Just One Last Night Part 5

'Good.' Isabelle's voice became brisk. 'Now, drink your coffee and have another piece of cake. Two, if you wish. You have to keep your strength up and you're eating for two, remember.'

Making a great effort, Melanie responded to the lightening of the conversation. 'The health experts would take you to task for that thinking these days.'

'No doubt, but I've never yet listened to what the experts say, and I'm not about to start now.' Isabelle chuckled. 'I'm an irksome old lady, I know.'

Melanie smiled, her voice soft. 'You're a lovely old lady,' she said, with a tenderness that brought moisture to Isabelle's eyes.

Melanie had two more pieces of cake and they talked about the progress of the garden and the weather and other such non-intrusive subjects before she left the house and went outside to break the news to James, whereupon Isabelle immediately picked up the telephone and called Forde.

James was busy working on the large informal pond Isabelle had requested in a low-lying area of the garden, his artfully random arrangement of large stones enhancing the soft outlines and sinuous curves of the water feature. Knowing how pa.s.sionate Isabelle was about wildlife, Melanie had suggested the margins of the pool be masked by soft, naturalistic planting, which extended into the shallows to provide safe shelter for fish fry, amphibians, and bathing or drinking birds.

He looked up as she approached, his gaze taking in her red-rimmed eyes and pink nose, and his face was openly apprehensive as he stood up.

'I'm fine, don't worry,' Melanie said before he could speak. 'But there's something I've got to tell you because I won't be lifting or carrying anything heavy for a while. I'm having a baby.'

James took a step backwards as though she was going to deliver on the spot. 'What?' he all but screeched.

Melanie laughed; she couldn't help it.

Smiling sheepishly, James said, 'Forde?'

She nodded. 'Of course. Who else?'

'So you're back together?'

'Not exactly.' But a reasonable a.s.sumption, she supposed.

'Right.'

Not for the first time Melanie blessed the fact that James was the sort of easy-going soul who accepted people for exactly what they were. She was going to have enough explaining to do to various folk over the next months, but with James no explanation was necessary. 'The baby will be born early May, which isn't the best time, I know. We usually get busy then after the winter.'

'No sweat.' James grinned at her. 'We'll manage.'

'I've been thinking for a while of getting someone else on board, perhaps over the next weeks would be a good idea so we're ready for the spring?' And then, in case he thought he was being usurped, she added, 'They could be your a.s.sistant.'

He nodded. 'Whatever you think.'

She smiled, and they began to get on with some work, but Melanie's mind was buzzing. James had said 'whatever you think,' but that was the thing-she didn't know what she thought about anything any more. Except that she loved this baby with every fibre of her being. She hadn't known of its existence this time yesterday, but now it was the centre of her universe.

For the rest of the day she worked automatically, her mind a seething cauldron of hope and doubts and fears, but as she drove home from Isabelle's in a deep November twilight she felt she knew what she had to do. Maybe she had known it from the moment Dr Chisholm had told her she was carrying Forde's child. She just hadn't been able to bear acknowledging it.

It was dark by the time she parked the truck and walked wearily into the cottage. Once inside, she went through the routine of a working day-outdoor clothes and boots left in the kitchen, upstairs to strip off and then a hot bath. It was close to seven o'clock when she emerged from the bathroom, pink and warm after a long soak, and once in the bedroom she knew she just had to lie down for a few minutes before she began to get ready to go out with Forde. She was so tired she felt drugged.

Promising herself she would simply shut her eyes for a little while and relax her aching muscles, she snuggled under the duvet, and was asleep as her head touched the pillow.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

FORDE knew he had a fight on his hands. He would have known that without his mother's phone call earlier in the day, but when she'd repeated her conversation with Melanie it had confirmed everything Janet had spoken about.

