Sandstorm (11 page)

However, on the morning they were due to depart, she awakened at six-thirty feeling absolutely terrible. She lay for a few minutes, trying to control the nausea that was gripping her, and then realising it was hopeless, she stumbled into the bathroom.

She was violently sick, and afterwards she leant her hot forehead against the cool tiles, praying the accompanying dizziness would leave her. But it didn't, and she eventually crawled back into bed, feeling like death.

Her father appeared at seven-thirty, after she had visited the bathroom a second time, and one look at her haggard face convinced him that she would be going nowhere that day.

'I'm sorry, my dear, but you're definitely not well enough to go flying off to Aberdeen,' he insisted gently. 'I'll telephone Daley and explain the situation. I'm sure he'll understand, and if it's imperative that you go with him, then he'll just have to postpone his visit.'

'Oh, Dad, Brad will look after me,' Abby protested, propping herself up on her elbows. 'It's just a touch of gastritis, that's all. Perhaps it was that pate I ate last night. It did have a funny taste.'

'The pate was perfectly all right. I had some myself,' retorted her father shortly. 'And in any case, you didn't eat enough to upset a fly. Come to think of it, you hardly eat enough to keep a body alive. Perhaps you should be thinking of eating more, not less, then you might not get so nauseous.'

'Food! Ugh!' Abby grimaced. 'I ache at the thought of it.'

'Well, you ought to eat something,' observed Professor Gillespie thoughtfully. 'A slice of dry toast, perhaps. Could you manage that? Then if you were sick again you wouldn't ache so much.'

Abby turned her face into the pillow. 'I'll get up‑'

'I'll fetch it,' retorted her father firmly, and too weak to argue, she acquiesced.

Curiously, she felt much better after the slice of toast had been digested. So much better in fact that when her father suggested ringing Brad, she begged him to reconsider.

'Honestly, I'm sure I could go,' she pleaded, but for once Professor Gillespie was adamant.

'Maybe tomorrow,' was all he would concede, and as she had expected, Brad agreed to postpone the trip.

'He's coming round later to see how you are,' her father told her, when she came down the stairs, tying the cord of her dressing gown, and she made a gesture of resignation as she passed him on her way to the kitchen.

'There was no need,' she insisted, but Professor Gillespie ignored her, and with a shrug she helped herself to some bread from the bin.

'What are you doing?'

Her father, coming into the kitchen behind her, looked surprised, and she grinned. 'I told you I was all right,' she exclaimed. 'As a matter of fact, I feel ravenous now. That slice of toast definitely did the trick.'

'Really?'

The Professor looked thoughtful, but he made no comment, and Abby, sitting down to a poached egg a few minutes later, felt a fraud for delaying Brad over nothing more than a minor upset.

Brad himself was all concern when he arrived in the middle of the afternoon. He brought her an enormous bouquet of winter roses, but although she was grateful for his consideration, they reminded her too poignantly of Rachid, and the time they spent together in Paris. Roses always would, she acknowledged, but she thanked Brad sincerely, and tried to apologise for her apparently speedy recovery.

'I told Dad it was nothing,' she exclaimed, fingering the petals of a creamy rose in some embarrassment. 'But he insisted on calling you, and—well, I feel a hypocrite.'

'Don't be silly.' Brad was quick to reassure her. 'There's no urgency about the trip. I suggest we give it a couple of days before we make any more arrangements. That way, you'll be sure of being completely recovered.'

'I'm recovered now,' protested Abby, but Brad was as determined as her father, and she gave in to the warm feeling of security their caring engendered.

The following morning, however, she had reason to be grateful for her father's good sense. She awakened with the same feeling of nausea, and as she sagged over the basin in the bathroom she wondered if she ought to go and see the doctor. She had no other symptoms, of course, but she had been feeling a little tired lately, and he might offer her a tonic to tone her up.

Professor Gillespie appeared as she emerged from the bathroom, and his expression was severe as he studied her pale features. 'Have you been sick again?' he asked, putting cool fingers on her forehead, and at her nod: 'How long is it going to be before you tell me?'

'Tell you? Tell you what?' Abby felt too weak for riddles. 'I don't know what it is, if that's what you're thinking. Perhaps I ought to see a doctor.'

