‘Of course not! I’m simply being careful until I see how I stand, but really, I’m fine.’
He followed me into the kitchen, where Bess and the puppies were still snoring behind their cardboard barrier, oblivious of the rumpus. ‘I’ve had to make a few cuts, but you don’t realise just how popular an author I am! It’s only that it doesn’t come in neat monthly amounts, and that makes it a bit difficult to calculate everything.’
‘Your husband will have to pay maintenance for the baby.’
‘I wouldn’t accept his money – I can manage on my own. And if he doesn’t want to acknowledge the baby, then that’s fine by me too. In fact, I’d prefer it! All this vacillation about who’s the father whenever Wendy’s been having a go at him is very wearing.’
It was warm in the kitchen. Fergal unzipped his heavy Italian leather jacket and hung it on the back of a chair before sitting down and subjecting me to one of his jade-green scrutinies. ‘You’re taking on a lot. Is James behaving himself?’
‘Reasonably. He’s having too many problems with his girlfriend to give me much bother … and— Oh damn!’ I exclaimed, suddenly remembering, ‘I didn’t put the lid back on the paint tin, and the brush will have dried!’
‘Which paint tin?’
‘I was just painting the baby’s room.’
‘I don’t think you should be doing that. All that stretching, and the fumes!’
‘I don’t see why not – I’m not ill, after all, and I’m being very careful. Anyway, it has to be done.
I
can’t afford to just send for the decorators when I feel like it.’
‘Then I’ll do it,’ he stated calmly, taking the wind out of my sails. ‘Which room is it?’
‘Don’t be silly, you’d get paint all over you – and besides, I can manage. I’ll do it a bit at a time, and—’
And I might as well have saved my breath, because he
did
paint the room, getting hardly a splash on himself in the process.
He liked the terracotta paint and the stencils, so I showed him the stencilled floor in my little workroom. He was very taken with the drifts of leaves, and the row of leaves I’d clipped across the window on nylon line, so the light shone through.
We went back into the nursery, and while he painted and I admired the way the muscles on his back rippled under his thin black T-shirt (I’m only human after all) he told me about his Christmas, and about bringing his aunt Maria back to the Hall. She speaks very good English, having been the housekeeper to an English lady in Pisa for years.
Then I found myself, by some sort of natural progression, telling him about Wendy and Alice and everything – all the details. It was wonderful to get it all off my chest, and even more wonderful to find someone who thought Alice washing her baby’s hair in the ladies’ loo at the pizza house just as funny as I did. We always did laugh at the same things … when we weren’t arguing about everything else, that is!
It was all very cathartic – I haven’t felt so good in ages! I don’t know why I told him, except that I trust him, I suppose, now I know he didn’t really abandon me all those years ago. And when we’re chatting like this, I forget everything he’s reputed to have got up to since then. Anyway, if you believed it all, he’d have to be some kind of monster.
The monster looked up just then and said, ‘Your divorce should be making some progress by now if it’s uncontested – have you chased your solicitor up?’
‘No. I suppose I ought to.’ It would be good to be legally parted from the Party of the First Part.
‘The sooner the better,’ he said, and smiled at me. It’s unfair to have a smile like that.
But at least he still cared enough about me to be interested in what was happening. Which reminded me of something I’d often wondered about. ‘Fergal, did you know I’d be at that dinner in London – and how did you find out I was staying in the hotel overnight?’
He looked a little sheepish, an unusual expression for him. ‘After I saw you at my exhibition I began to wonder sometimes how you were doing – if you were happy – so I decided to find out.’
‘Find out? How?’
‘I hired this man I know who’s an enquiry agent. He found out about the novels, and then I asked if you’d be at the hotel that night, because I thought I might as well collect my award and catch up on things with you myself.’
We’d certainly caught up on things.
I stared at him speechlessly for a minute, then found my tongue. ‘An enquiry agent! Isn’t that going a bit far? And – oh, I see! James really was being followed that time! And me too? I didn’t notice.’ A suspicion crossed my mind. ‘Did you know about James and that Wendy before I did?’
‘No – I called him off before all that, and before you moved to Nutthill, too. I knew about the photocopier, though, but I couldn’t tell you, could I? Especially once I knew you were pregnant. I thought he might just settle down after that.’