He frowned to himself as he drove the miles to Melanie's cottage. d.a.m.n it, he didn't understand her. He loved her, more than life itself, but this consuming need to punish herself-and indirectly him-for something that neither of them had been able to prevent was something outside his comprehension. And this idea of hers that she brought misfortune on those she cared about was sheer garbage. His mother was convinced the idea had taken root even before they'd married due to Melanie's past, and the miscarriage had given credence to something that would have faded away in time, shrivelled into nothing when it hadn't been given sustenance. But the accident had happened.

He gripped the steering wheel, his face grim. And the seed of this nonsense had been watered and fed by her depression that had followed.

He realised he was so tense his body was as tight as piano wire and forced himself to consciously relax, expelling a deep breath as he stepped on the brake. He'd been driving far too fast, way over the speed limit.

What the h.e.l.l was he going to do? How could he convince her that life without her was an empty void, devoid of any real joy or satisfaction? In her crazy, mixed-up mind she thought she was protecting him in some way by cutting the threads that bound them. In reality she was killing him, inch by inch. And now there was the baby, a product of their love. Because it had been love that had given it life; this child had been created by pa.s.sion and desire certainly-he only had to look at her to become rock hard-but love had been the foundation of their relations.h.i.+p from their first date. Before their first date. He had been born waiting for Melanie to appear in his life and he had recognised she was his other half early on. It really had been as simple as that.

A fox skittered across the road a little way ahead of him, a flash of red and bushy tail in the headlights. It was a timely reminder he was still going too fast and he checked his speed accordingly. He'd driven the car too hard too often lately-yet another indication that his normal self-control wasn't as sharp as it could be. The trouble was, thoughts of Melanie were always at the forefront of his mind, thoughts that triggered a whole gamut of emotion and tied him up in knots. His mother had told him she was worried Melanie would crack up completely if something didn't give soon and it had been on the tip of his tongue to say her son was in the same boat.

He smiled grimly to himself. He hadn't, of course. His mother was concerned enough as it was. And it would have been a trite remark anyway. He had no intention of going to pieces. He was going to get his wife back come h.e.l.l or high water, and the news about the baby only meant it would be sooner rather than later. He was done with the softly-softly approach and pretending to play along with the divorce. When she had first left him he'd told her she would divorce him over his dead body and that still held.

Forde glanced at the huge bunch of pink rosebuds and baby's breath on the pa.s.senger seat at the side of him, next to the bottle of sparkling wine-non-alcoholic of course. Melanie had been obsessional regarding eating and drinking all the right things when she'd been pregnant before.

His brooding gaze softened. She'd pored over all the baby books she had bought, drunk gallons of milk, and the first time she had felt flutterings in her belly that were definitely tiny limbs thras.h.i.+ng about had been beside herself with joy. She would make a wonderful mother; he knew that. Her experiences as a child had made her determined their child would know nothing but love and security. He would remind her of that tonight if she persisted in this ridiculous notion of continuing with the separation.

He began to mentally list all the arguments and counter arguments he would put to Melanie to support his cause for the rest of the journey, playing devil's advocate some of the time until he was absolutely sure she couldn't put anything to him he hadn't thought about.

When he parked in the little car park belonging to the row of cottages he was feeling positive. She loved him and he loved her, that was the most important thing to remember, that and the miracle that their night of love in the summer had made a little person, a composite of them both. She couldn't dispute that. Come the spring there was going to be clear evidence of it. A baby boy or girl, a living, breathing reality.

He felt such a surge of love for Melanie and his unborn child that it took his breath away. He'd been wrong when he'd thought she partly blamed him for Matthew's death; he realised that now after talking to Janet and his mother. Melanie had condemned herself utterly. Maybe he should have refused to let her withdraw from him in those early days after the miscarriage? The doctors had told him to give her time, that it was natural for some women to detach themselves from what had happened for a while, nature's way of a.s.sisting the mind to deal with something too devastating to take in all in one go.

But it hadn't been like that with Melanie. Why had he listened to anyone when all his instincts had been telling him to make her let him in? He hadn't known if he was on foot or horseback, that was the trouble. They had still been wrapped up in the rosy glow of finding each other and getting married, then the thrill of finding out she was pregnant-life had been perfect, scarily so with hindsight. And then, in the s.p.a.ce of a heartbeat, their world had fragmented. He could still remember her face when he'd got to the hospital and found her in labour ...

