last night’s curry masked the smell of burned bacon. ‘You’ve not said a word since you came down.’
‘I’m having my breakfast.’
‘Doesn’t normally stop you gabbing on. And you’ve got a face on you like…’
‘Like what?’ She expected the usual insult, but it could no longer wound her.
‘I dunno. Like you’re a stranger here, like you don’t belong any more.’
She tasted the last of her pineapple juice. Funny he should say that. Was it possible that he was more than an insensitive plank? Too late to find out now. But he was right, she was seeing their home with new eyes. She felt like a traveller wandering through a foreign land without a guidebook. Or even a passport.
‘I don’t believe it. You’re not actually concerned about me?’
‘Suit yourself.’ The jeering tone reminded her of their father. ‘Wetting yourself about jumping out of that plane, are you?’
‘No, I’m looking forward to it.’
The phone rang. Waiting for her to pick up the receiver, he leaned back on his stool; he had a circus artist’s knack of making it wobble madly, while somehow managing not to fall over. When she didn’t move, the phone kept on — they hadn’t switched on the voicemail — and in the end he gave a long-suffering sigh and answered the call himself.
‘Yeah?’ He made a face. ‘Roz? Yeah, she’s here. Just finished her breakfast.’
Kirsty shook her head vigorously but he stuck his tongue out at her and said, ‘Fine, yeah, I’ll hand you over.’
She didn’t want a conversation, least of all with Roz, but he’d left the handset on the breakfast bar and she couldn’t leave the woman hanging on. Even now, even after their conversation yesterday and everything that had passed through her mind since then, her instinct was to show good manners. She’d spent so much of her life waiting on people.
‘Hello?’
‘Kirsty, thank God! I tried your mobile, but you’ve switched it off. I was so worried about you.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Well yes, of course I was. Look, I know it’s dreadful, I know you’re angry and hurting…’
‘Sorry, Roz, I have to go now.’
She’d never heard panic in Roz’s voice, but it was unmistakable. ‘You’re not going to tell anyone, are you? Please say you won’t. Promise?’
That’s what she cares about, Kirsty thought. More than whether I’m hurting.
‘No, I won’t tell anyone,’ she said and slammed down the phone.
Saturday was Marc’s busiest day. If he wasn’t in the shop, he’d be exhibiting at a book fair. Today he’d risen before six to load his car and set off for a fair at the Pavilion Gardens in Buxton. Hannah had still been in bed when he bent over her huddled body and she felt his moist lips touch her brow.
‘Let’s talk again tonight.’ His voice was hoarse.
‘Ummmm.’
What’s to talk about? she wondered as she picked at a piece of dry toast. Does he think I’ve hoodwinked him, that the pregnancy was no accident? On the rare occasions they’d talked about having children, they’d both agreed they weren’t that bothered. She had her career, he had the bookshop; a screaming baby or two would get in the way. Not that she lacked maternal instincts; when she spent time in the company of friends with young kids, she began to understand the appeal of the small, warm, grubby creatures. She wasn’t like Terri, who made it clear to each husband that she wasn’t a bloody breeding machine. But she always pushed the idea of starting a family to the back of her mind. Plenty of time yet, she used to tell herself. As for Marc, he was like so many men. Wary about fatherhood in the abstract, but once he held his own child in his arms…
A sick feeling flooded her stomach. Not a symptom of pregnancy, but down to Marc’s reaction. The colour had drained from his face as she broke the news. He’d stammered
Face it, she told herself. You want this to strengthen the relationship, make it secure and work long-term. Forget the daydreams about Daniel Kind, Marc is the man you’re with. You’ve never been hung up about having a ring on your finger, but a child is different. You’re committed forever.
But she wasn’t naive. This wasn’t guaranteed to finish up happy-ever-after. There could be a dread alternative ending, like those you see as special features on DVD movies, rejected by the producer because they were too dark for the cinema audience’s peace of mind. What if having a baby tore them apart?
The ringtone of her mobile pierced the silence.
‘Hannah Scarlett.’
‘Nick.’
‘Oh, hi.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, sure.’
‘I mean, you sounded…never mind.’
‘You wanted to talk?’
‘How about this afternoon?’
‘I’m off duty but Marc’s driving down to Derbyshire. I’d thought of going to a skydiving event. You might like to come along.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘There’s an ulterior motive.’
A laugh. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Kirsty Howe is one of the parachutists and I’d like to talk to her again. We didn’t get off on the right foot. She may be more relaxed if we meet on her home ground.’
‘If she’s a skydiver, maybe she doesn’t do relaxation. But I’m happy to meet you there.’
‘We can have a heart to heart.’
Suddenly, she wanted very much to be with a man who cared for her. Not a lover, but someone she could rely on. Would she tell Nick about the baby? Not yet, it was too early. She needed to see her GP to confirm the result from the testing kit, but her guess was that she was a month gone. She wasn’t intending to broadcast the news until she’d made it through the first twelve weeks. So much could yet go wrong. She was frightened of tempting fate.
‘I couldn’t do it,’ Louise said. ‘I just couldn’t do it.’
‘I can see the appeal, in a funny kind of way,’ Miranda said. ‘Skydiving is all about living dangerously, isn’t it?’
Behind the wheel, Daniel uttered a silent prayer that she wouldn’t develop a new passion for extreme sports. Dodging bikers on the narrow lanes was dangerous enough.
‘I’m keen to continue living, I suppose,’ Louise said. ‘Danger, I can do without.’
Miranda gave a sigh of dissent. Louise was going home the day after tomorrow, Daniel thought, Miranda had won. She didn’t need to bite her tongue any more, didn’t need to avoid petty disagreements for the sake of diplomatic relations.
‘We all need a little danger in our lives, if you ask me. I can see the appeal of jumping out of a plane with nothing to rely on but your parachute, no one to trust but yourself. Women are supposed to be well suited to it, Kirsty said so last night when we were leaving. They have the physical flexibility as well as stamina.’
‘She didn’t look well to me. Pale and drawn. I hope she’s going to be all right.’
‘Lovesick,’ Miranda diagnosed. ‘She fancies Oliver.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw the way she looked at him when she thought nobody was watching. Not even him. Poor thing, my bet is, she’s doomed to be disappointed. If you ask me, he only has eyes for Bel.’
The airfield stretched across low, flat terrain on the southern tip of the county. It had been an RAF base during the Second World War, but since then it had seen little action more exciting than the occasional car boot sale. In the Nineties, skydiving enthusiasts from universities and colleges had begun to utilise it and today there was a huge banner above the entrance proclaiming the Lakeland Parachutists’ Club Annual Charity Freeflying Day.
