The No-Kids Club (11 page)

Poppy jerked as an idea hit: maybe she could ask Oliver for a loan! A couple of thousand would be nothing to him. Why hadn’t she thought of him before?

Beside her, Alistair twitched in his sleep, like he was reading her thoughts. Poppy edged further away from him and towards the edge of the mattress, as if by putting more distance between them, he wouldn’t have access to her brain. The two men weren’t close, and Poppy always sensed Alistair was vaguely resentful of Oliver’s money and lifestyle. She’d have to ensure Oliver didn’t say anything to his brother, of course, and make sure he knew this was just a loan until she got together the funds to pay him back. If she saved half her paycheque for the next few months, it would be doable . . .

The heaviness of sleep closed in, and Poppy shut her eyes against the darkness and the tiny pinprick of guilt. It would all be worth it in the end, she reminded herself.

Tomorrow, she’d ring up Oliver and ask him for the money, then she’d make an appointment to see the nurse and be one step closer to starting their family.

Sorted.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

C
lare’s phone rang bright and early the next morning. She jerked upright, groaning as her stomach performed twirls. If possible, she felt even worse than last night. Despite her best efforts, she’d tossed and turned for hours, the bed seeming more and more like a prison as the thought of pregnancy loomed larger in her mind.

Finally, sometime around two, she’d decided to settle this whole thing by grabbing a pregnancy test at the chemist when she woke up. That settled, she’d drifted into a troubled sleep with dreams of screaming babies and piles of nappies—until the phone had jarred her awake.

‘Hello?’ she croaked, swinging her legs around to touch the floor and hoping solid ground would make her feel more settled. She squinted at the clock: 5:00 a.m. Who the hell would ring now?

‘Clare?’ Nicholas’s warm tone came through the line. ‘Sorry to call so early, but I figured you might be up?’

You figured wrong, Clare thought. She finally had the day off, and she’d planned to spend it celebrating not being pregnant after the negative test. Because she wasn’t pregnant, she told herself firmly. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not working today.’

‘Fantastic!’ Nicolas’s voice was energetic. ‘This works out well, then. Look, we’ve had a last-minute cancellation to our line-up this morning and we’re desperate to fill the time. I’d love to have you come into the studio for a live chat with our hosts about the
No-Ki
ds Club.’

Clare shrank back at the thought. ‘But you said it wouldn’t be live!’ She’d be rubbish trying to answer questions, knowing each and every word she uttered was being broadcast and she couldn’t stop to fix something if it went wrong.

‘It’s even better live,’ Nicholas said encouragingly. ‘More fun and fresh. And besides, Dennis and Debs are fantastic. They’ll put you at ease.’

Clare paused, turning the idea over in her head. It would be a great way to get new members, but . . . she was dying to do that test. Don’t be silly, she told herself. She couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spread the word about the No-Kids Club just because she wanted to prove she wasn’t pregnant. She could do that anytime.

‘We’ll do your hair and make-up, really pamper you,’ he continued. ‘And I’d love to spend some time with you when we’re done. Maybe finally cash that rain check?’ His voice was low and sensual. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t got in touch. It’s been a hectic week.’

‘That’s okay,’ Clare said quickly. ‘I’ve been busy, too.’ The thought crossed her mind that it might have been nice if he’d taken the time to fire her off a text, then she pushed it away. She didn’t need an explanation, and he didn’t expect any from her, either.

‘All right.’ She rubbed her eyes as she stood. ‘Is there anything particular I should wear? And where do I go?’

‘Oh, brill, thanks so much for agreeing to do this.’ She could hear the relief in his voice. ‘Don’t worry—we’ll sort out your
wardrobe
when you’re at the studio. Just throw on some clothes and I’ll send a car around to pick you up in thirty minutes.’

‘Okay,’ Clare said, raising her eyebrows
. Wardrobe?
What the hell had she let herself in for? Then again, she thought, eying her meagre clothing selection, that was probably a good thing.

‘I’ll see you soon.’ Nicholas hung up, and Clare padded to the loo and washed her face, feeling her stomach slide back into place. Fingers crossed it stayed there. She cleaned her teeth and ran a brush through her hair, then went into the bedroom and stood in front of the mirror. Turning to the side, she ran a hand over her still-flat belly. She didn’t
look
pregnant, but that didn’t mean anything. Women often didn’t start showing until the fourth month. God, she couldn’t wait to take that test and put these doubts to rest. Every minute that passed, they burrowed deeper into her brain.

