If she was going to suggest they had an affair, he was more than willing. And they were working better together, so it wasn’t that...
‘Ready?’
She nodded, and he stepped back and held open the little gate at the end of her path, then fell into step beside her as they walked into the centre and turned down a narrow, cobbled street, and as they walked he told her a little about the restaurant.
‘This place is a gem. I found it when I first moved here seventeen years ago, and it’s still run by the same family, but the son’s taken over and he’s every bit as good as his father. I eat here often because the food’s healthy and it’s delicious and it reminds me of home.’
‘I’m surprised we didn’t have to book if it’s that good.’
‘They were expecting me tonight anyway. Here we are.’
He opened the door and held it for her, and as she walked in she hesitated and he nearly bumped into her.
‘Are you OK?’
She nodded, her pale hair bobbing brightly in the atmospheric lighting. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’
No, she wasn’t, but he couldn’t work out why and then he didn’t have time because the old man was walking towards him with a beaming smile, addressing him by name as he always did, showing them to their table, taking her coat, telling them about the specials.
‘Alice?’
‘I just want something simple,’ she said quickly. ‘Something fairly plain and light.’
‘My son cooks a wonderful fish linguine,’ Renzo said. ‘That’s light and delicate with a touch of fresh chilli.’
‘Just a touch?’
‘I can ask him to put less.’
She nodded. ‘Thank you. And could I have some iced water, please?’
‘I’ll have the same. It’s a great dish. And a glass of house white, Renzo. Grazie mille.’
He watched Renzo walk away, then propped his elbows on the table and searched her eyes, his patience finally at an end. ‘So—this “us” you wanted to talk about...’
* * *
She wasn’t sure she did. Not now, not here where he had friends. And she wasn’t sure the restaurant was a great idea for another reason, either. One she hadn’t even thought of, stupidly.
‘Alice?’
She’d looked down, knotting her hands on the edge of the table, unsure how she felt, but now she made herself look up and meet his searching brown eyes. ‘It’s about what—happened.’
‘The gala.’
She nodded and swallowed. ‘I—um—it seems it’s had...’
‘Had...?’
She dropped her eyes again, unable to hold that searching gaze while she groped for the word. ‘Consequences,’ she said at last, and held her breath.
He said nothing. Not for at least thirty seconds, maybe even a minute. Then he reached out slowly, tipped up her face with gentle fingers and gave her a slightly bemused smile.
‘You’re pregnant?’ he mouthed.
She nodded. ‘Yes. Apparently I am.’
He leant forward, his voice low. ‘But—how? I was careful.’
‘I know. I’m not sure. I might have broken a nail when I—when I ripped your shirt. Maybe that...’
‘Your nail? But...’
She could see him scrolling through what they’d done in those few frantic minutes, and saw the moment the light dawned.
He swore softly in Italian, then took her hands in his and held them firmly. ‘I am so sorry. I never meant that to happen, but of course it changes everything.’
‘Everything?’
‘Sì. Because we’re definitely an “us” now. I can’t walk away from this.’
‘But it may not even—’
They were interrupted by the arrival of the steaming, fragrant linguine. Renzo set a plate down in front of Alice, and as he turned away she felt her colour drain.
She pushed back her chair and stumbled to her feet. ‘I’m sorry. I can’t—I’m really sorry—’
Then she grabbed her bag and ran, not even waiting for her coat because if she didn’t get out it was going to be hideously embarrassing.
She headed home, half running, half stumbling on the cobbles, and as she reached her house and let herself in, the nausea swamped her and she fled for the bathroom.
* * *
He knocked on the door, rang the bell, knocked again, and then finally he heard her coming down the stairs.
He’d known she was in because the lights were on upstairs and they hadn’t been before, but when she opened the door she was as white as a sheet and trembling and he was racked with guilt.
‘Alice,’ he said softly, and stepped inside, closing the door behind him and putting the bag and her coat down on the floor to take her into his arms. ‘I’m so sorry. If I’d known I would never have suggested going there. Come on, you need to sit down.’
‘Did you bring my coat?’
‘Yes. And I brought our food. Renzo put it in boxes for me.’
‘I can’t—’
‘You can. You must. You need carbs, cara. Trust me, I grew up surrounded by pregnant women and I know what works.’
He left her on the sofa, arms wrapped round her slender frame and looking miserable and strangely afraid, and he headed down the hall towards what had to be the kitchen. He’d never seen her anything but confident, so why was she afraid? Afraid of what? Of him, his reaction? Of being pregnant? Of having a child? Maybe he’d misread it. Maybe she was just unhappy about it. She didn’t looked exactly thrilled. And what was it that may not even—what? It was the last thing she’d said before she’d run out, and it was playing on his mind.
May not even be his?
He found bowls, glasses, forks, and headed back, setting the food and water down on the coffee table.
‘Come on. Try it, please. Just a little.’
She tasted it suspiciously, refilled the fork and took another cautious mouthful, then another, and he felt a wash of relief.
He picked up his own fork and joined her, but the unanswered question was still there and he had to force himself to eat.
*
