don’t have one here, but don’t worry; I can drive. I’ve only had two light beers all afternoon.’
Scarlet would have agreed to anything he said at that moment, she was so grateful to be away from Melissa and the pictures of her baby.
Five minutes later, John was reversing her car out of their garage, Scarlet only then realising she’d have a lot of questions to answer when she finally got home that night.
‘Nice wheels, Scarlet,’ John said once they were underway. ‘The last time I was home you were driving an old white rust bucket.’
‘I decided to spoil myself this year,’ she replied. New car and a baby. At least that had been the plan.
Suddenly, the tears which had been threatening ever since Melissa brought up the subject of her pregnancy came back with a vengeance. Scarlet tried to choke them back but it was way too late. Maybe if she’d cried earlier in the week when she’d realised she hadn’t conceived, she might have stood a chance of controlling her emotion. Instead, it had been building up in her for days, this feeling of helplessness and hopelessness. She’d tried so hard to stay positive. So very hard.
Her head dropped into her hands as her shoulders started to shake, noisy sobs bursting from her lungs.
John didn’t know what to do for a split second. He’d known Scarlet was upset over something but he hadn’t expected this level of grief. It wasn’t like Scarlet at all!
To keep on driving seemed heartless so he pulled over to the side of the road and switched off the engine.
He didn’t try to comfort her physically. It was too darned awkward in a small car with the gear stick and hand brake between the front seats. So he just sat there and let her weep. Bianca had once told him that women needed a good cry occasionally. Most times, they didn’t require the men in their lives to solve their problems, just to be supportive and to listen. John wished he had a handkerchief to give her. But he wasn’t the handkerchief-carrying kind of man.
Finally, when the weeping subsided, Scarlet snapped open the glove box and extracted a small box of tissues. She blew her dripping nose at length, then threw him a pained look.
‘Thank you,’ she sniffed.
‘For what?’
‘For getting me out of there.’
‘Am I allowed to ask what upset you so much?’
‘No,’ she grumped, crumpling up the tissues into her hand and turning her face away from him.
‘No?’ John was never at his best when his will was thwarted. ‘Scarlet King, we are not moving from this spot till you tell me what’s going on.’ As he made his stand, John’s mind started running over what had happened after he’d walked into the kitchen. Melissa had come downstairs with the photographs of her ultrasound, insisting that they both look at them. Then his mother walked in and made some crack about his never giving her grandchildren. Which was probably true.
But, John realised in what could only be described as a light-bulb moment, Scarlet wanted to give her mother grandchildren.
‘It was because of Melissa’s pregnancy,’ he said with typical male satisfaction at having worked something out for himself.
The lack of sensitivity in John’s tone—not to mention the underlying arrogance—brought Scarlet back to herself. Her head whipped round, her blue eyes glaring daggers at him.
‘Yes, of course it was your precious sister’s pregnancy which upset me,’ she snapped. ‘Plus the way she shoved those damned photographs in my face. How do you think I felt when she told me she was going to have a lovely little girl to go with her lovely little boy when I would give my right arm to have just one baby of any sex?’
‘But you will, Scarlet. One day,’ he added.
‘Oh really? You can guarantee that, can you, John? I’m thirty-four years old. My biological clock is ticking away like a time bomb. Already the odds of my conceiving a child are going downhill. If I don’t have a baby soon, I might never have one.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Scarlet. Women of forty and older are having babies all the time.’
‘I’m not being ridiculous, and women over forty are not having babies all the time. Most of the older mothers you read about these days are celebrities and actresses who have access to the best fertility clinics in the world. Have you noticed how many of them are having twins? You don’t honestly think they’re being conceived naturally, do you?’
John hadn’t really thought about it at all. ‘I will bow to your better knowledge on the subject. But you’re not over forty yet, Scarlet. Not by a long shot. There’s no reason to panic.’
‘I have every reason to panic.’
‘Look, if you’re so damned desperate to have children, then why don’t you just go out and get yourself pregnant? You’re gorgeous—you’ll have all the offers you could want.’
Scarlet gave him a totally scandalised look, determinedly ignoring the fact that he thought she was gorgeous. ‘You think I would risk falling pregnant to just anyone, potentially also risking my sexual health? No, thank you very much. I have no intention of doing that.’
‘So you’re just going to wait till Mr Right comes along?’
‘Actually, John, I have no intention of doing that either.’
‘Oh? And what, pray tell, are you going to do?’
‘If you must know, I’m already doing it.’
‘Already doing what?’
Scarlet knew she’d just backed herself into a corner. Her and her big mouth! John always did have this bad habit of making her want to bring him down in flames, which was very immature of her. They weren’t bickering children or rival classmates any more. They were grown up people.
Suddenly, it didn’t seem such a bad idea to tell him what she was up to. John wouldn’t tell anyone else, not if she asked him not to. Frankly, it would be good to talk to someone other than her mother, someone more objective. John was an intelligent guy; he would see the sense in her plan. Scarlet needed reassurance at that moment that she was doing the right thing.
‘The thing is, John,’ she said, still slightly hesitant. ‘I … Urn … I’ve decided to have a baby by artificial insemination.’
When he said nothing, she turned her face to look at him. He was frowning, like he didn’t understand the concept at all.
‘I investigated it thoroughly on the Internet first,’ she rattled on, feeling compelled to explain it more fully. ‘Trust me when I say I’ve given this a lot of thought and research. Anyway, I found a local clinic where they had a whole catalogue of sperm donors to choose from. All their background information was listed: their physical characteristics, health records, intelligence levels. I picked one out which I liked the sound of. He’s American, tall, good-looking, with dark hair, blue eyes and an IQ of a hundred and thirty. Some of them had higher IQs—most of the donors are university students—but I didn’t want a child who was a genius, just one smart enough to do well in life without having
