Don't Want To Miss A Thing (16 page)

‘Are you sure?’

‘Absolutely.’ He was sure. He also knew he was treading a dangerous line.

‘OK. Great.’ Christina looked as terrified as he felt, and as excited; her tentative smile was heartbreaking. ‘Um . . . let me write down the address.’

She scribbled it on a scrap of paper. ‘Shall I put my phone number too? Just in case you can’t make it?’

‘Yes, do that.’ When she’d handed it over, Joe climbed out of the car. He didn’t hug or kiss her; it would have felt wrong. ‘I’ll see you around six o’clock tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’ Christina nodded.

‘There’s something else I haven’t told you.’ It was no good; he had to say it now. ‘Frankie’s pregnant.’

A mixture of shock and disappointment flickered across her face. Followed by resignation. Finally she said, ‘Right. Well . . . congratulations.’

Joe swallowed. ‘Thanks.’

On the way home Joe recited Christina’s address and phone number over and over again until he knew them off by heart. Then he ripped up the scrap of paper and threw the bits like confetti out of the car window.

You could never be too careful.

Back in Briarwood, Frankie welcomed him home with a kiss, her watermelon-sized bump pressed against his own stomach.

‘Honestly,’ she chided, noting the lack of bags. ‘I thought you were meant to be getting loads of Christmas shopping done!’

‘Too crowded, too hot, couldn’t handle the queues at the tills.’ That wasn’t a complete lie, was it? ‘The place was manic.’

‘So does that mean I shouldn’t expect any presents this year?’

‘Don’t worry.’ Joe stroked her face; he loved her so much. ‘I’ll go again another time. How have you been today?’

‘Great. Swollen ankles, indigestion, getting kicked from the inside. Couldn’t be better.’ Frankie’s eyes shone. ‘But it’s all going to be worth it. Ooh, did you feel that?’

Joe nodded and placed his hand on the bump between them as their baby kicked again.

His baby.

One of his babies
.

Oh God, what had he done?

The gabled house stood at the end of a cul-de-sac, large and detached, with a steeply sloping garden at the front and a For Sale sign outside.

The first thing Christina said when she opened the front door was, ‘I should have said this yesterday, but don’t worry about maintenance. Having him was my decision and I’ll never ask you for a penny. I just want you to know that.’

Joe felt simultaneously guilty and relieved, because contributing money was something he certainly couldn’t afford to do without Frankie finding out. Following his impulsive decision yesterday, he’d lain awake last night panicking about it.

‘Thanks.’ He wanted to hug her but didn’t. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t want to help . . .’

‘I know, it would make things too difficult. But it’s OK, this is my house now. And Mum left me money too. Come along inside.’

‘But you’ve put it up for sale,’ said Joe.

‘It’s too big for us and the garden isn’t suitable for children. I’m going to downsize, find somewhere nice and simple. The neighbours here are a bit old-fashioned. They don’t approve of unmarried mothers.’

Joe immediately wanted to go round to the neighbours and
bang their narrow-minded heads together. How dare they disapprove?

‘It’s fine.’ Christina saw the look on his face. ‘A chance for a fresh start. It’ll be an adventure. Anyway.’ She pushed open the door to the living room and said, ‘Ready to meet your son?’

Probably not, but Joe went ahead anyway. And the next moment it happened. There was Shaun, sitting in a blue bouncy chair, a small stuffed toy clutched in one hand as he slept. His hair was baby blond, he had cheeks like Winston Churchill and his bottom lip stuck out like . . . well, also like Winston Churchill.

In blue velour pyjamas with Postman Pat on the front.

My son
.

As if aware that he was being watched, the lashes fluttered and the eyes opened. His gaze went instantly to his mother and he held out his arms. Christina unbuckled him and lifted him out of the bouncer. She kissed each pouty Churchillian cheek in turn and said lovingly, ‘Hello, beautiful, you woke up! Someone’s here to see you!’

Someone. It was only a figure of speech but the word cut through Joe like a razor. He was the father. Some men might choose to live their lives knowing they had children and happy not to meet them but this wasn’t something he could do.

‘Do you want to hold him while I get his bottle ready?’

‘Won’t he cry?’

Christina smiled. ‘Only one way to find out. But he’s usually very good.’

And he was. Joe picked him up and held him and in that moment knew there was no going back.

