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I stare at him. “I’m not doing that.”
“Yeah, I thought you’d say that, but I’d like you to try. Kennedy can take it when you go shopping with her. She’ll know the sort of things you’ll need more than I will.”
“Saxon…”
“You need maternity clothes,” he says. “You’re going to get a lot bigger, and maternity clothes are cut differently, so you’ll be more comfortable. I also want you to go to the supermarket with it, or order online, whichever is easier. I’d do an order for you, but I have a feeling you’ll just refuse it, and I’d rather you choose what you want. Kennedy will help you. But the babies need you to eat better, and I want to see you putting on weight. Understand?”
His bossy tone makes my stomach give a little flip. “Yes, Daddy.”
“Jesus. Don’t call me that or I’ll come off the road.”
I’m not quite sure what he means by that, so I look out of the window, biting my lip. I can’t take his credit card and go shopping with it! But equally I know I need to eat more, and I don’t have the money to buy the kind of food that would be best. Fresh fruit and vegetables, organic food, the top cuts of meat, are always the most expensive. It would be nice to eat better, but I don’t know how to fight the feeling of being a kept woman, which makes me uncomfortable.
He turns onto my street, then draws up outside the building. “I’ll walk you up to your apartment,” he says, unclipping his seat belt.
“No, thank you, I’ll be fine.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“Saxon,” I snap, “I’ve coped on my own my whole life. I don’t need you riding in on a charger to rescue me.”
He stares at me and glowers. Then he looks at the steering wheel and scratches at an imaginary mark. “I just want to help.”
“I know, and I do appreciate it. I really do. I know how lucky I am. But I need space.” I don’t know how to tell him that I don’t want to get used to him being around. One day, maybe soon, he’s going to move on, and I’ll be left holding the baby—literally. That’s going to hurt, and the only way I can think to reduce the inevitable pain is to keep some distance between us.
“All right,” he says. He buckles himself in again.
“Thank you.” I pause, then lean forward and kiss his cheek. Half of me hopes he’ll turn his head and kiss me properly, but he doesn’t. He just continues looking forward, glowering slightly. “See you tomorrow.” I get out of the car, run the short distance to the apartment, and go inside.
*
On Wednesday, I don’t see much of him. In the morning, he’s on a conference call for several hours with Titus in England, and someone called Mack in Auckland who apparently has the fastest supercomputer in New Zealand. In the afternoon he has back-to-back meetings. When he is alone and I go in with a coffee or some messages, I discover him entrenched in programming, staring at the screens, often leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out and feet propped on the desk, his keyboard on his lap, lost in the code. I know they’re getting ready to run a new phase of the IVF program in January, and he wants to make sure it’s top notch.
He does leave my mended shamrock earrings on my desk mid-morning, along with a box of peppermint creams. I grumble, then promptly work my way through them during the day.
Joop comes up to my desk at one point with half a dozen books and says that Saxon asked him to sort them out for me. They’re on different source codes, web design, and mobile app development. After I finish my transcription work and filing, I spend a couple of hours reading them and playing with the code, which I enjoy much more than the secretarial work.
Just before five, Saxon comes out of his office and puts something on my desk. It’s a credit card with his name on it.
“I want you to go to the supermarket after work,” he says. “I’ll be checking the balance tomorrow, and I want to see a significant bill on there.”
“Wow,” I say, “you’re so bossy.”
“Yeah. Get used to it because there’s a lot more from where that came from. You’ve still got my number, right?” I nod, and he says, “Call me at any time if you need me.”
“Okay,” I say, although I won’t.
He huffs a sigh. Then he walks back into his office, mumbling as he goes.
I pack up my stuff and head out, taking two of the books with me, and pocketing the credit card. He knows I have to walk past the supermarket on the way, so I can’t get out of it. I take my time walking around, looking at the items on the shelves, bewildered at how much my life has changed in such a short space of time.
*
The next morning, I’m at my desk with a cup of tea, nibbling from the plate of cookies that Marion leaves me every morning, and then look up to see Saxon standing in front of my desk, hands on his hips.
“Morning,” I say.
“Twenty-one dollars and seventy-five cents,” he says. “Seriously?”
