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‘It isn’t half the nation,’ she began automatically, and then stopped when she saw his face. ‘It’s supposed to help women see how easy it is,’ she tried placatingly.
‘And what about the labour itself?’ he demanded, hotly. ‘Are you going to let a film crew of men film that, so that the viewers can see how “easy” it is?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’ In fact, the idea had actually been mooted at one of the production meetings, but Eve had turned the idea down flat.
‘I suppose you think I’m being very old-fashioned.’
‘Very.’ But wasn’t it also protective, and wasn’t there some stupid side of her which thrilled to that? It must be the hormones making her react like that.
‘I don’t want the viewers seeing what is essentially a very private moment. It should be for the mother and father, Eve—for us.’
Except that there was no ‘us’. Overwhelmed by an aching sense of longing for what could never be, Eve closed her eyes.
He looked at her. She was pale, he thought, and again a slow, simmering anger began to bubble up. What the hell was she doing, lying there being filmed, her stomach heavy with his child? How had he allowed this to happen? ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ he said shortly.
She could hear him clattering around in the kitchen, and when he came back in with the tray he was frowning. ‘Why were you having a scan at this stage anyway?’
She shrugged listlessly. ‘Just routine.’
‘Sure?’
She nodded.
He sat down, and picked up her hand, began to stroke it, almost thoughtfully, and Eve’s eyes flew open. It was such a little thing. Such a tiny, little thing and yet it felt like heaven. Her body craved comfort and human contact. She met his eyes, wanting above all else for him to take her into his arms, to hold her and to stroke her, but he did not and the dark eyes were thoughtful, watchful, wary.
‘For how much longer are you contracted to do this show?’ Idly, he circled a finger over her hand.
She swallowed. Don’t stop touching me, she thought. ‘It finishes on the third.’
‘That’s next week.’
She nodded.
‘And then?’
‘Then I’m on maternity leave. I’ll look at other options when…when I’ve had the baby.’
‘Eve.’ He paused. ‘Are you happy with what you’re doing?’
‘You mean the show?’
‘That is part of it. But your life here. What you see for the future. Just what do you see for the future, cara mia?’
It was a long time since he had called her that, and it made her want to weep with longing. For what it might have been. For what it was not.
‘It’s like I jumped onto a merry-go-round and I can’t get off,’ she admitted slowly, and at that moment she didn’t care if she sounded vulnerable. She felt vulnerable—and pregnant women were allowed to, weren’t they? She was fed up with being brave and strong and coping. She did want to lean on Luca, if not emotionally, then at least practically. Just for a little. To pretend that he would really always be there for her…
‘As for the future—well, it isn’t something that I gave much thought to before. But now…’ Her voice tailed off.
‘Now?’ he prompted.
‘I realise that I have to. And I just don’t know any more. Oh, Luca!’ And to her horror, tears began to slide from her eyes. She bit her lip and tried to stop them, but she could not and it was as though she had been teetering on a knife-edge of control as she began to cry.
An expression of pain crossed his face. Had he pushed her so far to cause her this? He pulled her into his arms and began to smooth his hand down over the silken mane of her hair, over and over again in a soothing and comforting rhythm. ‘Shh. Don’t cry, Eve. Don’t cry, cara mia. No need for tears. Everything is going to be fine, I promise you.’
