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They were a mixed bag. A few old crime novels, a rather lovely, shell-shaped compact still with the wrist chain attached, two rose-covered side plates and a matching cake stand and some bunting made out of old dress material. It might look nice in the baby’s room, she thought idly.
The baby’s room.
Her breath whooshed out of her body and she held onto the iron table, glad of the cold metal beneath her palm, anchoring her to the world. She was pregnant. That was her reality and no amount of impromptu days out could change that.
But the expected panic, the gnawing pain in her stomach didn’t materialise. Instead she felt light; it was okay. She didn’t have a plan or any idea what to do next but it was okay.
For what must be the hundredth time that week Polly put her hand on her stomach but not in illness, or shock, or horror.
‘Hello,’ she whispered.
Nobody answered, there was no resulting flutter or any acknowledgement of her words, yet everything had changed.
She wasn’t going to be alone any more.
‘Would you like an ice cream?’
Polly pulled her hand away as if she had been caught doing something wrong.
‘I’m okay,’ she began, but the words died on her lips. ‘What are you wearing?’
‘They didn’t have any French coats,’ he said. ‘So I got a hat instead.’
The trilby should have looked incongruous with the jeans and T-shirt, but somehow he made it look edgy.
Disturbingly sexy.
‘It suits you.’
‘What have you got there?’ Gabe nodded at the bags spread over the table.
‘Bits and bobs, bunting.’ She looked up, met his eyes. ‘For the baby’s room.’
He tipped the trilby back; the gesture made him look almost heartbreakingly young, like a World War Two pilot heading back to base for a final mission.
‘I hope he likes flowers, then,’ he said doubtfully.
Polly gathered the bunting back up, stuffing it into the bag. ‘He might be a she, and either way no child of mine will be constrained by gender constructs.’ She was aware that she sounded stuffy and that laughter was lurking in his watchful dark eyes.
For a moment she had a view of another path. One where the man teasing her wasn’t a momentary diversion in her journey. One where the baby wasn’t a shock to deal with but a welcome and much anticipated event.
A world where she might bicker playfully over the suitability of floral bunting, the colour of the paint, where to put the cot and the name of the first teddy bear. Where she wouldn’t be doing this alone.
‘So do you?’ Gabe broke in on her thoughts.
She blinked, confused. Did she what? Want to take a different path? It was a little late for that.
‘Polly? Ice cream?’
‘Oh. No, no thank you. Actually, I think I want a walk. The grounds look spectacular.’ Walk away from her thoughts and the sudden, unwanted regrets.
Gabe cast a doubtful look at the sky. ‘Those clouds are pretty dark.’
Rolling her eyes, Polly got up and picked up her bags. ‘You have a hat to keep you dry. Honestly, Gabe, you’re not going to last five minutes in England if you can’t cope with a bit of rain.’
‘A bit? Not a problem. This nasty drizzle...’ his accent elongated the word contemptuously ‘...it’s not natural. I can’t understand why the Normans didn’t just turn straight around and go home as soon as they landed and saw the sky.’
‘Exactly.’ Polly began to walk away from the house, across the wet lawns and towards a small path covered in wood chippings that led through the cluster of trees. ‘Romans, Vikings, Normans—rainy or not we’re still quite the prize.’
Apart from a disbelieving snort Gabe didn’t reply and they walked towards the woods in a companionable silence. After a moment Gabe reached across and took the carrier bags from her. Polly froze for a moment and then loosened her fingers and allowed him to relieve her of her load.
They wandered along for a few more moments, the air heavy with the promise of summer rain. Polly inhaled, enjoying the freshness of the countryside; the heady scent of wet leaves mixed with the damp earth and sawdust from the path.
They rounded a corner and the trees came to an abrupt end; in front of them a pretty ornamental lake stretched ahead, the path skirting the edge.
‘Okay, Mr Spontaneity, right or left?’
‘What is that?’ Gabe sounded startled. ‘Have we stumbled onto the set of a horror film?’
Polly followed his disbelieving gaze and saw a dark grey stone tower perched on the edge of the lake, the jagged edge of the spire reaching up into the sky.
‘It’s a folly. You know...’ as he looked at her in query ‘...a couple of centuries ago it was the craze to build some kind of gothic ruin in a picturesque place. Around the time you were chopping aristocrats’ heads off.’
