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Mattie nodded, her teeth worrying at her lower lip. At least ‘the child’ was better than ‘it’. Marginally.
‘Will you hear her if she wakes?’
She ignored the brusqueness of his tone. It wasn’t important. Her heart gave a small jerk of pleasure. He was capable of concern for his tiny daughter, even though he hadn’t been able to look at her properly and had refused to hold her.
Her features relaxed slightly as she indicated the baby listener beside her on the sofa. ‘I have this. I’ll hear her as soon as she wakes.’
‘Right.’
He disappeared into the kitchen and Mattie sagged back into the corner of the sofa. Relief that he was here, that he hadn’t deserted her was warring with the certainty that she was better off without him. The emotional battle was wearing her down.
But by the time he called her into the kitchen she had let it go. She was simply too tired to do anything other than go with the flow—wherever it took her.
The oil-fired Rayburn gave out a comfortable warmth, bunches of dried herbs hung from the chunky overhead beams and the square pine table was laid for supper. It was all so dear and familiar to her it brought weak tears to her eyes.
James should have looked glaringly out of place. But he didn’t. In fact, when he handed her a plate of grilled fillet steak he looked like the most comforting thing she’d ever set eyes on.
He’d grilled mushrooms and tomatoes, too, and made a green salad. ‘Eat,’ he instructed, pouring red wine for them both. ‘Then bed. You need an early night. I’ll see to the clearing up.’
Stupid tears misted her eyes and her mouth quivered as she cut into the tender meat. She was grateful that he appeared to have put the discussion about their pending divorce on hold. She couldn’t have faced it. Tomorrow, maybe, she’d be feeling strong enough.
She ate as much as she could manage, drank a little of the wine, and wondered if he could tell how badly her eyelids were drooping. In the background she could hear the washing machine chugging through its cycle in the lean-to utility room. For the first time she noticed that the bundle of baby laundry she’d left on the floor, intending to put it through the machine later, was missing.
He was a rock she wanted to cling to and any time now she’d find herself down on her knees, thanking him for being here for her. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to get a grip.
‘Thank you.’ Mattie put her cutlery down. She wasn’t going to express her surprise that he could cook a mean steak and go on to remind him that they’d learned rudimentary cooking skills together last Christmas. It was better to keep away from anything personal. She pushed herself to her feet. Every muscle in her body was aching with fatigue. ‘I’ll take your advice and turn in now.’
Somehow she made it up the stairs without falling asleep and when she finally crawled beneath the duvet she went under instantly. To be woken some time later by the wail of a hungry baby.
Gaining consciousness as quickly as she’d lost it, she rolled out of bed and stumbled to the small nursery at the head of the staircase, falling over her feet, pushing her hair out of her eyes with one hand, feeling for the door knob with the other.
‘Coming, sweetheart,’ she croaked. ‘Hang on in there. We’ll have you dry and comfy in no time.’ By the dim night light she assembled everything she needed. Changing mat, clean nappy, baby wipes, cream. A fresh body suit.
Broken nights would be the norm for some time to come, she thought without rancour as she sank into the nursery chair with seven pounds of increasingly grumpy, hungry baby in her arms. Opening the front fastening of her passion-killer cotton nightgown, she settled Chloe at her breast and James walked in.
He was wearing a pair of dark boxer shorts and carrying a glass of steaming hot milk on a tray. Her heart jumped. His body was as magnificent as she remembered. It hurt to be reminded; she knew every inch of him so intimately. Couldn’t he guess how difficult this was for her?
Holding her breath, she waited for that look of distaste, wondering how she would cope with it for a second time. It didn’t come. He put the tray near her feet, where she could reach it.
‘I heard her crying and you lumbering around like an elephant on drugs.’
His tone was so dry, his description so accurate she wanted to giggle. ‘I’m sorry you were woken,’ she said, straight-faced. His hair was rumpled, sticking up in tufts, soft strands falling over his forehead, his jawline dark with stubble. She loved him so much. She couldn’t help it. As soon as he’d gone—and that could be as soon as tomorrow—she’d begin the long, painful haul of trying to forget him all over again. That promise to herself was uncomforting, the outcome dubious.
‘Don’t be,’ he answered tonelessly. ‘That’s what I’m here for. To help out. I admit I don’t know much about these things, but I imagine a nursing mother needs to drink plenty.’
No revulsion there, not a scrap of it. Maybe she’d been mistaken earlier, she thought as she watched the play of strong muscles across his naked back when he bent to tidy away all the baby paraphernalia.
Better not to watch, to look at him as little as possible. Better too to ask the question, find out for sure. Because as sure as fishes had fins Fiona wouldn’t take kindly to be left kicking her heels over the Christmas period.
‘I suppose you’ll be heading back to London in the morning?’ She eased herself to her feet. Her baby daughter had fallen asleep while feeding. But she herself was wide awake now. She was stingingly awake; every nerve-end pricked as she waited for his answer.
He straightened, putting the things on top of a pretty pine cupboard. ‘You suppose wrong. I’ll be around until I’m satisfied you’re coping.’
Relief made her dizzy. He did care. This time he wasn’t going to put Fiona before the needs of his estranged wife and baby. Emboldened, she asked softly, ‘Would you like to hold her? You won’t wake her. I guess she’ll sleep until she’s hungry again.’
‘No.’ His answer was unequivocal. But his explanation made her heart twist sharply inside her. ‘We lead separate lives, so separate that I wonder if Emily hadn’t kept me informed I would ever have known the birth date, the sex of the baby.’
‘I would have told you through the solicitors—’ Mattie broke in, appalled that he should have thought otherwise. He would have been informed of the birth and she would have waited for his response, hoping against hope that he would claim a father’s right to see his child.
