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‘I take it you’ve done a home pregnancy test?’ the doctor asked, reaching into her briefcase and withdrawing another such test.
‘Yes. Two of them.’
‘Well, they are almost always accurate, but this one is a little different—it will tell me the amount of hCG—the pregnancy hormone—in your system at the moment. It’s useful for many things, including dating the pregnancy.’
India’s heart dropped to her toes. This woman knew what her job was: to confirm—or maybe even to deny?—that the baby was the Sheikh’s. The idea of a protracted fight over paternity made her stomach ache—she would never do it. There would be too much risk of publicity, and she couldn’t have her baby ever discovering that India had needed to fight for the father to acknowledge their life.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘No problems.’
When she was finished with the pregnancy test, she carried it out to the doctor, who regarded it with a smile at first, and then a small frown. ‘You say you are eight weeks along?’
India nodded. She knew the exact date of conception, of course. But the doctor’s countenance gave her some cause for concern. ‘Yes. Why? Is there a problem?’
‘Could there be some confusion with dates?’
‘Definitely not.’
Dr Abasha took the pregnancy test and placed it on the trolley, then switched the light on so a monitor on the top tray came to life. ‘Come and have a lie-down. Let’s do a scan to see what’s going on.’
India’s eyes grew wide. ‘Isn’t it too early?’
‘We’ll see. At eight weeks, a dating scan should be possible.’
Under different circumstances, she might have felt excited, but there was a look of concern on the doctor’s face that made India hold her breath.
Her dress had buttons down the front so she undid several in the middle and lay on the bed as Dr Abasha moved the trolley closer. ‘Would you like me to get His Highness?’
‘No,’ India denied quickly. ‘Let me see first, please.’
Dr Abasha hesitated a moment before nodding, applying a cold, wet goo to India’s belly. ‘Lie still,’ she said. ‘This will be a little uncomfortable.’
She moved the wand around, her eyes on the screen as she shifted positions, her fingertips clicking buttons before she peered closer at the image.
‘Is there a problem?’ India asked, after what felt like for ever.
Dr Abasha’s eyes met India’s. ‘Stay here, madam.’
India’s heart was racing, worry clutching at her, as Dr Abasha left the room and returned, a moment later, with Khalil. His eyes met India’s and she felt her own worries reflected in his.
‘Please, just tell me what’s going on,’ India begged, pushing up onto her elbows, uncaring that her belly was still exposed and covered in translucent blue syrup.
‘The dating scan confirms that you are eight weeks pregnant, madam, congratulations.’
Khalil’s eyes bored into hers, and India’s heart tripped over itself, the triumph of that moment dwarfed by something else entirely. She swallowed past a lump in her throat, turning back to the doctor. ‘And the baby’s okay?’
‘I was interested by your high levels of hCG—much higher than one would expect at this stage of a pregnancy, hence the dating scan.’
‘Do high levels of hCG indicate a problem?’ India asked, panic overtaking her now.
‘Not in this case,’ Dr Abasha said with a smile. ‘Tell me, do twins run in your family?’
India’s jaw dropped and she shook her head, trying to make sense first of the doctor’s implication and then of her question.
‘My mother is a twin,’ Khalil said. ‘And her mother.’
‘And your children,’ the doctor said with a grin, as though this were purely good news.
‘Oh, my God.’ India sat up straight now, staring at the wall opposite. ‘Twins?’ She squeezed her eyes shut, her first reaction of sheer delight quickly being overtaken by stress. One child had been scary enough, but two? On her own? And all her bravado seemed to crumple at once, so she had no faith in herself and her resourcefulness, she saw only an enormous, insurmountable wall.