'Perhaps you ought,' agreed her father, accompanying her into her bedroom. 'Tell me ...' He paused for a moment, and then went on reluctantly: 'Is it Daley?'

'Is what Daley?' Abby clambered into bed, sinking back against the pillows with a feeling of helplessness. 'Dad, if you can't be more explicit, then do you mind leaving it until later. Right now, I feel too sick to care.'

'Abby!' Her father came down upon the side of the bed, taking one of her limp hands in both of his and looking at her impatiently. 'Abby, you're not a child. You must know what's wrong with you. All I want to know is, is Daley the father?'

'Brad!' Abby blinked, and then, as the whole weight of what her father was suggesting became apparent to her, she struggled up into a cross-legged position. 'What? What are you saying?'

'Abby, Abby ...' Professor Gillespie tried to calm her. 'Surely you've guessed. A woman doesn't get morning sickness for no reason. Didn't it occur to you before? My God! I half suspected it yesterday, and now this seems to confirm it.'

'But I don't—I can't—that is, I can't have a child!' stammered Abby unsteadily. 'You know that. You know I can't.'

'Obviously you can,' retorted her father flatly. 'These things happen, even in the best of families.' He caught his lower lip between his teeth. 'I only wish Rachid‑' He broke off abruptly. 'The sooner you get your divorce the better.'

Abby stared at him, her fingers clenching convulsively on the blankets, squeezing and unsqueezing, trying desperately to make sense of what her father was saying. But all that was beating at her brain was the unlikely possibility that she was pregnant, with Rachid's child, and for the moment that was hard enough to absorb. How long was it since she had experienced her usual bodily function? Five weeks? .Six? That trip to Ireland with Brad had thrown her out of key, and she had had so much else on her mind, she had not bothered to keep count of the days. Besides, it was not something she gave much thought to these days, and particularly not since she left Rachid.

'I suppose it happened when you were in Ireland,' her father was saying now, pressing his balled fist into his palm. 'No wonder he was so worried about you yesterday! I had my suspicions, but‑'

'Dad, what are you saying?' Struggling to surface from her own bewilderment, Abby found her father's ramblings hard to understand. 'What has Brad to do with this? You can't imagine he and I‑' She shook her head disbelievingly. 'Dad, my relationship with Brad is completely platonic.'

'Then who‑' Comprehension dawned. 'Not—Rachid?'

'Of course Rachid,' exclaimed Abby crossly, the chaotic turmoil of her thoughts temporarily banishing the feelings of nausea. Pushing back the covers, she swung her legs out of bed, searching blindly for her slippers, and when she found them, padding restlessly over to the window. 'How could you think it was anyone else?'

Her father rose unsteadily. 'But—you seemed so—so opposed to him when he was here. You refused to listen to him, you behaved as if you hated him!'

'I did. I do!' she got out chokingly. 'I—I despise him‑'

'Yet you're pregnant by him,' observed her father dryly: 'Which doesn't quite add up, does it?'

Abby swung round wearily, tears trembling on the curling length of her lashes, tiny silver jewels sparkling on spears of gold. 'It was the night I went to his hotel,' she admitted, clinging to the ledge behind her for support. 'He—he took advantage of the situation, and I—and I let him.'

'Well, I'm glad you're honest, at least,' commented the Professor rather dryly. 'If you'd told me it was all his fault, I'd have found that very hard to believe. As it is, I can only abhor your recklessness in the circumstances.'

'I didn't think it would matter,' Abby muttered, bending her head. 'I mean—Oh, God! How was I to know I might get pregnant? I never have before.'

Her father shrugged. 'It was always a possibility, surely you realised that.'

'No.' Abby turned her face to the wall. 'No, I didn't realise it. Dad, Rachid and I were married three years— three years!'

'That's not so long,' replied her father quietly. 'And towards the end you denied him your bed, didn't you?'

Abby sniffed. 'I don't want to talk about that.'

Professor Gillespie shook his head. 'I suggest we go downstairs and have some breakfast. You'll feel better after you've eaten. At least this may encourage you to eat more sensibly. You'll find your appetite will definitely improve.'

'Oh, Dad ...' Abby turned back, resting her head against the wall behind her, her cheeks streaked with tears. 'Dad, what am I going to do? What am I going to do?'

'You're going to come downstairs and have some breakfast,' replied Professor Gillespie reasonably, 'and then we'll talk about it afterwards.'

