He does as he’s asked, swiping the kit over a scanner and swiftly hiding it.
‘Good luck,’ he whispers conspiratorially, handing it over.
‘Thanks.’ I thrust the kit into my handbag and pay. ‘I’ll need it.’
It takes forever to reach Tottenham Court Road, and longer than eternity to force our way onto a Northern Line train. Laden with shopping bags, we ride the Tube back up to Camden, both of us standing, wedged in between strangers and clinging on to the grab handles for dear life. While Lucy examines our fellow travellers, I slip into yet another baby trance, brightly coloured tiny outfits flitting in front of my eyes, the pregnancy testing kit burning a hole in my handbag, and the same two questions pinging about in my brain.
What if I am pregnant? What do I do?
I’ll need to tell Dan. Because from now on, we make all decisions together. I swallow hard, realising that for me at least, this particular decision’s already made, no matter how Dan feels about it. I’ve made a mistake and I’ll deal with the consequences, nappies and all. I swallow again. He’ll back me up. I know he will. But it’s a sure-fire certainty he’ll put an end to the charade, hauling me back to the apartment in Lambeth and locking me away like some prize possession. And then what will Boyd do?
By the time we’ve emerged onto Camden High Street and staggered back to the flat, I’m agitated beyond belief, in need of some certainty, and determined to sit down and work out exactly when I’m due on. Leaving the shopping in a corner of the living room, I withdraw to my bedroom with my handbag, sit on the end of the bed and breathe deeply. I’m about to go in search of pen and paper when Lucy appears in the doorway.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asks.
‘Nothing. The crowds. They’ve got to me, that’s all. Go and slob on the sofa. I’ll get us some wine.’
‘Where from?’
‘Corner shop.’
She hesitates.
‘I should go. We both know who was behind that rose.’
‘And I’m not about to let him know he’s won … because he hasn’t.’ I open the handbag and rummage around for my purse, careful to bury the test away from view. The whole pregnancy issue is going to have to wait. Before I do anything else, I need to deal with Lucy.
‘But …’
‘Just go and find a film for us to watch. I’ll be fine.’
I wait until she’s gone before I make a move. Steeling myself for the task ahead, I get up and make my way into the hall.
‘I won’t be long,’ I call, opening the front door.
As soon as I’m outside, the cold makes its move, pouncing on me with a vengeance. I slam the door, fasten up my coat and scan the road. Nobody around. Nothing apart from a couple of parked cars. I check on the row of houses on the opposite side of the street. I still have no idea which one’s being used by my protection team, but there’s no sign of life. All the lights are off.
Taking my time, I walk towards the shop, aware of the distant rumble of traffic, the clack-clack-clack of my heels, my breath catching against the air. I hear a laugh, glance over my shoulder, note the silhouettes of two men about fifty metres behind, and sense a shiver in my spine. They’ve appeared out of nowhere, and now they’re walking in my direction. My heartbeat accelerates as I round the corner, and stall. Outside the shop, only a few feet away, three more men are loitering by the newspaper sign. One of them lights up a cigarette and eyes me with interest. I look down, quicken my pace, and edge past them into the shop.
I nod a greeting to the owner and tell myself there’s nothing to worry about. Heading straight down the first aisle, I turn and come back up the second, halting in front of the wine section. I’m searching for Pinot Grigio when I hear the shouts. Muted but vicious, they come from outside. I step back, peer through the meshed window and catch sight of wild-eyed faces, fists thrown in the air.
‘What’s going on?’ I ask.
‘Bunch of idiots,’ the shopkeeper replies, as if it’s an everyday occurrence. ‘Looks nasty. I’ll call the police. Stay in here. I’ll lock the door.’
Great. That’s all I need. Local thugs, tanked up on cheap lager, slugging it out on the pavement. Determined not to let it get to me, I fix my attention on the wine. At last, I reach out and select a bottle.
‘I wouldn’t go for that one.’
The voice grates against my ears. A Scottish lilt. A drunken slur. I’ve heard it all before. A swell of nausea rises in my stomach. My throat constricts. I fight to see straight, to stay upright.
‘Turn around, Maya.’
I can feel him now, his body against mine. It disgusts me. Clutching the bottle tight, I concentrate on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Keep it going, I tell myself. Deep and slow. Fight your way through the shock. Stay in control.
‘I said, turn around. Look at me.’
No. I won’t. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, I make no move. I should stay silent too, but I can’t help it.
‘I don’t want to look at you. You make me sick.’
He slides an arm around my waist. I recoil at his touch, but the arm tightens.
‘I’m logging it, you know. All the disobedience. You’ll pay for this.’
I’m sure I will … if he ever has his twisted way. I peek at the shopkeeper, knowing I should scream for help, but my brain seems to have lost touch with the rest of my body. The breathing’s already come apart,