I sat down on a chair. ‘You really didn’t know I was living down here when you bought the Hall?’
‘No, strangely enough. Nerissa found the house – it’s near her parents’ home. But I bought it because I fell in love with it. It was a shock when I saw you at the fête, and you didn’t look too pleased to see me either.’
‘Of course I wasn’t. I’d been fairly successfully pretending to myself that London never happened.’ I sighed and gave up; I expect it would never have crossed his mind anyway that it would make any difference to me, having an ex-boyfriend living nearby. Why should it? And it was nice of him to have wondered how I was, though a detective seemed to be going a bit far.
‘I’d probably have told you about it at the hotel, if I’d had a chance, but casual conversation didn’t seem to be on the agenda.’
I looked at him doubtfully. He grinned and went past me carrying the paint tin and brush.
He stowed them in the cellar, then I left him in the living room with Bess making shameless advances and Toby muttering morosely (he’s gone off men since the whisky incident), and went to make him some coffee.
He called out that he was just fetching something from the car, and when I took the tray in there was a big, Christmas-wrapped parcel on the coffee table, beside a flat cardboard box.
He smiled. ‘Belated Happy Christmas! I said I’d bring you something back from Italy.’
‘But I thought you were joking! Oh, Fergal, you shouldn’t have.’ I went all hot and embarrassed, and the tray wobbled in my hands.
He relieved me of it and set it down. ‘I wanted to – and it’s not just for you. Open it.’
There were two parcels inside the wrapping. One contained an oversized fine cream sweatshirt emblazoned across the front with the word ‘Bambino’, and the other, three disarming little baby stretch suits in pastel harlequin patterns. I fingered their velvety texture. ‘Oh, Fergal – they’re perfect! And I love the sweatshirt.’
‘Good. The box is from my sister Lucia. It’s a dress she bought for herself last time she was expecting, and then decided didn’t suit her. I thought it would suit
you
. Lucia hopes you don’t mind it not being new.’
But I stopped listening then, for folding back the tissue paper revealed a green stretch velvet maternity dress that certainly never came from any British maker. It was sort of Renaissance style, with a low neckline and soft full folds falling from just under the bust. The long sleeves were full, too, and the high waistline elasticised.
‘Fergal, it must have cost a fortune! And I’m sure your sister’s never worn it once.’
‘Don’t you like it? I thought you might, somehow.’
‘It’s wonderful! But—’
‘But nothing – unless you’re too proud to accept something someone else has worn?’
I clutched it to me. ‘Oh, no, I’m not! I just can’t believe she didn’t want this lovely dress. Will you thank her very much for me?’
I was practically blubbing by now, and wished I had something – anything – to give him in return. Then a brain wave struck me. ‘I won’t be a minute,’ I told him, and went out to the kitchen.
Returning, I thrust the smallest puppy into his surprised arms. ‘Happy Christmas, Fergal!’
‘It’s for me?’ he said, trying to avoid a tongue like a yard of wet flannel.
‘Yes – it’s my favourite, but you can have one of the others if you want to choose your own.’
He regarded his present with a twitching lip: ‘No, this one is perfect, thanks.’
‘You can’t take it yet, though. It’s too young. But you can get ready for it, can’t you?’
‘I think I’ll have to!’ he said in rather a choked voice. ‘Er … you don’t happen to know who – or what – the father was?’
‘Old English sheepdog.’
‘That should be an interesting mixture. I’ll have to think up a suitable name!’
His green eyes, brimming with amusement, met mine and suddenly I giggled.
‘You don’t have to have it if you don’t want it. I do realise they’re hideously ugly and will be enormous! It’s just that I love this one, but I think I’ll have enough to do with Bess and a baby, and I know you like dogs.’
‘I definitely do want it. It’s mine! What wonderful presents you give me – first the many-toed cat, now a giant puppy. The parrot isn’t pregnant too, by any chance?’
‘I sincerely hope not – it’s male.’
‘Thank goodness for that!’
Rising, he handed me the pup, who whimpered a bit at being parted from his warm chest, which I could empathise with.
‘Do you want to have some driving practice tomorrow? I’m not doing anything in the afternoon, and I said I’d show you round the Hall. You can meet Aunt Maria, too.’
