The Passionate Mistake (22 page)

Her pregnancy was a mistake. He had said it. And up to the very second he said it, she thought it was true.

But as soon as the words were on his lips, there was no more doubt in her mind. She was crystal clear.

Her tiny
, unformed baby. Her new family.

Family was everything.

It was the only thing. All she had left to her. She had lost him forever. He wouldn’t forgive her and she didn’t deserve it anyway. She had lost her family trying to hold on to him and do the right thing. All she had left was the baby and she would not listen to him say it was a mistake again. He had the power to break her and she couldn’t take that from him. She had to get away.

When he turned
from her to stride through the open doors to the balcony and gripped the railing with straining fists, she broke. Broke and ran on soundless feet, out of the room, down the stairs and out of the front door. She left it swinging open, left her shoes, jumped into the car and shoved her bare foot down on the accelerator, gunning it, only remembering her safety belt as she was swinging round the first curve in the road.

She h
ad to protect the baby. The precious little treasure in her womb. Not a mistake, no, never a mistake.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured to it. Sorry she had got things so wrong for it, sorry she had even considered for a moment she might not want it.
This would be her family. And no one would get the chance to call her child a mistake. Not ever. 

Chapter
Twenty-Three

The beach house was like a hug. Like warm arms folded around her, keeping her safe.

It wasn’t a house, really. It was a tiny cabin on the waterfront; meters from the high tide mark. Two rooms and a bathroom, shabby, the painted wood walls faded to soft pastels.

She kept the
woodbox fired up through the quiet evenings, fighting off the winter chill, with the covers peeled back on the bed so all the thick layers warmed through. Then she went to bed with a hot water bottle to cuddle, and wrapped herself up tight around her bump, feeling the slow aqueous movements inside with a little thrill, sometimes taking an hour or more to slip into sleep, singing softly to her baby.

She felt so secure here. The walls were lined with summer memories, all the years they had rented this cabin for weeks on end and squeezed themselves into it, falling over each other, laughing, playing, happy to be together. Dad had been a different man then, expansive and cheerful, ready to tussle on the floor with his
children. And Mum had been there; singing, making simple meals on the stove, sitting at the table to prepare food or play board games, her hair carelessly bundled up and coming down in long wispy strands.

Kate could sit at that table and remember
twining her fingers in that hair, plaiting it or forming it into corkscrews while mum held her head still, long minutes drifting by in quiet togetherness, or chatting about anything and nothing.

Janet taking new, wobbling steps from one sibling to a parent to another sibling, all of them so close
to each other; Just toddler-steps apart. Summer naps on the couch – a couch infinitely more ragged now, and cool with impregnated salt from a hundred holidaymakers – wearing baby Luke like a small, twitching rug, totally relaxed and asleep on his big sister.

It reassured her. She
did
know how to make a family. It was all inside her. She could hold a baby, love it properly. Here where Mum was so close, she had faith in herself.

Her days were
quiet. Peaceful. She had a little routine of walking, meditating, doing a couple of yoga poses. She had been teaching herself from a book that had been half price on the discount table at the local bookshop. Yoga for Pregnancy. Then she would settle in for a couple of hours programming on the couch, her laptop on her knees. Though there wasn’t much room left on those knees now. In another week or so she’d have to move to the table when working.

Another walk, or some more yoga, to get the blood flowing to extremities that felt clogged when she sat for too long, or to relieve the pressure of backache.
More programming. Heating up soups or frying some eggs to eat with toast, popping her vitamins and drinking glass after glass of water.

A couple of times a week she drove to the library, where there was free internet access, downloaded her email from her friends or from Janet or – wonder of wonders – occasionally Luke. Then she checked her bank account with a never-ceasing
sense of amazement, watching the sum in it swell and swell, tumescent with a life of its own.

She was almost ready to load up her third app, to join her little suite of fertility and pregnancy aids. She’d put all her avid reading on the subject, her programming skills and her loads of time and freedom together and come up with a solution that had grown her
savings of a few thousands into a nest egg that – with careful management – could last years.