His voice cracking with a tidal wave of emotion, he said, ‘My boy . . . my son.’

A month later, he was at Frankie’s side when she gave birth –
after twenty-seven hours of fraught and painful labour – to Amber. Red-faced and bawling, she was checked and weighed by the midwife then wrapped in a white blanket and ceremoniously presented to Joe.

Exhausted and ecstatic, Frankie watched him take his daughter into his arms. ‘Look at you!’ she marvelled. ‘You’re a daddy!’

The midwife said cheerily, ‘Taking to it like a duck to water, he is.’

‘He’s never even held a baby before,’ Frankie told her with pride.

‘Ah, your husband’s a natural. That’s a good sign.’

Unable to look at them, Joe concentrated all his attention on Amber. In the last four weeks he had managed to get over to Chepstow on six occasions. The other afternoon he’d given his son a bath. There were tiny resemblances between him and both of his children but they didn’t look remotely alike. The overwhelming surge of love he felt for each of them, though, was exactly the same.

He didn’t want to be in this situation but it had happened, it was happening now and it would carry on happening – he’d accidentally got himself on to a rollercoaster ride and could see no way of getting off.

‘Look at us. We’re a
family
.’ Her fringe sticking to her forehead, Frankie beamed up at him. ‘This is the happiest day of my life.’

He didn’t want to lie to her, but what other choice did he have? Joe nodded and said, ‘Me too.’

Promotion at work meant more travelling, more flexibility and more opportunities to spend time away from Briarwood. Joe made up for this by being an exemplary father when he was at home. He loved Frankie and Amber. He also loved Shaun. He
didn’t love Christina but he liked her a lot, respected her and really enjoyed her company. They were good friends and he told himself that as long as that was all they were, it would be OK. He wasn’t cheating on his wife.

Christina’s mother’s house finally sold and she began searching in earnest for somewhere else to buy. When she found the place in Tetbury and saw how friendly the neighbours were, she went back the next day with Joe and together they looked over the house in Parnall Avenue.

The estate agent just assumed they were a couple, as did the owner of the house. It was easier to let them carry on thinking it than to launch into awkward explanations, especially as Shaun was now eleven months old and had started to say Da-da.

The offer was put in and accepted, the sale went through without a hitch and somewhere along the line the friendly neighbours learned that Joe’s job required him to spend four or five nights away, on average, each week. It was a shame, of course, but that was life and sacrifices had to be made. As Christina pointed out, compared with soldiers serving overseas for months on end it was nothing at all.

They also explained that they weren’t actually married but they
were
a committed couple devoted to their son.

Which was pretty much true.

Wasn’t it?

Up until then, they had been careful to keep their renewed relationship platonic. Joe told himself that if it stayed that way, he needn’t feel so bad about what he was doing.

But as time went on . . . well, it turned out they were only human after all. His feelings towards Christina deepened; from liking and admiring her, he grew to genuinely love her just as much as he loved Frankie. And after another year or so of
struggling to keep their emotions under control, nature took its course. Because Christina loved him too and – among other reasons – it seemed unfair that she should be forced to live a celibate life.

From then on, Joe experienced more guilt, yet more happiness too. He felt simultaneously better and worse about the tangled web that his life had become.

But really, he had no other choice.

Chapter 20

Was this what having a panic attack felt like? Dex rang the bell again and felt perspiration prickle down his spine. When Molly opened her front door he held Delphi out towards her. ‘It’s no good, I’ve had enough of this. I can’t do it any more. I’m not cut out for looking after babies.’

‘Too bad.’ Molly shook her head. ‘Not my problem.’

‘I’m serious. You have to take her.’ He thrust Delphi into her arms and began to walk away, back down the path.

‘I’m serious too. Honestly, you’re such a waste of space. Here, catch.’

Dex turned just as she threw Delphi at him. Catching her like a rugby ball, he said, ‘No, she’s all yours,’ and threw her back. They shouldn’t really be doing this, not with a baby, but Molly needed to understand how desperate he was. ‘And if you throw her at me again, I’m not going to catch her.’ To prove he meant it, he raised his arms in the air and turned away. But Molly threw Delphi anyway. Too late, he realised he wasn’t going to be able to reach her in time—

Dex sat bolt upright, jerked awake by the whoosh of adrenalin. Oh thank God it wasn’t real, had just been a dream. Still in a
state of terror, he took deep shuddering breaths and gripped the arms of the chair. There was Delphi, safe and well, fast asleep in her cot. He hadn’t been hurling her through the air like a rugby ball, hadn’t been about to let her fall.

