was staring down at the photos on the desk, a smile on her face, and he nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, they are. I’ve seen pictures of me—’
Was that his voice? He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘I must have been that sort of age. My mother’s got an album—’ And then it hit him. She was a grandmother. He’d have to tell her. She’d be overjoyed.
Oh, hell. His eyes were at it again.
‘Here, drink your tea and eat the sandwiches, and I’ll get David to bring the car round.’
The car. A two-seater, low, sexy, gorgeous open-top sports car with a throaty growl and absolutely nowhere to put baby seats, he thought as he got into it a few minutes later. Never mind. He could change it. He tapped the address into the satnav and headed out of town, the hood down and the icy February wind in his hair, trying to blow away the cobwebs and help him think—because he still had no idea what on earth he was going to say to her.
He still had no idea nearly two hours later, when the satnav had guided him to the centre of the village, and he pulled up in the dusk and looked at the map the PI had given him.
There was the bridge over the river, just ahead of him, so it should be here on the right, down this drive.
He dragged in a deep breath, shut the hood because he suddenly realised he was freezing and it was starting to mist with rain, and bumped slowly down the drive, coming out into an open area in front of the house.
He saw a pretty, thatched, chocolate-box cottage in the sweep of his headlights, and then he saw her walking towards the window in a room to the right of the front door, a baby in her arms, and his heart jammed in his throat.
‘Shush, Ava, there’s a good girl. Don’t cry, darling—Oh, look, there’s somebody coming! Shall we see who it is? It might be Auntie Jane!’
She went to the window and looked out as the headlights sliced across the gloom and the car came to rest, and felt the blood drain from her face.
Max! How—?
She sat down abruptly on the old sofa in the bay window, ignoring the baby chewing her fist and grizzling on her shoulder, and her sister joining in from the playpen. Because all she could do was stare at Max getting out of the car, unfurling his long body, slamming the door, walking slowly and purposefully towards the porch.
The outside lights had come on, but he must be able to see her in the kitchen with the lights on, surely?Any second now.
He clanged the big bell and turned away, his shoulders rigid with tension, hands jammed into the pockets of his trousers, pushing the jacket out of the way and ruining the beautiful cut.
He was thinner, she realised—because of course without her there to nag and organise he wouldn’t be looking after himself—and she felt a flicker of guilt and promptly buried it.
This was all his fault. If he’d listened to her, paid more attention last year when she’d said she wasn’t happy, actually stopped and discussed it—But no.
Don’t expect me to run around after you begging. You know where to find me when you change your mind.
But she hadn’t, and of course he hadn’t contacted her. She’d known he wouldn’t—Max didn’t beg—and she’d just let it drift, not knowing what to do once she’d realised she was pregnant, just knowing she couldn’t go back to that same situation, to that same man.
Even if she still cried herself to sleep at night because she missed him. Even if, every time she looked at his children, she felt a huge well of sadness that they didn’t know the man who was their father. But how to tell him, when he’d always said so emphatically that it was the last thing he wanted?
Then Murphy whined, ran back to the door and barked, and Ava gave up grizzling and let out a full-blown yell, and he turned towards the window and met her eyes.
She was so close.
Just there, on the other side of the glass, one of the babies in her arms, and there was a dog barking, and he didn’t know what to do.
You can’t go tearing in there like this, you’ll frighten the life out of her. You have to take it slowly, work out what you want to say. Oh Andrea, so sage, so sensible. Jules would approve of you.
But he still didn’t know what on earth he was going to say to her.
He ought to smile, he thought, but his mouth wasn’t working, and he couldn’t drag his eyes from her face. She looked—hell, she looked exhausted, really, but he’d never seen anything more beautiful or welcome in his life. Then she turned away, and he felt his hand reach out to the glass as if to stop her.
But she was only coming to the door, he realised a second later, and he sagged against the wall with a surge of relief. A key rattled, and the big oak door swung in, and there she was, looking tired and pale, but more beautiful than he’d ever seen her, with the baby on her hip and a big black Labrador at her side.
‘Hello, Max.’
That was it? A year, two children, a secret relationship and all she could say was ‘Hello, Max’?
He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it wasn’t that. He felt bile rise in his throat, driven by a rage so all-consuming it was threatening to destroy him from the inside out—a year of grief and fear and anger all coming to a head in that moment—but he remembered Andrea’s words and tamped it down hard. He could do this, he told himself, so he gritted his teeth and met her eyes.
‘Hello, Julia.’
He was propped against the wall, one arm up at shoulder height, his hair tousled and windswept, his eyes dark and unreadable. Only the jumping muscle in his jaw gave him away, and she realised he knew.
‘Hello, Julia.’
Julia, not Jules. That was a change. She wondered what else had changed. Not enough, probably. Inevitably. She gathered her composure and straightened up, taking control of the situation if not her trembling body.
‘You’d better come in,’ she said. After all, what else could she do? She had a feeling he was coming in if he had to break the door down, so she might as well do this the easy way.
He followed her back to the kitchen, his footsteps loud on the tiles, and she could hear Murphy fussing around him and thrashing his tail into all the furniture and doors. She thought of Max’s suit and how it would look decorated in dog hair, and stifled a smile. He’d hate that. He was always so particular.
‘Shut the door, keep the heat in,’ she instructed, and he shut it and turned towards her, that muscle jumping in his jaw again.
‘Is that all you’ve got to say? A whole year without a word, and all you’ve got to say is “Shut the door”?’
‘I’m trying to keep the babies warm,’ she said, and his eyes tracked immediately to the baby in her arms, his expression unreadable. Supremely conscious of the monumental nature of the moment, she locked her legs to stop them shaking and said, ‘This is Ava,’ and, gesturing with her free hand towards the lobster-pot playpen near the Aga, added, ‘and this is Libby.’
And, hearing her