She hadn’t told anyone about it yet. She should. She knew her friends came to visit and worried that she was living like this out of some lack of funds. And maybe that’s how it had started, the long-term rent cheap as the off-season approached and the owner was happy to get a tenant who would commit to nine months and understood the price would be dramatically hiked come the return of summer.

By then – surprise surprise – she would be able to afford it. If she wanted to stay. She didn’t know yet, and wasn’t worrying about it. This place had provided a home when she was desperate to get away from her life. More than that, it provided a connection with a better time in her life, a person she was relearning to be.

Yes, her friends worried a little. Janet didn’t. She swept in every couple of weeks on a high. Life was fantastic,
uni was amazing, her boyfriend was incredible, look how pregnant Kate was getting, oh wasn’t she lucky to be having a beautiful little baby, it would be wonderful to be an auntie, she promised to be the best, most loving auntie in the world, could she and Kate please go for a walk, the fresh air was great, especially in winter when it was so easy to be lazy and stay cooped up indoors. This was just the best spot to work, she envied Kate the solitude and the space to think, she loved the cabin, she had found a family photo that might have been taken there on holiday, she was almost sure, and yes, it was, look, there was that tiny tree, grown all big now, what a lovely place to be.

They had baked a couple of times, convincing the reluctant old oven to surrender trays of biscuits without burning them, despite itself. They had collected shells and driftwood on the beach – it was getting hard to rise from a squat now, but Kate persevered, determined – and talked and laughed, closing a gap in years that had seemed immense in childhood but was surprisingly small now, in many ways.

Sometimes Kate imagined Janet must be as Mum had once been as a young woman starting in independent life. Sometimes she thought this baby might grow to be like Janet one day, smart and bouncy and unexpectedly droll.

When Janet was gone Kate would arrange the flotsam and jetsam on the windowsill or stick the photo to the wall with the ancient, rusty brass pins that had probably been there for decades. Then she would cry bitterly at the return of her loneliness, this hole she could not fill, no matter what she did. She would cry and cry until finally, emptied, she would remember the baby that was a piece of him
. Not him. Never a replacement for him. But a comfort, nonetheless. And she would go on, reaching always for the inner calm she had made her goal.

Chapter
Twenty-Four

She decided to go and look at cots. Oh, not to buy one just yet. There was plenty of time for that. But it would be a good idea to have some idea what was available, and online catalogues weren’t really satisfactory.
Not as good as fiddling with a real one and deciding if it was well-designed and sturdy enough to hold her baby.

Since it was a half-hour drive each way, if there was anything else that needed doing in Auck
land, this would be the time.

The thing that immediately sprang to mind was him. Mike. She wanted to see him.

Oh, not to talk to. That would be far too painful. No.

She wanted to just see him, reassure herself the world was still ticking by as it should, with him on it.

There was a café right across the road from the DigiCom building. He went for a walk every lunchtime, for around twenty minutes; because exercise helped with neuroplasticity, he said. Everyone should exercise on their lunch breaks. If she sat at the café across the road she would see him go, and then return.

That would do it. That would be enough.
Just a glimpse. Two, if she stayed for the extra twenty minutes to see him come back again. Which she probably wouldn’t, of course. What was the point, if she had seen him on the way out?

No, just the once would be quite enough.

Then she would come away again, with not a word said.

-----

The day was dragging. Every day was dragging, but this one seemed particularly slow. He didn’t want to be sitting here chewing over these issues for the tenth time. Could they not simply discuss it once, make a decision and then implement it? Would that be so hard? It wasn’t rocket science.

He drummed his fingers on the table, a bad-tempered little tattoo his assistant immediately noticed. She was no fool. She saw the warning signs. They had no doubt become all too familiar to her of late.

“So, ah, I think we probably have all the information we need for now,” she said smoothly, standing and giving a subtle hand signal to invite the clients to do the same. “I’ll send through an email with details of what’s been discussed here. Feel free to make any changes you like, and send it back for us to quote on. Thank you so much for your time.”

Mike nodded, shook hands, smiled perfunctorily and watched them go, shepherded off across the road to the company’s underground car
park by Amanda. He stayed to finish his coffee. He didn’t feel like going back into the building, to carry on with exactly the same tasks he’d been doing this morning, and yesterday, and the day before . . .

