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The pain of leaving him had been agonising, but it had been essential. For her self-respect, for her sanity; above all, for the child she carried.
Her face shadowed again. In her head she heard her own ruthless condemnation echoing harshly.
Some fathers are not worth having.
She would not wish that on any child—growing up with a father who had not wanted it to be born, had never regarded its mother as worth marrying, had even required proof that the baby she carried was genetically his.
No, a single-parent family might have its disadvantages, but it would never tear her child apart emotionally, never torment it with the knowledge of a father not wanting it, or its mother.
Her eyes strayed to the children playing cricket with their parents. Laughing and having fun, a family together. United and happy.
She looked away, back down to her book. A heaviness crushed her suddenly. If it was a boy, she would play beach cricket with him, she thought fiercely. He wouldn’t need a father! He’d be fine without one—just fine! Loads of children grew up without fathers these days; it was perfectly normal.
After all, hadn’t she grown up without either of her parents?
But you had your grandparents—they were your family.
She felt her heart tighten. She’d grown up without parents because of a tragic accident, not because someone had deliberately deprived her of them.
But I’m not depriving my child of a father! I’m keeping it safe from a father who would only cause grief!
And anyway, Markos had gone. Walked out without a word. He wasn’t coming back. She’d turned him down and he wouldn’t offer again. He was probably off in some exotic location, staying in a fancy hotel or one of his half-dozen apartments round the world, with some gorgeous female to keep him company, to adore him…
The knife twisted again in her heart. She ignored it.
Markos was gone from her life. She was on her own. Her and her baby.
Markos wanted neither of them.
The sun was lowering to the west, but it was far from sinking yet. The beach was emptier, with many of the families wending their way back to their holiday accommodation for tea, but there were still a good few enjoying the last of the day. The tide had come in, and Vanessa had had her swim, wading into the water feeling more like a walrus than a woman. But she didn’t care about how she looked. At this late stage of pregnancy she was fit and healthy, and that was all that mattered. Bobbing gently in the water like some kind of inflatable was very soothing.
She’d emerged, hair matted and salty, but not caring about that either. She’d let the warmth of the late afternoon dry her stretched maternity swimming costume, and then pulled her trousers up over it without even attempting to change on the beach. She would have a shower when she got back to the house, clean up properly then. Gathering her rug and her bag, she made her way slowly up the beach.
Gaining the promenade after an even slower ascent of the stone steps from the beach, she glanced at her watch. Her new holiday tenants were arriving this evening. The agency she let the flat through had told her they had said they would not be there before seven, so she had plenty of time. The upstairs flat had been cleaned thoroughly that morning, when the previous holidaymakers had left, and Vanessa had made the beds, set out a tea-tray, and put fresh flowers on the table and a couple of pints of fresh milk in the fridge, as she always did for new arrivals.
It was no problem having people upstairs. Most were families, and the sounds of children were merely a foretaste, she knew, of what her own life would bring shortly. This week, it was booked for a couple with an eight-year-old and a ten-year-old, travelling down from London that afternoon.
Back at the house, she put her sandy beach things in the kitchen sink and went to have her shower, sluicing and soaping off the salty water and lathering her hair into thick suds. Then she rinsed everything off and dried herself on a towel that seemed to be getting smaller every day.
She had just dressed herself in fresh clothes, a loose, cool cotton day-pyjama set in mint-green, and combed out her long tangled hair, when the doorbell rang. It wasn’t seven yet, but perhaps the traffic had been lighter than expected. She padded heavily out of the bedroom, which overlooked the patio garden, and went to open the front door.
‘Come in,’ she said. ‘You must have had a good run down from Lon—’
Her voice dried completely, and she felt her hand spasm on the doorframe where she stood.
Markos stood outside.
He was carrying a suitcase.
She could only stare. Every thought seemed to have drained from her. All except one.
It was the least relevant to anything but the immediate present, but it was the only thing that came to her.
‘I’ve got people arriving at any moment,’ she said blankly. ‘For my holiday flat.’
‘There’s been a change of plan,’ he answered. ‘I’m the new tenant.’
‘Excuse me?’ Her voice sounded faint.