He shook his head to dispel the image that had haunted him ever since.

Getting out of the car, he looked towards the cottages. If he had his way she would be returning home with him tonight. Janet had told him not to take no for an answer when he'd told her everything earlier that day, which was all very well, but this was Melanie they were talking about. A corner of his mouth twisted wryly. She might look as though a puff of wind could blow her away, but his wife was one tough cookie when she had the bit between her teeth about something or other.

An owl hooted somewhere close by, otherwise the night was still and quiet, unlike his churning mind. He took a deep breath and composed himself, feeling like a soldier preparing himself for battle. Which wasn't too far from the truth, he thought sardonically. And Melanie was one h.e.l.l of a formidable opponent ...

At Melanie's front door, he took another deep breath but didn't pause as he rang the doorbell. He had expected some lights to be on downstairs but the place seemed to be in darkness. He frowned, waiting a few moments before ringing again. Nothing. He glanced at his watch. A couple of minutes to eight. Surely she wouldn't have gone out to avoid him? But no, Melanie wouldn't do that, he told himself in the next moment, ashamed the thought had come into his mind. Whatever else, Melanie wasn't a coward, neither did she break her word. She had said she would be here so what was wrong?

Concerned now, he threw caution to the wind and banged on the door consistently with all his might. The cottages either side of Melanie were in blackness, but there was a light on in one a couple of doors down. He'd go there in a minute if he had to. Her truck had been in the car park-he'd parked right next to it-so she couldn't have gone far. Unless she was lying injured inside ...

He knew a moment of gut-wrenching relief when the door creaked open. Melanie stood there in the robe she'd worn that night in August, her eyes heavy-lidded with sleep and her blonde hair tousled. 'Forde?' Her voice was husky, slow. 'What time is it? I only meant to have a rest for a few minutes.'

'Eight o'clock.' He had a job to speak. From being worried to death about her, he now found himself wanting to ravish her to heaven and back in her deliciously dishevelled state.

He gave her the flowers before bending to pick up the bottle he'd put down in order to batter the door, his body so hard with desire it was painful to walk when she said, 'Come in, and thank you for the flowers. Rosebuds and baby's breath, my favourite.'

'I know.' He smiled and received a small smile in return as she turned away. He followed her into the house. Unlike the previous time he was here she didn't suggest he sit in the sitting room like a guest, but led the way to the kitchen.

'I'm sorry, I'm not ready,' she said fl.u.s.teredly, stating the obvious as she rummaged about for a vase in one of the cupboards. 'It'll take me a few minutes. Can I get you something to drink while you wait? Coffee, juice, a gla.s.s of wine?'

'A coffee would be great.' He didn't really want one; he just didn't want her to fly off upstairs immediately. On impulse, he said, 'We don't have to go out for a meal tonight if you're tired. I can order something in. Chinese, Indian, Thai? Whatever you fancy.'

He could see her mind working as she looked at him. Going out for a meal would be less intimate, less cosy, but the thought of not having to dress up and make the effort to go out was clearly tempting. He waited without saying anything. She fiddled with the flowers as the rich smell of coffee began to fill the room, but he still didn't speak.

'There's a Chinese in the next village,' she volunteered after a few moments. 'The leaflet's under the biscuit tin there.' She pointed to a tin close to where he'd sat himself on one of the two kitchen stools tucked under the tiny breakfast bar. 'Perhaps you could order while I get dressed.'

'You don't have to on my account.'

Her whole demeanour changed and he could have kicked himself. 'Joke,' he said lightly, although it hadn't altogether been. 'What would you like?'

'Anything, I don't mind.' She clearly couldn't wait to escape. 'Help yourself to coffee. I won't be long,' she added as she turned away.