Dull.
All of it. Just . . . dull. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a pregnant woman who was taking a seat at one of the sidewalk tables outside the cafe. He saw them everywhere, these days. He always found himself taking a second look, reassuring himself the woman was unfamiliar.

Then he would examine the size of the bump, wondering, making a mental comparison of where she might be in that whole process.

If she had kept the baby, of course.

She might not.

She might be anywhere in the world, sans bump, having the time of her life.

Twice he had even struck up a conversation with the owner of the randomly encountered bump. When was she due? How was she finding it? Tiring? Exciting? He supposed it was a vain attempt to have some connection with that other bump.

His bump.

Or not his, he obviously couldn’t claim any sort of meaningful ownership, but . . . well.

He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, rubbed his temples. He was so tired. He hadn’t been sleeping well for . . . for a while now.

The pregnant woman sat with her back to him. She was swaddled in a winter coat, scarf and hat. From behind she didn’t look pregnant at all
, still a relatively slender silhouette, dark against the white of the DigiCom building.

When the waitress brought her teapot and cup, she looked sideways and upwards, and smiled her thanks.

He froze.

What the
hell!
What was she doing here, across the road from his building? Was she meeting someone from the office here? Was she planning to meet
him?

His hand crept into his pocket to wrap around the reassuring flat rectangle of his phone. He had it with him. So he hadn’t missed her call. He drew it out and laid it on the table.

The bump was there
, the bulge of her pregnancy, their pregnancy. Only meters away. She
had
kept it.

She had his baby there, inside her body, wrapped up under her heart.

Her scheming, lying heart.

So what did she want from him? Was she here to negotiate? Two trimesters in, did she think she was in a stronger position? His lips curled back from his teeth. She was going to get a nasty shock. He had no intention of being used. Not by her.

He wouldn’t be her fool again.

She still hadn’t placed her call. Was she steeling herself for the conversation? She had to know it wouldn’t be pleasant.

The sun had moved enough to hit her face, and she shifted position to capture a little more of it, turning, tilting her head back and closing her eyes for a moment to enjoy the heat. The move changed the angle at which she sat. Now he could see the bump again, a gentle curve over the arm of the chair, disappearing into the lapel of her open coat.

Then she put her hand on it, stroking it slowly as she lifted her tea with her other hand and drank, her eyes fixed on the
DigiCom building.

Was she plotting how she would use
the baby against him?

She looked down and smiled a faint smile, and he saw her lips move as she said something in a soft undertone. Her voice didn’t reach him.

He watched her finish the cup of tea, and pour another from the plain white teapot. She drank that too, one sip at a time, as he waited in a fever of impatience to find out what she wanted. Several times his phone whirred or pipped, but it wasn’t her, so he ignored the calls and texts.

She drained the second cup, took the lid off the teapot and inspected the contents, as if to see whether any remained. A dribble, he saw, when she poured it out too.
Drank it. Set her cup aside.

Ah, now, he thought as she pushed to her feet, a little awkward as the
swell of her stomach collided with the table. She rubbed the spot absently as she took her scarf off the back of the chair and wrapped it around her neck, one handed. Put her hat on and pulled it down over her ears so her caramel blonde hair was squashed flat, emerging in disordered ripples in the gap between hat and scarf.

It was a little overgrown, not superbly styled as when he’d last seen her. As she turned to gather up her bag he saw she looked pale.
Worn out.

Was she eating properly? Pregnancy was draining. A woman needed good nutrition. There was no bloom in her cheeks. Weren’t pregnant women supposed to be blooming?
Softly rounded? There were hollows under her cheekbones. Her jawline looked sharply defined.

He registered a dozen minute changes. The flash of worry became anger.

She wasn’t taking proper care of the baby. How difficult was it to eat a little extra and pop a multi vitamin? Of all the irresponsible women . . .

Well that was certainly one condition he’d demand. She must take better care of herself. She had more to think of now
than just herself. She couldn’t afford to be selfish. He would insist she visit a doctor. And a nutritionist.