Sighing, Clare pulled on a pair of jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt. Outside her window, the sky was still dark, and she brewed a very strong espresso and downed it as she watched the quiet road outside. A few minutes later, the glowing headlights of a sedan lit her narrow street, and she slipped on a pair of ballet flats, threw on a coat, and headed out into the foggy morning.

After a quick journey through the quiet roads of central
London
, the car pulled up to a large building situated on the Thames. The driver pointed to a door.

‘Right in there, madam,’ he said in a gruff voice. ‘Reception will take care of you. Good luck.’

Clare nodded, her cold fingers trembling now at what lay ahead: facing down the cameras on a live show. A little more preparation might have been nice, she thought, rubbing sweaty palms on her jeans. But then again, what did she need to prepare? She was the club’s founder, she knew all there was to know about it, and everything would be fine.

She pulled open the heavy door, squinting against the bright light of the reception area. Behind a curved silver desk sat a woman wearing an earpiece, tapping busily away on a computer.

‘Hi,’ Clare said, clearing her throat of its early-morning rasp. ‘I’m here for the show?’

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Which one?’

‘Er,
Wake Up London
. Nicholas Hunt is a producer.’

‘Give me a sec and I’ll get someone to come out and meet you.’ She punched some numbers into a phone, then looked up at Clare. ‘Name?’

‘Clare Donoghue.’

‘Have a seat.’

Clare sank onto a very uncomfortable chair made from glossy plastic, shifting from one buttock to the other to find a position where she didn’t risk sliding off.

‘Clare?’

She glanced up with a smile, anticipating Nicholas’s friendly face. Instead, her eyes met a boy almost half her age with a quiff so high it added a good five inches to his height. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I was expecting Nicholas.’

‘He’s backstage getting everything ready,’ the boy responded, attempting to run a hand through his hair but repelled by the gel. ‘If you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you to the green room, and hair and make-up will come get you. We’re on tight timeline, since your piece is due to run in about an hour. Nick wanted to make sure you get prime-time wake-up viewing.’

Well, that was nice of him, Clare thought as she followed the boy down a narrow corridor, trying not to notice the waistband of his boxers peeping out from his jeans. Her stomach shifted again and she popped two Tums, furiously crunching down on them.

The boy shot her a quizzical look at the sound. ‘Everything okay?’

Clare nodded shakily. ‘Fine, fine.’ Just too much caffeine on an empty stomach, she told herself—nothing else. Despite the
horror
circling inside at the other possibility, she couldn’t help
smiling
at how ironic it would be if she
was
pregnant. The founder of the
No-Kid
s Club, live on television arguing for the rights of the
childless
, knocked up herself.

All the irony in the world couldn’t make up for being pregnant, though, she thought grimly. God, she couldn’t wait to get back home and take that test!

‘Right, here we are.’ The boy ushered her into a room with plump sofas and chairs. A table in the corner was heaving with pastries, and the smell of coffee drifted from metallic canisters in the far end. Clare tried not to breathe in any of the scents. ‘Just chill out here for a few minutes, and Jenna will be by soon.’ He gave her a quick once-over, lip curling slightly. ‘Don’t worry, she’s a miracle worker.’

The nerve! Clare had to laugh as she sank into a brown leather chair. Not that she could blame him, though—her jeans, baggy T-shirt, and pale face weren’t exactly doing her any favours. Hair and make-up would have to work a miracle to make her
presentable
.

Half an hour later, Clare glanced in the mirror at her altered reflection. Jenna had transported her to the land of the living, that much was true . . . although the result wasn’t
quite
what she’d have chosen. Even when she went out, Clare always chose the natural-but-slightly-enhanced style, with mascara, a little mineral powder, a swoosh of taupe eye-shadow to accent her eyes, and lip gloss.

Now, though, she looked like she’d collided with a make-up truck. Her lips were a glossy crimson that would rival any vampire movie, masterful streaks of blush made her cheekbones look razor-sharp, and her lids sparkled with thick eye shadow. It wasn’t bad, just . . . different. And—Clare tilted her head as she examined her reflection again—rather intimidating. With her hair scraped back into a high ponytail, the only thing missing was a whip. Obviously they were trying to transform her into the stereotypical image of a career-driven woman who put her own desires and ambitions over children.

She blinked, a surge of anger running through her. Why did people always think that was the face of today’s childless women? Anna and Poppy certainly weren’t focused on careers, and they didn’t have kids. There was a myriad of reasons why people were child-free. She’d try her best to get that across, despite her
corporate
-meets-dominatrix facade.