He sat for a moment after she had gone and then stirred himself to pour a mug of coffee. Melanie looked exhausted and no wonder-she'd been living on her nerves for well over twelve months now. She was like a cat on a hot tin roof most of the time. A soft, warm, blonde cat with big wary eyes and the sweetest face, but a cat that was nonetheless quite liable to show its claws if the occasion warranted it.

Forde reached for the menu under the biscuit tin and glanced through it. He was absolutely starving, he decided, and quite able to do justice to double helpings. After a little deliberation he thought one of the set dinners would be a good idea to give Melanie plenty of choice. He picked up the telephone and ordered one that was allegedly for three people comprising of sweet and sour chicken Cantonese style; king prawn, mushrooms and green peppers in spicy black bean sauce; shrimp egg Foo Young, chicken in orange sauce; beef with ginger and spring onion; dry special fried rice and prawn crackers.

Walking through to the dining room, he found the table was relatively clear, just a file or two piled in one corner. Placing these on the floor, he dug and delved until he found cutlery, place mats, napkins and gla.s.ses. Then he returned to the kitchen and poured himself another coffee.

Ridiculously he found he was nervous, his stomach full of b.u.t.terflies as it had been on their first date. It had been the evening after they had met at their mutual friend's wedding; he hadn't been able to wait for more than twenty-four hours to see her again. He had wined and dined her in a plush restaurant, playing up to the image of wealthy, successful tyc.o.o.n while being inwardly terrified the whole time she wouldn't want to see him again. She had invited him in for a coffee when he had dropped her back to her bedsit-just a coffee, she'd emphasised.

They had talked for three hours.

He smiled to himself, remembering how it had been. He had never talked to a woman like that before in the whole of his life but with Melanie it had seemed right, natural to keep nothing back. And she had been the same. Or he'd thought she had.

Restlessly, he walked over to the back door and opened it, stepping into the tiny garden. The night was chilly but not overly cold, and from the light of the house he saw the small s.p.a.ce had been trimmed and manicured for the winter. The heady scent of the roses was gone but a softer perfume was in the air and he saw several shrubs in large pots were flowering.

He wasn't aware of Melanie behind him until she said, 'I still like splashes of colour in the winter. That's a Viburnum bodnantense in the corner. Pretty, isn't it, with those cl.u.s.ters of dark pink flowers? And the Oregon grape is about as robust as you can get and I love the way its foliage turns red in winter. I've planted several in Isabelle's garden.'

He glanced down at her as she moved to stand with him. She had dressed in a soft white woolly jumper and jeans, and her pale blonde hair was pulled into a s.h.i.+ning ponytail. She wore no make-up and she looked about sixteen, he thought shakily, swamped with a love so fierce it took a moment before he could say, 'Is that where the scent is coming from?'

'Oh, you mean the winter honeysuckle.' She pointed to a shrub close to the wall of the house. 'It's called Winter Beauty and it flowers right through the winter into the spring. Beautiful, isn't it?'

'Yes,' he said, not taking his eyes from her face. 'Very beautiful.'

She looked up at him and he saw a tremor go through her. 'You're cold.' He took her arm and turned her into the warmth of the house. She felt fragile under his fingers, as though if he pressed too hard she'd break. Warning himself to go carefully, he kept his voice light when he said, 'There's plenty of coffee left. Shall I pour you a cup?'

She shook her head. 'I'd love one but I'm limited to one or two cups of tea or coffee a day now. Caffeine, you know.'

It brought back memories of what had seemed like an endless list of dos and don'ts when she'd been pregnant before, and not for the first time he reflected that there were women who ate and drank what they liked, smoked, even took drugs, and went on to have healthy babies, whereas Melanie... Not that he agreed with such a selfish approach, of course, but Melanie had done everything right first time round. It seemed the height of unfairness she'd lost Matthew the way she had. Quietly, Forde said, 'Juice, then? Or shall we open that bottle of fizzy grape juice I brought? Non-alcoholic, by the way.'

