Emma Richmond - Instant Mother

‘Oh, yes, sorry.’ She hastily let him in—and the small lounge shrank alarmingly. Alexa wasn’t a short girl, but he made her feel so, made her feel suddenly inadequate.

‘You look terrible,’ he observed quietly. But then he always spoke quietly.

‘Thank you.’

He didn’t smile—why should he? She knew she looked terrible. Did he find it offensive? The way she looked? Certainly he’d behaved differently towards her after the accident. Some men found ugliness offensive. David, for example. Perhaps that was why he had left...

‘Why are you still wearing your hat?’

Jerking up her hand, she felt it, self-consciously tugged it off. ‘I’d forgotten I had it on.’ Avoiding his eyes, because she didn’t think she could bear to see what she thought she might see there, she asked foolishly, ‘How have you been?’

‘Busy.’

‘Oh, is that why you didn’t...?’

‘Ring you regularly? Keep in touch?’ he completed for her. ‘No.’

‘No?’ she queried weakly.

‘No. I didn’t keep in touch because I didn’t want to be told you’d changed your mind... Have you?’

‘No.’

‘Good.’

But she might have done—if he’d rung. ‘Mind the light fitting!’ she called urgently as he walked towards the fire, and he halted, turned his head slightly to survey the offending globe that hung below the height of his head. Moving round it, he continued towards the armchair, put down the large leather holdall and suitcase he was carrying.

Mr Jones slunk mournfully under the chair.

Mr Jones never slunk under the chair. Mr Jones liked everybody. Except, obviously, her husband.

‘He came with the house?’

‘No,’ she denied awkwardly. ‘Someone asked me to look after him—and they never came back.’

‘Ah.’

‘If you don’t like dogs I can...’

‘What? Get rid of him? Don’t be so defensive. Jessica asleep?’

‘Yes. Can I get you a cup of tea?’

‘Coffee?’

She grimaced, shook her head. ‘Sorry, I only have tea.’

‘Then tea will be fine. I’m sorry I shouted at you.’

‘What?’

‘On the phone. I was concerned.’

‘Oh, yes. It’s all right.’ Feeling awkward, unnatural, she murmured, ‘Why don’t you take your coat off? Make yourself comfortable?’

‘Thank you. How has she been?’ he asked as he removed his bulky overcoat and looked frowningly round for somewhere to put it.

Hurrying forward, she took it from him and laid it across the back of a chair. It weighed a ton.

‘She’s been fine. As good as gold. No trouble at all. I’ll go and make the tea.’

Almost running into the kitchen, she felt despair wash over her. She couldn’t be attracted to him, she thought in panic. Not sexually. He was a friend. Had always been a friend. They had a light-hearted, sometimes flirtatious, relationship, but never anything more. It wasn’t now, she assured herself. She was run-down, vulnerable, that was all it was. And yet never, ever in her life had she had trouble making conversation with people. She’d never had trouble making conversation with Stefan! So why now? It was ludicrous. But he was different, wasn’t he? Somehow, he was different. Quieter. His voice flatter. She’d known him in Romania, in her restaurant, and he’d always been gentle, humorous. Sad after his sister’s death, of course, but not... Had he guessed? Seen from her face?

Then she jumped like a startled deer when he walked up behind her. He couldn’t get in the kitchen because it was too small, but he successfully blocked the doorway, making Alexa feel ever so slightly claustrophobic. And frightened. He obviously registered the alarm on her face, because he retreated slightly, gave her room to breathe.

‘The house was only made for little people,’ she excused.

‘Yes.’

‘And don’t say I should have stayed in the hotel.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

He frowned, rubbed long fingers absently across his forehead, and she asked quietly, ‘Do you have a headache?’

He smiled—almost smiled. His mouth moved in a vague approximation of a smile, anyway. ‘Yes.’

‘Would you like some aspirins?’

‘Thank you.’

Turning away from him, she quickly reached into the cupboard, shook two aspirins from the bottle and handed them to him with a glass of water.

He swallowed them, handed her back the empty glass. ‘Where is she?’

‘Jessica?’

‘Or Charlie, or Corrie,’ he said drily.

‘Oh, you know about that, do you?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed.

Yes, of course he would; he was Jessica’s uncle. Knew her a great deal better than she did. ‘Sorry, she’s through there. I put her to bed because I didn’t know how long you’d be. Delays or something...’ But she was talking to herself; he’d already pushed through into the bedroom.

Peeping round the doorway, she watched him stand beside the bed, stare down at the little girl fast asleep. He put out a gentle hand, carefully moved a lock of blonde hair away from her eyes. She couldn’t see his face, so didn’t know what his expression was. Tender, she imagined. A much loved niece. Alexa felt a lump form in her throat. She wished she were much loved.

Stop it, she scolded herself. It isn’t real. You know it isn’t real. Anguish over David, her restaurant, the after effects of the accident, had all combined to heighten her emotions, that was all. Refusing to think, she turned back to her task, made the tea—properly, in the teapot—laid up a tray, and was amused at herself. Trying to impress him, Alexa? With a little shake of her head, because she didn’t know what she was trying to do, she carried the tray into the living room and put it on the footstool before the fire. And sat and waited for him like a well-bred hostess.

She heard the bedroom door softly close, and stiffened slightly as he came to sit opposite her. He silently examined her face for a moment, then leaned back.

‘Your hair is growing.’

Running a self-conscious hand over her slowly emerging curls, she merely smiled. Probably inanely. ‘I expect you’re tired,’ she murmured.

‘Yes. Thank you for picking her up.’

‘That’s all right. She’s been no trouble. The opposite, in fact. Very quiet. Very—obedient.’

‘Yes, she would be,’ he said rather grimly.

Would she? Why? ‘Sugar?’

He shook his head.

Pouring the tea, she handed him his cup, and waited. Nothing. He merely stared down into his tea. Mike’s best small china cups looked extremely fragile in his large hands. Obviously, if she wanted answers, she would have to ask questions.

‘Why was everything such a panic?’ she asked quietly.

‘The grandparents had flu.’

‘And there was no one else to pick her up? No neighbours?’ she asked in disbelief. Everyone had neighbours of some sort. Friends. Didn’t they?

‘They’re elderly,’ he excused. ‘Panic easily. And they don’t like to ask favours of people. Edna—Mrs Bailey—Jessica’s grandmother, went down with the flu last week, and George, her husband, was coping. He took Jessica to school this morning, but didn’t feel very well, and when he got home, he collapsed. Edna rang me—what she thought I could do from the States, I have no idea,’ he exclaimed tiredly.

‘And so you did a bit of panicking of your own?’

‘Yes. I contacted Edna’s doctor, arranged for a nurse to go in, and then I tried to ring you and could get no answer. I left your number with Edna and she said she would ring you. When I heard nothing more, I assumed she’d managed to get in touch.’

‘But she hadn’t.’

‘No. Where were you?’

‘Nowhere,’ she answered with a frown, ‘or only shopping, taking the dog out... Or I might have been in the charity shop.’