‘Well, I – I’d like that, thanks,’ I found myself saying, hoping I wasn’t being a nuisance. And what would Aunt Maria make of his exceedingly pregnant friend? ‘But won’t Nerissa mind?’
‘Nerissa, I’m glad to say, has gone off in a huff, and is currently trying to make me jealous by flaunting a succession of her conquests around, including your husband.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, Fergal!’
He shrugged, seemingly unbothered, then kissed me enthusiastically on both cheeks in a rather foreign (though pleasant) way, wished me a belated Happy New Year, and said he’d be round to pick me up about one.
The minute he was out of the house I rushed upstairs and tried on the sweatshirt (which is fun) and the dress.
The dress is so comfortable I may spend the rest of my life in it. It’s also the first garment I’ve worn for months that actually suits me. The neckline shows off my bosom, of which I have more than usual, and the colour makes my skin look very white.
I put the baby things in my room to wait until the paint smell in the nursery has evaporated, feeling quite light-hearted. Must be the relief at having unburdened myself to someone.
Fergal: January 2000
‘This week, I’d like you all to reflect on the subject of family values, in these difficult times …’
Nutthill Parish Magazine
I looked across the room to where my aunt was engrossed in
Love Goes West
, with Twinkletoes draped over one shoulder like a vintage fur wrap.
‘Maria, you’ve read a lot of romantic fiction, haven’t you? Are these typical?’
She put her forefinger on the page and looked up in some surprise. ‘Typical? They are very good! I would like to read them in the Italian, though, if they have been translated. And the heroes, have you noticed Fergal how they are all big and dark and bad, like you?’
‘I’m not bad,’ I protested. But she was right, there was something horribly familiar about the heroes. ‘I’ve read three of Tish’s books now, and the men in them are all complete bastards until something horrible happens to them. Then they see the error of their ways – and the true worth of the heroine – and go all humble and undeserving.’
Maria shrugged. ‘It is the usual thing, only your friend, she does it very well. This one in
Love Goes West
, he is mean and arrogant, so he does not deserve the heroine until he has suffered. Yes, he must suffer very much, and change, and then she will have him after all.’
‘But why, if he is such a complete bastard? He isn’t going to stay humble for long, is he?’
‘She loves him. She believes her love will change him, of course.’ She looked at me as if I was totally stupid.
‘The rake reformed,’ I said sardonically, but she’d gone back to her book.
It strikes me that Tish gets a great deal of pleasure from making her heroes suffer!
I was wearing the green dress next day when Fergal came to collect me – but I had (very reluctantly) taken it off in the interval!
We whizzed round the park for a bit, with my confidence increasing since there was no other traffic to worry about. Fergal cheered me with tales of Maria’s driving. He said she was hell on wheels, and would soon be careering about the countryside in one of the Minis. (He has two, and a Morris Traveller a bit like the vicar’s, and some old motor bikes.)
When we went into the house the kitten, now very much larger, came running up to Fergal with its tail held high, mewing, followed by a small, plump, middle-aged lady with coiled black hair and lots of dark eye make-up.
When Fergal had divested me of my coat the dark-ringed eyes scanned me in seeming surprise. ‘But you are beautiful! Fergal, you do not tell me that she is beautiful.’
Pink with embarrassment I muttered something about being the size of an elephant.
‘She thinks she can’t be pregnant and beautiful,’ he interpreted. ‘But it suits her.’
‘You discompose your friend,’ Maria pointed out sternly. ‘Take her over the house if you must – no, I will not come – but I will have coffee ready in the little room with the big fire. You will need it.’
‘The library.’
‘Why a library, when there are no books in it? But it is warm.’
‘It’s going to have books in it, and the whole house is warm since the central heating was sorted out, Maria. Also, I think Tish might prefer something other than coffee.’
‘Yes. I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve gone off it, and I don’t drink tea.’
‘The hot milk? The English cocoa? I make it well, the English cocoa.’
‘Cocoa would be lovely, thanks.’
The house was also lovely – darkish, because there was a lot of glossy wood panelling, but not too big to feel like a home. In one room some paintings had been let into the panelling, and Fergal pointed to one.