Jesus Christ, though, it had certainly felt real. His heart was still hammering away in his chest. What was the point of a dream like that?

Dex checked his watch: of all the unearthly hours, it was five thirty in the morning. Delphi, who was teething, had had another terrible night. Three times he’d managed to get her back to sleep then returned to his own room, only to be woken again by more fretful sobs. On the fourth occasion he’d put her back down and sat on the hard chair next to the cot to wait and see if she stayed settled. That had been two hours ago and now he had a major crick in his neck.

Downstairs, because it might be a crazy hour but he wouldn’t get back to sleep again now, Dex made himself a coffee and headed out into the garden. The sun was rising over the horizon, the sky was clear and it promised to be a stunning spring day. But that dream was still bothering him. What if it meant he was subconsciously tempted to absolve himself of the responsibility of looking after Delphi? Because there was no getting away from it; much as he loved her, she wasn’t always the most scintillating company.

Dex paused to watch a spider busily weaving a web between one of the garden chairs and the yew hedge behind it. He used to make his way home from clubs as the sun was coming up. Now the whole day stretched before him and there was likely to be boredom involved. So far the highlight was whatever he decided to cook for his breakfast. Except his cooking skills were diabolical, which meant toast would probably be the safest bet.

Or a Farley’s Rusk.

By eleven o’ clock, cabin fever had well and truly set in. Five hours felt like five days. Dex scooped up Delphi, took her next door and rang the doorbell.

The sight of Molly with her hair twisted into a knot and secured with two pencils made him smile.

‘What are you doing this lunchtime?’

‘Why?’ She blew kisses at Delphi. ‘Want me to look after this one for a bit?’

If he was honest the thought had crossed his mind, but guilt over the terrible dream wouldn’t allow him to do it. Besides, if Molly were babysitting, who would he go with?

‘No.’ Dex shook his head. ‘I need to get out of this village for the day. The walls are closing in. Fancy coming out with us for something to eat?’

‘Luckily,’ said Molly, ‘food is my favourite thing. Do I have time to change or can I just go like this?’

She was wearing pink pyjamas.

‘I’ll book us a table at the Avon Gorge Hotel,’ said Dex. ‘Wear whatever you like.’

By midday they were on their way down the motorway to Bristol. Molly, having showered and changed into a yellow sundress, watched Dex as he drove. Finally she said, ‘What’s the matter? You’re still on edge.’

Dex shrugged and kept his eyes on the road. ‘Honestly? I’m used to living in the city, going out to work, having fun. All the things the social workers kept warning me about when I told them I could do this. But now I’m here it’s taking some getting used to.’

You had to feel sorry for him. ‘Babies are hard enough to cope with when you’ve had nine months to get used to the idea of
having them. Not that
I
have,’ Molly amended. ‘But I’ve heard other people say it enough times. It’s bound to take a while.’

‘I know.’ He nodded in agreement.

‘You’re just having a bad day.’

‘True.’ Dex smiled briefly. ‘Let’s hope it turns into a better one.’

By the time they reached Clifton and found a parking space, the sky was blue and the sun was blazing down.

‘Shall I carry the bag?’ Molly pointed to the big holdall as he scooped Delphi out of her car seat.

‘Leave it there. Let’s live dangerously.’ His mood already improved, Dex said, ‘And to think I used to leave the house with just my wallet and keys. Now it’s like packing to go to Australia. Nappies. Nappy cream. Wet-wipes. Bottle of milk. Bottle of water. Cans of food. Complete change of clothes in case she’s sick. Another change of clothes in case something else happens. Soft toys, blanket thing, more nappies . . .’

‘Microwave, rocket-launcher, frying pan,’ said Molly. ‘Trampoline.’

He smiled. ‘It feels like that sometimes. Come on, let’s go.’

The busy restaurant had tables out on the sunny terrace overlooking the gorge and Brunel’s famous suspension bridge. The food smelled amazing, a wedding party was eating at one end of the terrace and the general mood was festive and celebratory. A waiter brought a high chair over for Delphi and Dex fastened her into it. Within minutes they had ice-cold wine, food had been ordered and Delphi was happily occupied chewing a piece of bread.