his daughter?
And she really should phone him back right now.
‘Hello!’
Startled, Sarah saw a face at the window. A bald red-faced guy in a hi-vis vest grinned back at her. She opened the door and the cold hit her.
‘Erm, excuse me, love, this dropped out of the bin and I’m not sure you want to throw it out or if you dropped it on your way to your shed?’
The bin man held up the tiara, slightly deformed but still recognisable. It had a string of spaghetti dangling from it.
‘Oh, I see. I …’ Sarah couldn’t think of a way to say why she’d thrown the tiara in the bin, but worse than that, she couldn’t let the tiara go. Not even after its last wearer had been Niall, and Vanessa had possibly worn it too, for all she knew.
‘You want it then or shall I chuck it on the wagon?’ he asked.
‘No. I’ll have it.’
She took the tiara from him, shivering. ‘Thanks.’
He grinned. ‘Pleasure. Happy New Year.’
Sarah looked at the tiara. It was slightly bent but it had always been a reject. It was one from the early days when she was still learning her craft. Not good enough to sell but one of the first she’d actually been pleased with. The first one worth keeping.
The bin man jogged back up the path, steam rising from his head in the chilly air. Sarah stood by the door, the tiara between her frozen fingertips. The string of spaghetti slithered to the paving stones. Why hadn’t she let him take the bloody thing to the tip, which was what it deserved – just like Niall.
A couple of days later, Sarah sat nervously opposite the GP in her surgery. The doctor was new and probably even younger than Sarah. She beamed in delight. ‘So, Mrs Havers, you’re almost eight weeks pregnant. Congratulations.’
Sarah didn’t know what to say. Of course, she already knew she was pregnant, but hearing it confirmed officially was surreal.
The GP smiled encouragingly. ‘Pregnancy and motherhood is a huge change for any woman and it can come as a bit of a shock. Are you OK?’
‘Yes … yes, like you say, it’s a bit of a shock.’
‘Does your partner know?’
‘Not yet.’ Sarah thought of the six missed calls on her phone. Niall had been trying to reach her over the past few days but she hadn’t trusted herself to answer him. Her focus had been on the baby and today’s doctor’s appointment. ‘It’s Ms Havers by the way.’
Sarah didn’t think the GP had heard her reply because she just carried on. ‘Going by the date of your LMP, your due date should be the thirtieth of August. I’ll send you for a scan as soon as possible and the midwifery team will take over from there. You’ll also need …’ The GP went on, listing all the places Sarah needed to be and people she had to see and things she couldn’t eat, drink or touch. That was one thing then: she now had a great excuse for never going near goat’s cheese.
‘Now, I need to ask a few questions about your family health history. Is there any history of …?’ The GP reeled off a list of diseases and genetic conditions.
Sarah knew the answer to a few of the questions but most were answered with: ‘I’m not sure.’
‘I’m sorry to be so vague but my parents died when I was a teenager so I can’t ask them. I’ll have to phone my auntie and uncle and see if they know.’
‘And I’m sorry to hear about your parents,’ said the GP, looking genuinely sympathetic. ‘And all these questions and information must seem like an awful lot to take in when you’re still coming to terms with being pregnant. Maybe you can ask your partner about his own family history when you give him the news?’
Oh hell, she had to tell Niall at some point, if only in case there was some terrible genetic problem in his family that she didn’t know about. It wasn’t likely as he’d never mentioned any problems but then, they’d never discussed having children. She felt rather than heard the buzzing of her phone in her bag at her feet.
‘Yes. Yes, I will,’ she said and hurried out of the surgery.
There were two more calls from Niall. Knowing she couldn’t ignore him forever, Sarah found a parking space on a side street near one of the university departments and walked through the Backs into the centre of the city where she was due to meet Molly. She listened to one of Niall’s messages.
‘Sarah. Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to call you. You must let me explain about the other night … me and Ness. It’s not what you think. It was … a huge mistake.’
‘Gah!’
Sarah’s snort of disgust sent a flock of ducks scattering onto the river, quacking loudly. Even though it was winter, there were still plenty of tourists taking selfies, loitering in the middle of the road and almost getting run over by bikes. Students whizzed around the narrow streets by the market square, ringing their bells when a hapless pedestrian dared to cross. Sarah wandered in and out of JoJo Maman Bébé and John Lewis, looking at the cribs and baby baths, the tiny pairs of jeans and miniature Ugg boots.
Her eyes watered at the price tags but her baby would need all of these things from somewhere. She definitely wanted it to have them, except it would be summer when she or he made an appearance and she – or he – would need pretty dresses or cute shorts and mini jelly sandals. She would have to provide it all, with Niall’s help, of course. The responsibility was overwhelming … and apart from Molly, there was no family to share the news with, no mum or dad … Her parents would have loved a grandchild, if they’d been here. God, she’d give anything to share her news with them, even if she and Ni had split up.
She’d give anything to turn back the clock. She stopped on the edge of the pavement, her legs suddenly weak and her head light. It was only the shock of the past few weeks and the baby making her feel faint. It was understandable, normal … Her legs almost gave way and she stumbled into the road.
‘Whoa!’
She stepped back onto the pavement just as a cyclist whizzed by, so close she felt the rush of air against her face. Sarah hadn’t even noticed him approach. Had she got baby brain already? She glanced around, expecting people to stare or roll their eyes at her doziness but everyone hurried past, oblivious to her presence. That’s what it would be like from now on, she thought. She was on her own.
Feeling hot despite the bitter air, she hurried along the narrow lane that snaked between the market and the street where the café was situated. A cool drink and a sit-down would help but the stone walls of the colleges seemed to press in on her and she had to dodge round tourists taking photos outside porters’ lodges.
Although it had started to sleet, she pulled her scarf out of her coat to let the sharp air cool her chest, but she still felt hot and light-headed. If she could make the café and sit down, gulp down a glass of iced water, she’d be OK … She spotted the railings outside the café, with student notices and playbills fluttering in the
