Must Be Love (35 page)

‘You’ve got it.’ Alex grins, then grows serious again.

‘I want it fixed,’ I say.

‘All right. I’ll get it back down to the garage.’ Alex sighs. ‘I should have done the on-call last night.’

‘Alex, you can’t possibly do every night.’ In spite of myself, a shiver of dread runs down my spine. ‘It’ll kill you.’

‘Hey, stop panicking,’ he says.

I can’t help it. I can’t bring this baby up on my own. I need Alex with me. He’s a great dad. He’ll be able to make up for my failings as a mum. He’ll be able to love this baby when I can’t. He’ll know what to do with it when I don’t.

‘I’m not going anywhere, darling,’ Alex says tenderly. ‘Whatever happens, I’ll be there for you and Bean.’ He slips one hand under my blouse and strokes my bump. ‘Nothing, neither fire’ – he pauses, and I guess he’s thinking back to last year when he nearly died in the fire at Buttercross Cottage – ‘nor flood, will stop me.’

Chapter Twenty

Just Married

It’s a perfect English summer’s day, one to savour and enjoy, but I can’t help wondering how Drew and Shannon are getting on with the Saturday-morning surgery, and whether I should have arranged to see the cat I’m treating for leukaemia tomorrow instead of Monday. I quite like going in on Sundays – I can catch up with some admin while it’s quiet and the only distractions are Ginge and Tripod, who have a penchant for walking across keyboards when you’re trying to type.

I glance towards Alex, who’s sitting beside me on the picnic bench on the lawn outside the Talymill Inn, his thigh, clad in smart grey trousers with a stiff crease, touching mine. He smiles. I lean into him, rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. The sun warms my face as I breathe the scent of aftershave, bruised grass and river, and listen to the vigorous flapping of pigeons in the trees, the splash of a duck landing on water, laughter and conversation, the clink of glasses and a woman’s voice, shocking in its belligerence, calling for various groups of people to assemble on the lawn by the water for photos.

As I relax, my bump squirms, reminding me that I’m thirty-one weeks gone, which means I have nine weeks to go, assuming the Bean comes at forty weeks, not the thirty-seven I’ve been warned about. Help! It’s time Emma and I started looking for a vet to replace Drew when he leaves in October, another locum to cover my maternity leave. It won’t be for long – I intend to be back in harness within six weeks of the birth.

Alex has lined up a nanny, someone Astra’s recommended. She’s working for a family in London until the end of September when the mother’s giving up her high-powered job in PR to stay at home full-time with her little ones. Alex has made this nanny – Robyn, she’s called – sound like a right Mary Poppins and I have this picture in my head of a prim young woman, twirling into Talyton St George with her umbrella. I’m not sure how I’ll get on with her. I’m not sure how we’re going to afford it.

The photographer, the bossy woman, calls for the friends to join Izzy and Chris.

‘The sooner you line up, the sooner you get your snouts in the trough,’ she bellows.

I open my eyes.

‘Where did they get her from?’ Alex says.

‘A friend of a friend, I think Izzy said.’

‘I guess she’ll get through the photos quickly. I’m starving.’

‘As ever. Shall we move inside?’ I rescue a wasp that is twitching at the bottom of my glass – I allowed myself one small drink to celebrate Izzy’s special day, and it’s gone straight to my head.

‘Not yet.’ Alex straightens his bow tie. ‘Didn’t you hear? We’re needed for the photos.’

‘No, I can’t. I feel such a frump.’ I’ve had to give in to the pressure of my growing waistline and take up wearing maternity clothes. I’ve gone for a ditsy floral dress in dusky pink today – and, woe of woes – flat sandals because it’s impossible to waddle in heels. ‘I feel like an old hippie.’

‘Hippo’s not a bad description,’ Alex says.

‘I said hippie.’

‘I know you did,’ he teases.

Smiling, I give him a friendly shove before he takes my hand and pulls me up from my seat, and we join the bride and groom, their bridesmaids, family and friends – not forgetting the dogs – for the photos.

I hardly recognise Izzy, who’s wearing a plain ivory dress with a bolero trimmed with local lace. She’s smiling and blushing, making the most of being a bride at last – she’s waited long enough – while Chris looks somewhat abashed, repeatedly scratching his neck, like a dog trying to get rid of a flea. He’s had his blond curls cut off and looks more like a gentleman about town than a gentleman farmer.

‘Chris is petrified,’ Alex whispers.

‘He hasn’t had second thoughts?’ I say, concerned for Izzy. If he was going to back out, it would have been better if he’d jilted her at the altar than dumped her after the wedding.