‘Hiya!’ The chipper voice of a woman about her age with cropped dark hair cut into Clare’s thoughts. ‘I’m Liz, from Wardrobe. If you’d like to come this way, we’ll get you kitted out.’

Clare nodded and clambered to her feet, then followed the woman through yet more corridors and into a room where rails and rails of clothes lined the wall. ‘Um, have you seen Nicholas anywhere? I’d love to have a quick chat with him before I go on.’

Liz shook her head as she delved into one of the huge racks. ‘Not since earlier this morning,’ she said, her voice muffled by the clothes. ‘I’ll see if I can grab him once we’re done here, but we don’t have much time. He told me he already briefed you.’

‘Well, yes.’ Nicholas
had
told her what to expect, but somehow she’d thought he’d be here to shepherd her through this whole process, too. But he was a busy producer managing a top show; he obviously had other things to do than holding her hand. Besides, she was more than capable of doing this on her own. Hopefully.

‘Okay.’ Liz’s flushed face emerged from the depths of the rack, clutching a pencil skirt, sky-high stilettos, and a wrap-around blouse with a plunging neckline. ‘Here we are. You’re a size ten, right?’

Clare nodded, forcing the thought from her mind that lately her trousers felt a little snug—despite the fact she hadn’t been
eating more
.

Her heart sank as she eyed the clothing. They
were
doing her up to be selfish-corporate-woman. A thrill of righteous indignation went through her. Why didn’t they treat males the same way? No one interrogated ambitious single men about why they didn’t
want ki
ds.

‘I don’t think that’s for me,’ Clare said, shaking her head at the ensemble. ‘Do you have anything a bit more, er,
comfortable
?’ And something that didn’t scream corporate bitch.

Annoyance flashed across Liz’s face. ‘Sorry, hon, we don’t have much time here. You’re lucky we could pull this together last
minute
.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Look, you’d be doing me a huge favour if you put this on. I’ve got to sort out the next guest.’

Clare ran her eyes over the outfit again. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad on—at least they hadn’t handed her a whip. Yet. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Just show me where to change.’

‘Right here, please.’ Liz’s tone was brisk and efficient. ‘Hang your jeans and T-shirt on this rail. You can collect them after the show.’

‘Okay.’ Clare shrugged as she peeled off her clothes, stepped into the skin-coloured tights Liz handed her, then shimmied into the pencil skirt, noting with satisfaction it slid easily over her curves. She shoved her arms into the sleeves of the wraparound blouse.

‘Christ, that bra looks about to give up the ghost,’ Liz said, arching an eyebrow at Clare’s bust. ‘Let me see if I have a tank to put over that. We can’t risk you flashing a nipple on the morning show. I’d be burnt at the stake.’

What the hell was Liz on about, Clare thought, glancing down at her chest? She’d only just bought this bra a couple months ago . . . her eyebrows rose in surprise. Shit, her breasts did seem to be making a break for freedom, spilling over the sides of the cups. She must have shrunk it in the wash or something. But then, the lingerie she’d worn last week had also seemed a little tight.
Christ.

Now’s not the time to think about all that, she told herself, cursing Ellie and her ridiculous fantasy for planting the thought in her head. Liz handed her a tank top, which Clare carefully manoeuvred over her head in an effort not to dislodge make-up or hair. Then Liz tied the wraparound shirt as tightly as possible, manhandled Clare’s cleavage into place, slid her feet into the stilettos, and declared her ready to go with minutes to spare.

‘Have a look.’ Liz shoved aside a rack to reveal a dusty mirror, and Clare squinted at the woman in the glass. Wow. Was that really her? She looked like a contestant on
The Apprentice
—all tightly
tailored
business attire with killer heels and a face so full of make-up it was a wonder her cheekbones could support it. She’d never dressed this way a day in her life. In fact, if she turned up at the hospital sporting this get-up, her colleagues would fall about laughing.

‘Um, I’m not sure—’

‘No time to change now!’ Liz said in a falsely upbeat tone. ‘I’ve got to take you to the green room. You’re on in ten! Come on.’ Without looking back, she rushed down the corridor, and Clare had no choice but to hobble after her on the four-inch stilettos. How on earth did women wear these things to work, she wondered, attempting not to topple over. Finally, she made it to the green room and collapsed into a chair. She’d barely caught her breath when Nicholas appeared.

‘Clare! You look absolutely gorgeous.’ His blue eyes sparkled as he took in her outfit.

Clare struggled to her feet, tugging down the pencil skirt. Oh, shit. Her breasts were nearly hanging out of the blouse despite the tank top. She tried to adjust it, but Nicholas was already leaning forward to kiss her cheek.