Gathering up the dressing gown she had shed, he brought it to her, and obediently, she pushed her arms into the sleeves. But as he slipped it over her shoulders, he took a gentle hold on her, pulling her back against him for a moment and laying his cheek against her hair.

'Don't worry, my love,' he assured her gently, 'whatever happens, I'm always here. We'll work something out, never fear.'

She let him hold her for a few moments, and then she drew away, .turning to put her palm against, his cheek. 'Thanks, Dad,' she said, brushing away her tears with an impatient finger. 'What would I do without you?'

Her father prepared the meal, and Abby tucked in to two boiled eggs and a mountain of toast and marmalade. If anything was needed to convince her that her body was undergoing a change, the amount she ate would have done it, particularly as breakfast had never been a favourite meal. Two cups of coffee and half a slice of toast was all she had ever wanted, but suddenly she could eat generously and still feel hungry.

Nevertheless, she did feel marvellously well afterwards, and in spite of her problems there was a growing feeling of excitement inside her. She was pregnant! She was actually going to have a baby, and as she dressed she viewed her body with enlightened eyes. Was it true? Could it honestly be? Had Rachid seeded his child inside her? She felt both ecstatic and apprehensive, and unwilling to look beyond this moment to the future and all it portended.

Her father was waiting for her in the living room when she came down the stairs, and she joined him rather reluctantly, aware of what he was likely to say. Even though he had tried to reassure her upstairs, she was not unaware of his admiration for Rachid, and it was reasonable that he would expect her to tell her husband what had happened. How Rachid might react was another matter, and she crossed the room stiffly, seating herself opposite her father and viewing him with guarded eyes.

'It's just as well I don't have a tutoring session this morning,' Professor Gillespie remarked, pulling out his tobacco pouch and filling his pipe. 'I don't honestly feel up to teaching anyone today, and I wish you'd stop looking at me as if I was about to lecture you.'

Abby relaxed, and draped a jean-clad leg over the arm of her chair. 'I'm sorry. I'm tense, I suppose.'

'Not unnaturally,' observed her father, lighting his pipe. 'But not with me, I hope. I shan't try to make you do anything you don't want to do, Abby. But I have to say, Rachid will have to be told.'

Abby caught her breath. 'I suppose so.'

'There's no suppose about it,' said her father levelly. 'Naturally, first of all, we'll have to have our diagnosis confirmed, but if it's positive, and I can't see it being otherwise, he must be informed.'

'Yes, all right.' Abby was offhand.

'That is what you want, too, isn't it?' her father enquired, looking at her over the top of his spectacles, and she moved her shoulders helplessly.

'It doesn't much matter what I want, does it?'

Professor Gillespie sighed. 'Now don't let's be silly about this, Abby. You have a responsibility to the child, whatever else is involved.'

'I know.' Abby shifted restlessly. 'I'm not arguing, am I?'

'So what do you plan to do?' her father asked, studying the bowl of his pipe. 'Will you return to Rach‑'

'No!' Abby sprang abruptly to her feet, pacing jerkily across the floor. 'No, I won't do that.'

'Why not?'

'You ask me that?'

'Oh, Abby ...' Professor Gillespie made a soothing gesture. 'Doesn't this shed a different light on the situation? I mean—all right, there was another woman‑'

'I only know of one. There could have been others!'

'—and you feel bitter. But have you considered? If the child is a boy, he will be his father's heir?'

Abby sucked in her cheeks. 'You forget, Rachid has agreed, to our divorce‑'

'Abby!' Her father shook his head. 'You can hardly blame him for that.'

Abby opened her mouth to respond- and then closed it again. What was the point of labouring Rachid's responsibility for what had happened? Whatever the provocation, she had responded to his lovemaking, and even now, with the disruptive result of her recklessness destroying her hopes for the future, she was unable to deny the stirring of her senses at the memories aroused. For the first time she considered how it would be if she did return to Abarein, and the blood pounded in her ears at the prospect of living with Rachid again.

Realising her father was speaking again, she thrust these disturbing thoughts aside and concentrated on what he was saying.

'I suggest you make an appointment to see Doctor Frazer, as soon as possible,' Professor Gillespie advised her. 'Then we can decide how you're going to tell Rachid.'