He stood too, slid his phone back in his pocket and put his jacket on, ready to follow her across the street.

He only looked away for a moment, but when he turned back she was gone.

He froze for a second, and then he was surging outside, heart beating madly, echoes of that other time a
wakened; when he had turned away and turned back to find her gone; out of reach; without leaving a trace.

Not a word.

Nothing.

As if she had never been.

A pit yawned before him as he thought it had happened again.

He clutched at the doorframe, fingers digging into the wood, and looked up the street.

She was there; walking steadily, but in no particular hurry. She was walking away. He frowned in confusion, dug his phone out again, checked it for the dozenth time. Still no call, no missed message.

It dawned on him she
wasn’t
there to meet him. She had no intention of meeting him.

If he had not chosen to have his meeting in the café, he would never even have known she had sat there for half an hour, staring at his building.

She walked around a corner and out of sight.

“God
damn
it!” he muttered explosively, and ran after her. She stood at the curb, unlocking her car door.

“Don’t you
dare! Don’t you
dare
walk away again! Do you hear me?” he called out, rage and desperation roiling inside him.

She started violently and whirled, her hand flying out to ward him off. As she staggered with the sudden movement he grabbed her elbow to steady her, releasing it as soon as she had her balance. She stared up at him, green eyes enormous, pupils dilated. She looked horrorstricken. As well she might.

He glared at her.

“
You have a bloody nerve. Think you can take off again? Think you can just
disappear
again when you’re carrying my child? This is outrageous.” It
was
outrageous, completely wrong that so much importance could be wrapped up inside a single person. Someone he knew he could not trust to do the right thing. Yet when he looked at her his heart turned over, too stupid to protect itself, knowing only the joy it had once had with her. He leaned towards her and she shied back, jaw set in what he took as wary readiness for a fight.

“I have a right to be heard!” h
e said, and she didn’t deny it. He waited to see if she would respond.

She waited too, breathing hard as if she had just been running, but silent.

“You do
not
get to shut me out,” he went on when she refused to speak, to give him anything to grip on to. How could he fight her if she wouldn’t say anything? “You do
not
get to just do as you please. If that’s what you wanted then you should just have terminated the pregnancy.” He saw her flinch, but still she said nothing. “But you didn’t, and that’s my kid too.
I
get a say.”

He
couldn’t keep on talking like this or he was going to put himself in an even worse bargaining position. She already held all the power. He had nothing over her, nothing to force her to regard his wishes or do right by his child and nothing . . . nothing to influence her to . . . to what? What did he want from
her
? He could have sworn it was nothing, would have sworn it right up until the instant she turned those sad green eyes on him and the whole of his internal world turned on his axis. He cursed himself for the most terrible fool.

He had to shut up. He’d been in many negotiations before and
knew the rule well: Never be the one to make the first offer. The person who speaks first, loses.

But she would not
open her mouth. When he stopped talking there was only silence, painful and frightening. So he carried on, finding it difficult to speak through the obstruction in his throat, wishing she’d just say
something
and put him out of his misery.

“You think you ca
n just play with people’s lives,” he accused her wildly. “Well we’re not toys. That baby deserves the best you know how to give it. And if you’re not capable, I damned well
am
.”

“What?” she said softly, barely above a whisper.

“I said
I
am,” he answered recklessly, giving up trying to gauge where she had set her trap. “If you are not prepared to look after the baby well and make sure it has access to what it needs, including its father, then I will have custody. Full custody.” It wasn’t an idle threat. He’d done his research and he had the resources to fight it out if she insisted. He didn’t want to, but nor would he let his child, conceived as some sort of weapon in a failed plot, then be raised without love.

“You can’t do that,” she said
, a faint furrow between her brows, a minimal response that only made him more furious, the evidence she didn’t really care about their baby.

“I can and I will. I’d rather not make a battle of it, but if you leave me no choice then you will regret it. I
swear
you will.”

He scanned her face intently, looking for clues, knowing her for a canny and ruthless fighter.
If she demanded a pay-off she’d get it, but he’d ring fence her with the contract he’d already had drawn up. He’d get the child to raise and he wouldn’t let her wander off again until it was in his arms.