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‘Then why don’t you try listening to me for a change instead of forcing your will on me? I could—’ But the rest of the sentence froze in her throat as an iron-hot band of pain clamped itself around her belly.
‘Justina? Are you still there?’
The intensity of the pain was so unexpected and so powerful that she clapped her hand over the phone so that he wouldn’t be able to hear her panting her way through it. It wasn’t until it had passed that she spoke again, in a voice which was unnaturally bright. ‘Sorry about that—I thought I heard someone at the door.’
She could hear the frown in his voice. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘When you did you last see the doctor?’
‘When I was supposed to see him—last week. I have all my appointments written down neatly in my diary and I have been following them to the letter. Now, will you stop fussing?’ she said. ‘I’m perfectly capable of having a baby without having you checking up on me every five minutes like some kind of demented midwife. And I really have to go—I’m in the middle of writing a song and I must get the words down before they go out of my head. Don’t worry, Dante. I’ll let you know the minute something happens.’
She cut him off without another word and walked over to the window, trying to shake off her strange feeling of restlessness and the power he always had to unsettle her. She didn’t need to feel any more unsettled than she currently did and it couldn’t be good for her or the baby. She felt as if the air was pressing down on her, and the rain which had been falling for seven days straight showed no sign of stopping. She’d been stuck inside all day, and yet the last thing she wanted was to go outside and brave the elements.
She should watch a film—or read that book she’d bought, which everyone was raving on about—the one whose hero seemed to have modelled himself on the Marquis de Sade. She knew that relaxation was vital during these late stages of her pregnancy, but her strong work ethic meant that she always felt guilty if she did nothing.
She flicked through the TV channels and found a woman yelling at a weaselly man who really needed to do something about his skin. The woman’s inarticulate insults were at first amusing—and then a touch disturbing. Because Justina realised that what motivated them was frustration that the man wouldn’t do what the woman wanted him to do—which was to love her.
I’m never going to be that woman, Justina vowed fiercely as another sharp band of pain tightened across her abdomen. I’m never going to have hopeless expectations of a man who can never meet them, because that’s a sure-fire recipe for unhappiness. Much better to be independent and free of emotional pain.
But then another very physical pain caught her by surprise. It was so strong that she had to stand perfectly still and cling to the back of the sofa. It wasn’t until they started coming regularly that she realised she was in labour.
She tried to stay calm and remember what to do. Stay at home for as long as possible. Time the contractions and call the hospital. Another wave clamped like a burning iron around her middle, and she was gasping a little as she picked up the phone and spoke to a midwife.
‘Come in now,’ said the midwife. ‘Have you got someone with you?’
‘I’m on my way,’ said Justina, neatly
avoiding the question.
But they asked her again when she’d been checked in to the birthing suite as she lay on the bed, having her blood pressure monitored.
‘Is the father on his way, Miss Perry?’
‘No.’ Justina shook her head. ‘He’s in New York.’
‘Does he know that you’re in labour?’
She thought about Dante seeing her like this. She thought about how nothing but a capricious fate had brought them together. Hadn’t she told him that she was independent and that she didn’t actually need him? Well, that hadn’t just been bluster—she’d meant it.
She shook her head. ‘No, he doesn’t know.’
‘Someone here could easily—’
‘I don’t want him here,’ declared Justina.
Did she imagine the look of disapproval which passed between the midwife and her student? But then another pain came, and it was so powerful that it obliterated everything, and she stopped wondering if she was being judged for her morals or her cold-heartedness.
Time slowed and she felt disorientated—only the relentless contractions brought reality into sharp and clear focus. Hours passed by in a blur of pain as Justina tried to remember all the things she’d learned at her antenatal classes and put them into practice. She paced the floor. She crouched down on her hands and knees as sweat poured from her brow. She tried not to gasp, but not gasping became impossible when the midwife examined her and announced that she’d gone into ‘second stage’.
‘I don’t care what stage I’m in! I just want this bloody baby out!’ shouted Justina recklessly.
She heard the sound of some commotion at the door, where the student midwife stood talking to someone. She heard an unmistakable Italian accent speaking low words edged with fierce intent.
‘Just ask her. Please.’
The student came over to the bed, her cheeks looking flushed. ‘There’s a man outside who says he’s the father of your baby and he wants to come in. He says his name is Dante D’Arezzo and please could I ask you.’