‘No.’ Alex grins. ‘He’s worried about what the best man will say in the speech. Mind you, I’d be worried too, with Stewart as my best man.’ He pauses and gazes into my eyes, and I can hear my pulse thrumming in my eardrums at the thought. And then disappointment cuts through me like a knife as a picture of Alex and Astra at their wedding comes into my mind. I wonder what Stewart said about Alex in his best man’s speech back then.

‘Smile!’ the photographer shouts. ‘That’s better. Come on, Chris. This is supposed to be the best day of your life.’

Izzy’s bridesmaids, three little ones and her head bridesmaid, whom she’s known since they were at school together, wear sage-green dresses and pink roses in their hair. They’re hanging on to two collies who are straining at the leash to get to Izzy. We saved Freddie’s life last year when he was abandoned by his owner. The other one is Chris’s sheepdog. They’re dressed up too, in waistcoats the same colour as the bridesmaids’ dresses, with pink ribbons tied to their leads.

I hide myself behind Emma as the photographer snaps away with her camera.

‘That’s it, then,’ she bellows. ‘All done.’

The crowd disperses, but before Alex and I can move very far we’re intercepted by Fifi Green.

‘Hello, Maz. I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.’ She’s wearing a tight-fitting shift dress covered with red and turquoise flowers that are unlike any flowers I’ve ever seen, and a tall red hat, swathed with the same material as her dress. ‘You told me a little fib …’

‘Did I?’ I can’t remember for the life of me when.

‘New Year’s Eve. You didn’t have a taxi. You stayed over.’ Fifi smiles as she looks me up and down, her eyes settling on my bump. ‘I had a little chat with dear Old Fox-Gifford at a town council do. It was most revealing. Oh, and that talk for the WI. I need to pin you down.’

‘Oh yes, I’m sorry.’ I can feel the heat in my face. ‘What with everything else …’

‘I’ll put you down for September.’

‘All right,’ I say, cornered between Fifi’s rather threatening dress and the river.

‘The baby’s due then,’ Alex says, stepping in. ‘Maz isn’t taking on any more commitments at the moment.’

Fifi isn’t one to be put off.

‘What about you, Alex? I bet you have a few wonderful tales to tell. We could call it “Confessions of a Farm Vet”.’

‘My father likes these dos more than I do,’ Alex begins.

‘Oh no, we’ve heard all his stories before,’ says Fifi. ‘I’ll pencil you in for September instead of Maz,’ and she swans off to collar the next unsuspecting person.

‘I can speak for myself,’ I tell Alex.

‘Yeah, but you’d have given in and said yes.’ He holds out his arm. ‘Soft touch.’

I slip my arm through his and walk through the bar into the next room, a private area where Edie and her staff are putting the finishing touches to a buffet. There are a few guests here too, including Ben and Emma, who are standing in the far corner beside the wedding cake, not talking to each other.

I’m glad they’re here. I was afraid Emma was going to miss Izzy’s big day.

Emma catches sight of me and Alex.

‘Hi,’ she says, waving us over.

‘Hello.’ Ben plants the briefest kiss on my cheek. ‘How are you, Maz? And the baby?’ He shakes Alex’s hand. ‘All well, I hope.’

‘I love the dress, Em.’ I haven’t seen it before. It’s cream with a black print, a fitted bodice and slightly A-line skirt.

‘Oh, it’s something I picked up when I was in London. It’s all right, I suppose.’ Emma smoothes down the pleat at the front. Her mouth is smiling, but her eyes are not. She’s putting on a brave face, and I’m afraid to ask how it went at the clinic. (She travelled to London two days ago to have her eggs harvested, treated and mixed with Ben’s sperm. Now she’s waiting to see if she’ll be called back to have the resulting embryos transferred, if there are any.)

‘We’re waiting for the call.’ Emma checks her watch. ‘It could be anytime now.’

I’m not sure what to say.

‘Doesn’t Izzy look great,’ I begin.

‘She scrubs up well,’ Ben says. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in anything but her work clothes.’ There’s another awkward gap in the conversation. ‘Have you seen the sheep on top of the cake?’ Ben goes on.

‘We ought to throw ours out, Ben,’ Emma says, and it takes me a moment to realise she’s talking about the top tier of her wedding cake, kept by tradition to celebrate the birth of the first child.

‘I didn’t know we’d kept it.’

‘You did know,’ Emma says, her tone hurt and accusing. ‘It’s in the freezer, and the champagne we kept from the reception is in the bottom of your climate-controlled wine-storage thingy.’

