into place. And now she felt so positive about the future, a baby wouldn’t hold her back. Why should it? She felt strong. And her family and friends would support her when she needed help. They always had done, although she hadn’t fully appreciated how much, feeling suffocated by their good intentions, not processing how much they cared. From now on, she’d make sure they knew how much she loved them.
While he waited, Nick picked up a magazine, scanned an article, and threw it down again. He could throttle the journalist who’d run the imbecilic story. ‘These belong in the trash.’ Ophelia looked at him blankly. He scooped the whole lot up, carried them into the kitchen and dumped them in the recycling bin.
In Paris, about a minute after he’d told Layla about the change of plans, he’d regretted it. With her, everything had been right with the world, too right, he’d needed distance. He could have asked her to go with him to Versailles, introduced her to everyone properly. Instead he’d taken the easy way out, caught in an emotional stranglehold. He’d behaved despicably, like he’d frozen over.
In LA he couldn’t shake off the memories. His feelings paralyzed, afraid to go forward or look back, he couldn’t get her out of his head. Alex had been in touch, demanding to know what the hell had gone on, and warning him that the British press had been publishing stories.
She’d been so right. About everything. He’d realized that when he’d first been offered the action movie role he’d grabbed the chance, hadn’t given his phobia a thought. It was only later that it had kicked in. He’d worked too hard, he loved his career too much to bottle it, let the fear take over. So after he’d tied up some loose ends in post-production, he’d talked things over with his agent, started to get his life in order. He’d discussed the contract for the sequel and secured a tailor-made pre-production training program to help with the vertigo.
He’d spent nights lying awake picturing Layla, lonely, desperate, gutted to realize what a gaping empty hole she’d left behind. Eventually exhaustion would force him into a few hours’ sleep. When he woke up again she was the first thought in his head. It was agony not hearing from her.
He’d fantasized about Cornwall while in LA, the view from the top of the cliff, the spectacular sunsets, what it would be like living there, coming home to her, holding her, talking to her every day. He looked around. She’d redecorated, changed some things. The painting of the old farm on the cliff-top was hanging above the fireplace. The sight of it panicked him and tightened the muscles in his chest. When he arrived back in the UK he felt wretched. The discussions about the next movie had made him excited for the future. She was the first person he wanted to tell. It killed him that she didn’t want to know.
Before anything else he’d wanted to put right the situation with Fran and Beth. Now all he could do was put one foot in front of the other and hope that Layla would forgive him for the insensitive way he’d acted. They’d held onto each other, seen each other through a tough time. She’d opened his heart, shown he was wrong to drop trying to get to know his daughter. His heart thumped waiting to tell her how alone he’d felt without her.
His mind was blown. She’d been sunny, funny, red hot energy in bed. If the test result turned out positive and Layla was pregnant, he absolutely wanted to be included.
He walked to the window and looked out, anxious for an answer. Outside in the lane one of Joe’s plastic bags had burst spewing the remnants of his life with Layla onto the road. He chased a shirt, and as his fingers stretched out it billowed in the breeze and flew away again. Nick went to the kitchen drawer and grabbed a roll of bin liners. Followed by Ophelia he went to help. Joe took hold of a new bag, grunted and together they wrangled his stuff.
‘Everyone loves her,’ Joe said. He looked down at the dog. ‘I’ve screwed up. But I’m here for Layla now. I love her, and I want to be with her all of the time.’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘You’re not what she needs.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘I want to marry her. Do you?’
Nick side-stepped the question. ‘That’s got a name buddy. Bigamy. You’re already married.’
‘Do you want to marry her or don’t you? Because if it’s a “no” you should take a hike. I’ve been stupid, but I care about her, I only asked for a break. I didn’t want to finish with her. She knows it. And she deserves better than a man like you.’
Shaken by the fear that Joe was right, Nick turned his back on him, avoiding making the argument worse. His head pounded. Ophelia sloped back into the cottage, and he went too. As there wasn’t any sign of Layla he made tea and dug out the digestives. Two mugs hooked in one hand and a packet of biscuits in the other he hurried into the living room to the sound of feet on the stairs.
‘I’m pregnant.’