She had walked into the kitchen so that the breakfast bar was between them, and everything about her suggested she wasn't about to lower her guard in any way. Her body language was confirmed when she said, 'Forde, I agreed to see you tonight but I don't want you to think it means anything other than I recognise we must talk. This baby is as much yours as mine. I know that.'

It was something. Not much, but better than having to persuade her to face that very fact.

'The thing is,' she began hesitantly, only to pause when he lifted his hand palm up.

'We're not talking about "the thing" or anything else until we've eaten.' He was going to have to fight to get through to her and he was quite prepared for that, but he was d.a.m.ned if he was going to do it on an empty stomach. 'The food should be here any minute, OK?'

As though on cue the doorbell rang.

Within a minute or two the table was groaning under an array of fragrant, steaming foil dishes and a positive banquet was spread out in front of them.

Far from picking at her food, as Forde had feared, Melanie ate like a hungry cat, delicately but with an intensity that meant she more than did justice to the meal. There were only a few morsels left by the time they were both replete, and as Melanie leant back in her chair she sighed blissfully. 'That was delicious. I didn't realise I was so hungry.'

He grinned. 'Eating for two, sweetheart.'

A shadow pa.s.sed over her face. 'Forde-'

'Or maybe three. It could be twins. There are twins on my father's side, remember, so who knows?'

Her eyes wide with something like alarm in them, Melanie said weakly, 'I'm going for a scan this week. I'll let you know if there's two.'

'Twins would be great,' he said, tongue in cheek. 'Double the joy.'

'And double the feeding, changing nappies-' She stopped suddenly, as though she had been reminded of something. 'Forde, we have to talk. Now.'

'OK.' He smiled as though his heart hadn't gone into spasm at the look on her face. Whatever she was going to say, he knew he wouldn't like it. 'Let's go into the sitting room with our drinks, shall we?'

She had relaxed when they were eating, even allowing herself to laugh a few times at the stories he'd purposely told against himself, but now she was as stiff as a board as he followed her into the other room. She chose to curl up on one of the sofas in a way that meant he was forced to take the other one.

'So?' He found he was done with prevaricating. 'What do you want to say, Nell?'

He watched her take a deep breath and it caused him to tense still more.

'I-I can't keep this baby when it's born. If-if you want to I think you should take it.'

Whatever he'd prepared himself for, it wasn't this. He knew his mouth had fallen open, and shut it with a little snap, trying desperately to hang onto reality. 'What did you say?'

'It would be better if it was brought up by one of its natural parents,' Melanie said woodenly. 'And you have your mother and a whole host of relations. It-it would have roots, a sense of belonging, and you're wealthy enough to hire the best nanny, and there's Janet too-'

'What are you talking about?' Only the sure knowledge this wasn't really what she wanted enabled Forde to keep his temper. 'The best nanny in the world is no compensation for a child's mother, a mother who would love it beyond imagination in your case. You were born to be a mother, Nell. You know that as well as I do.'

'No,' she said in a stony voice. 'I can't keep it.'

Struggling for calmness, he said, 'Why not? Explain. You owe me that, not to mention our unborn child. Have you considered how our son or daughter is going to feel when it finds out its mother wanted nothing to do with it after it was born?'

She shut her eyes for an infinitesimal moment. 'That's not fair.'

'The h.e.l.l it isn't. Face facts, woman.'

'I am facing facts. '

The loss of control was so sudden he jumped visibly as she sprang to her feet.

'If I keep it, if I'm its mother, something will happen. Like it did with Matthew. Or to you. Something will happen to stop us being a family and it will be because of me. Don't you understand that yet? It's because I love it I have to stay out of its life.'

He stared at her. She was standing with her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her body as straight as a board, and he could see she believed every word. Softly, he said, 'And that's why you walked out on me, on our marriage.' It was a statement, not a question. But he had to make her hear herself, acknowledge the enormity of what she had confessed. 'Because you've told yourself this lie so often you believe it.'

It was dawning on him just how much he had failed her. He should have insisted she went for counselling after Matthew's death, forced her to confront the gremlins, but he had been so frightened of causing her more pain. Of losing her. Ironic.