‘Yes, dear,’ Ben says.

‘Remind me to chuck it out when we get home.’

‘We’ve kept it this long – it won’t hurt to keep it a little while longer.’

‘I don’t see why it’s suddenly so important to you when you’d forgotten we’d kept it in the first place,’ Emma says sharply.

‘I don’t want to argue about it,’ Ben says, his voice weary.

Clive brings the new kitten over to show us, a puffed-up ball of blue and cream fur with big orange eyes.

‘We’ve called her Cassandra. The customers voted for the name, to raise a little money for Talyton Animal Rescue.’ Cassandra stares at us rather crossly.

‘I can see a pink collar, Clive. I’m surprised at you.’

‘Ah, that’s Edie’s doing. I’ve told her it’s just a cat and she isn’t to baby it, but well, what can I do?’ He rubs his nose against the back of the kitten’s neck. ‘The newlyweds’ transport has arrived, by the way.’

After lunch, Alex, Ben, Emma and I decorate it, an enormous tractor that gleams in the sunshine. Emma and I write ‘Izzy 4 Chris’ and ‘Just Married’, and draw love-hearts on it. Alex and Ben tie on white ribbons and balloons before leaving a box of chocolates and a bottle of wine with glasses inside.

‘I’m going down the road to check my phone,’ Emma says. ‘The signal’s not great here.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ Ben says.

‘No, you stay,’ Emma says, but he goes with her anyway, and I wonder what effect the stress of IVF is having on their marriage.

On the Monday morning after the wedding, I’m surprised to find that Drew has admitted Brutus.

‘Drew’s doing the op,’ Shannon confirms, when I ask her why. ‘Emma’s on the train to London.’

‘Oh? She didn’t say anything to me.’

‘She said it couldn’t wait. It’s good news, though, isn’t it? It means Emma’s got some more embryos.’

‘I suppose it does.’ I’m glad, but I’m also surprised after what Mrs Dyer said about trusting no one but Emma. Still, Drew says that Emma okayed it, so I don’t question it further.

‘Would you like me to scrub? I can give you a hand,’ I offer.

‘No, I can do these with my eyes closed,’ Drew says.

‘I’d rather you kept your eyes open,’ I say lightly.

‘You’re so serious, Maz. It’s very … quaint.’

‘Thanks a lot.’ I pause. ‘You have got the X-rays, haven’t you? The ones Emma took the other week?’

‘Yeah, they came back with the report.’

‘Good.’ I can remember thinking I must mention the X-rays, but I can’t for the life of me recall why. ‘You’re going to get a picture of the dog’s chest before you operate, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, Maz,’ Drew sighs. ‘If there’s any sign that this tumour’s spread, I won’t do the surgery. I’ve agreed that with Emma, who’s agreed it with Mrs Dyer.’

‘So you’re absolutely sure you’re happy to do this?’ I try one last time, hoping he’ll say no, because I’d feel happier if I was dealing with Brutus’s case; but Drew’s supremely confident in his abilities as usual, and I can’t magic up a single valid reason why he shouldn’t do it, so I let him and Shannon get on with it while I see the appointments.

It isn’t long before I’m wishing Izzy was here.

‘I’m sure there’s something wrong with his eyes.’ It’s Mrs Cable with another of Saba’s offspring, who goes by the name of Hustle. ‘They’re always watering and I’m forever wiping them with cold tea. That’s what Old Fox-Gifford recommended for my other dog.’

‘Does he bump into things?’ I ask, trying to keep the puppy still on the table so I can get a glimpse of his eyes.

‘Sometimes,’ Mrs Cable says. She’s in her forties, and teaches at the local primary school. ‘I hope I haven’t paid all that money for a puppy who’s partially sighted.’

‘Would you mind holding on to him for me?’ I cut in.

Mrs Cable might be good at controlling classes of five-year-olds, but she can’t handle a puppy. Hustle fidgets and wriggles around in her arms. I switch off the light and try looking with a pen torch, but Hustle’s a moving target.

‘Hustle, keep still. There’s a good boy,’ says Mrs Cable over and over again.

I get a good view up one of his nostrils, but it’s another few minutes before I get the beam latched on to one of his eyes. He can see it all right. He lunges forwards and bites the end of the torch, yelping as his teeth make contact. I have one more go, then decide I’m either going to have to admit him so he can be sedated, or procrastinate. I choose the latter.

‘I think it’s his fringe,’ I say. ‘It’s getting in his eyes and making them teary. Perhaps you should have him clipped. We’ve got the number of a grooming parlour at Reception.’

‘How much is that going to cost me?’