There it was. The pregnancy test stick she’d held up for Richard to look at. The expensive kind that had once read ‘pregnant, 2+ weeks’, but now the battery had drained and the little screen was blank. Beside it lay the first scan picture of a tiny little shadow and all her hopes and dreams for the future. Beneath those were folded the unworn maternity jeans with the label still attached that she couldn’t face returning to the shop, and finally, grimly, there was the booklet on baby loss the nurse had handed her when she left the hospital heartbroken after what should have been a routine second trimester scan turned into shattering news resulting in a grim procedure under anaesthetic and a horrible, empty awakening.
She’d been unlucky, the doctor had said, but that word wasn’t big enough to contain what had happened to Beatrice. She’d been crushed, despondent, utterly lost and untethered from her old life. She’d been angry too, and soon after she’d become desperate.
Weeks of tearfully trying to conceive again had followed, and arguments too, and the growing sense of failure and of time running out. Eventually Richard had gone out to work one day and never come back, letting her know from a hotel room phone that he couldn’t cope with her anymore, that she needed help; his words had sent her spiralling further into deep and unrelenting grief.
Other women go through miscarriage all the time, Beatrice knew. Her frantic online research had told her as much, and every one of them responds differently to the shock and the grief, but mostly they adjust and carry on, at least that’s whatseemsto happen on the surface, but not Beatrice. The loneliness of feeling she couldn’t talk to anyone about her baby and the shame of forcing Richard out of their marriage because of her erratic behaviour and desperation to be pregnant again threw her headlong into a summer of bitterness and dejection which had eventually carried her here to Port Willow. A runaway who Atholl had found and fallen for, even though she was a wreck.
They’d been so happy these last five months as she’d come to terms with being childless, finding life with Atholl was beautiful and fulfilling in all kinds of new ways she’d never known before, but now the thought of going through all of that pain again and the very idea of seeing Atholl’s great heart breaking… No.She couldn’t bear to think about it at all.
If it really was all down to luck whether they ever got to meet their baby or not, Beatrice knew she didn’t have it within her power tomakethat luck happen, to force things to come right for them. She’d have to be patient and brave and not make herself ill again with the worry and the feeling of helplessness and of urgently wanting a baby of her own to take home.
She didn’t know where she was going to find the strength to do it.
The first sob made Echo jump up from the rug and stalk tentatively towards her. He pressed his whiskery muzzle to Beatrice’s bowed forehead and sniffed sympathetically, and she wept there in front of the fire with her arms around the loyal collie until there was an even thicker blanket of Christmas Eve snow over Port Willow.
Chapter Ten
Meeting Mutt
It’s amazing what a Shu Uemura hair mask and a DIY La Mer detox facial can do for a woman.
Nina was feeling a lot more like her old self in her favourite Balenciaga fuchsia-pink heels, oversized Maison Margiela distressed denim pants and the black Saint Laurent sweatshirt she’d bought for Luke and that he’d only worn once or twice as winter running gear. It had somehow got mixed up with her own things as, presumably, Fournival packed up every last remnant of her existence, preparing to return them in Luke’s cowardly sneak-attack eviction she hadn’t seen coming.
Luke’s top still smelled of whatever delicious mystery elixir the housekeeper (Nina had literally never laid eyes on the woman and didn’t so much as know her name) used to launder their clothes and she’d paused a moment before slipping it on, inhaling deeply and feeling her heart hurt a little, but telling herself it was one of the warmest garments in her suitcase and it would be less conspicuous than the designer knits she’d packed for the trip long before she’d realised there likely wasn’t a specialist dry cleaner for miles in these parts, so how the hell was she supposed to look after them?
Her hair was blow dried and swept back into the sleek, bouncing quiff that was her signature look, though she was already worrying about how she’d get her regrowth done in the New Year. Nothing on earth compared to Warren Tricomi Salon and the magic her colourist could work upon her roots. She wouldn’t think about it now. It was all the more motivation to complete her tasks and get out of here.
Imagine if she could be back in the Microtrends building before her booking was up, and with a portfolio fabulous enough to make Seamus reinstate her there and then, and, with any luck, send the imposter Himari packing.
She stumbled a little on the stairs, coming face to face with a faded movie poster of Gene Kelly inSingin’ in the Rainframed on the wall. She pulled on the heel of her shoe with a finger, frowning at the inn’s tacky art – obviouslytheyhadn’t been swept away in this supposed refurbishment that was going on. She held her head high once more and carried on her way.
Fournival had been meticulous, gathering up every last scrap of her make-up too, and so she’d been careful to curate a perfect travel beauty kit ahead of her flight in those lonely, wrathful nights at the Ramada when nobody in New York would take her calls. That morning she’d found herself wishing she’d spent that time researching her destination but in her shock and self-pity it had been all she could do to keep breathing.
Her make-up was immaculate now – anyone seeing her would never be able to tell what a cruel hand she’d been dealt this week – as she went in search of the media room, getting a little lost in the maze of back stairs and corridors that made up the Princess and the Pea Inn. Eventually, she found the closed door at the very bottom of the building in what she guessed must be a recently converted basement. The corridor still smelled strongly of drying paint.
As she touched the door handle, she paused at the scratching, whimpering noises coming from the other side. ‘What now? Is there nothing normal in this place?’
No sooner had she pushed the door ajar but the assault began. A grey and black fur ball escaped the room and bounced at her knees, yapping and drooling and turning in circles. The paint smell was even stronger now she was in the glare of the windowless room’s downlights.
‘Hey! Get off me, these were given to me by the designer, you know?’ she said, trying to restrain the puppy and protect her pumps. The dog still danced and pounced, happy to have found a new playmate.
‘Bear!Leave her alone.’
If the man’s deep voice hadn’t startled her, the sight of him emerging from around the door in his dark jeans, vest-T, and a shirt tied around his waist, certainly did. He grabbed the pup, scooping the wriggling bundle of fluff into a tattooed arm, and pushed his brown hair back as he straightened up, looking with concern at the scuffs and spots of doggy drool on Nina’s shoes.
‘Sorry about him. He’s excited to see folk after being stuck in here with me most of the day.’ His Scottish accent was thick, Nina observed, but he didn’t use the same colloquialisms and shortenings that everyone else around here seemed to use. At least she understood this guy, which was handy as she now had a bone to pick with him.
‘Are you kidding me? My shoes are wrecked.’ She fixed her eyes on Bear.
‘He’s only little, he doesn’t know. Look, I’ll pay for them, how much do I owe you?’ The man reached a hand to his back pocket and his wallet.
‘They retail at five hundred dollars,’ Nina replied dryly.
‘Jesus! Fivehundreddollars? For shoes?’ His eyes scanned her face, disbelieving. ‘That’s crazy.’
She merely shrugged, tipping her head pointedly.
‘You said they were free?’ There was a note of challenge in his voice.
