Lover in Law (30 page)

I’m feeling popular at the moment. When I’d got to my desk this morning, there was another delivery waiting, from Adam, again. His father’s still in a coma. Thinking up gift ideas is obviously a welcome distraction. Today he’s trying to get to my heart via the stomach. Inside a little cardboard box was an individual-sized chocolate cake, iced with the words ‘EAT ME’ in red. It was too early to stomach straight away, but I’d popped it in my bag just before Anthony and I left, in case. I wasn’t sure what he had planned and didn’t want to be caught short. Chocolate, it just so happens, is my in vogue craving. Now, with a coffee in hand, I decide the two will complement each other nicely.  I take out the little box, open it, break off a piece and offer it to Anthony.

“Here, try some of this.”

“I’m alright at the moment,” he shakes his head. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to deprive you.”

I pop the piece into my mouth, look around the deck. It’s pretty empty. There are a few tourists dotted around and a Japanese family, with two little girls, stood at the front. One of them starts jumping excitedly. I follow the direction of her pink camera, see St Paul’s Cathedral.  

“This is nice,” I say.

“I remember chocolate doing the business when my wife was pregnant,” he smiles.

“Well, the cake is delicious, but that’s not what I meant,” I laugh, wiping the crumbs from my lips. “This, the boat, being here. That’s what’s nice”

There’s a natural pause. The commentary informs us there are 530 steps to the top if you dare to climb. On the way up is the Whispering Gallery, a circular walkway inside the dome. If you whisper something to one wall it can be heard against the far wall 112 feet away. 

“By the way Ali,” he breaks our silence, “in response to your question the other day, the answer is no, Louise and I aren’t still together.”

I’m secretly pleased, although uncertain as what to do with this information.

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

There’s another natural pause.

“Do you remember the last time we were on a boat together?” he asks.

How could I forget? That was when I’d dismally attempted to row on the lake in Regent’s Park, marooning us on the island in the middle. So much has happened since then.

“That feels like a long time ago,” I say.

“Six months,” he says.

I nod. I’m seven months pregnant. I’m fully aware of the time frame.

“Do you ever think about us?” he asks softly.

I turn to look at him, sigh inwardly as I lock on to his face. Nothing’s changed. Only circumstances, and my hippo-like proportions. I’m as attracted to him as I ever was, perhaps even more so. 

“Yes,” I say.

I avert my gaze starboard, lest he glean more from my eyes than I want him to see. Even admitting out loud that he’s still in my thoughts gives too much away. The Union Jack on the front mast flaps violently as a sudden gust of wind sweeps over the deck. I shiver, crossing my arms. Anthony pulls his jacket tighter over me, warms me with his body heat. I feel comfortable in his proximity, tilt my head onto his shoulder.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are in pregnancy, Ali Kirk?” he asks.

I’m not sure I do, so I shake my head. It’s so damn long since a man has said anything so damn nice, I could cry. If I were to turn my head a fraction, my lips would meet his. I’m so close, so tempted, that I quickly break off a piece of cake and shove that in his mouth instead, taking him and myself quite by surprise.

“Jeez,” he sputters, after a couple of seconds chewing, pulling the weirdest gurney I’ve ever seen, lips half open, one side of his face quite collapsed. He discreetly turns to spit out the contents of his mouth into a hand.

“What’s the matter?” I cry.

“What’s IN that thing? Are you trying to choke me?”

I clap a hand over my windpipe.

“What do you mean?”

He digs into the mound of half-chewed cake, pulls out a small piece of metal and rubs it clean from chocolate. It’s an antique style, Art Deco platinum ring, which sparkles as he holds it up to the sun. It’s got a row of chunky oblong diamonds, crowned by a slightly raised emerald. The Japanese family, now sitting opposite, applauds, in unison. “Honwahulashons,” the Mother smiles at us, with a deferential nod. 

***

“Penny for them,” says Kayla. She finds me swinging in the hammock on the veranda in the pitch black of night, huddled warm, wearing a thick angora jumper, long winding scarf and matching bobble hat. To the side of the chair is what was a cup of fresh ginger tea. It’s long been emptied, but still I’m outside. I’ve been deep in contemplation.

“What’s up?” she asks. “It’s not Lewis is it?”

“No, no,” I reassure her. “There’s nothing to tell on that front.”

We’re all hoping no news is good news.

“Well, something’s on your mind,” she says, encouraging me to shift a little, make space so she can join me. “Spill.”

At first I think it’s stupid, there’s nothing to really tell, but then, seeing as Kayla knows almost everything anyway, I decide it would be nice to offload my troubled thoughts. So I recount the day’s events, Anthony and I and the boat trip, him not being with Louise anymore, the proximity, the temptation, the warmth, the possibilities. Kayla listens to it all without interruption.

“It’s not too late,” she says, hugging me, after I admit that Anthony’s still under my skin, itching like a bad case of scabies. “You need to tell him. It’s obvious he’s still interested. Who knows what the future could hold?”

“But you were the one who told me in no uncertain terms to end it with him.”

She looks apologetic.

“Well, that’s because I knew Adam was about to propose and I thought that’s what you wanted. Anyway, I hold up my hand. Perhaps I was too rash. Perhaps I didn’t think it through properly, but that was then, this is now. And like I said, it’s still not too late.”

 I’m surprised by what I’m hearing. Perhaps she hasn’t thought THIS through properly.

“What happens if you and Paul work out?”

She nods, understanding where I’m coming from.

“Granted, family functions could end up a wee bit uncomfortable,” she admits, “but this is your life Ali. You only get one stab at it.”

That’s what Anthony once said.

“Whatever,” I tell her. “It is too late. It’s absolutely too late.”

Despite how it might have looked, it was Adam, not Anthony who proposed today. I’d called when I got back to the office. He asked, officially, if I would marry him. Yes, I’d said. Yes, I will.

NOVEMBER

Chapter 34

In all my childhood dreams of a fairytale wedding, Prince Charming would beam at me as I approached down the aisle and I would look, quite frankly, beauteous. A Princess in a designer frock to die for, preferably in ivory. I would probably slim for the occasion, watch what I ate for a couple of months, to ensure washboard stomach and model-like proportions. Never in a month of Sundays did I picture an oversized me. Never in a month of Sundays did I picture me, as a bride, a Mum-to-be about to drop. That’s not how it goes. That’s not how it’s supposed to look. And if even I am saying that, can you imagine what my Grandma would have thought? She’s probably squirming in her grave as we speak, which I’m well aware of as I step into the first wedding dress I have ever tried on.

The staff here, at this shop off Oxford Street, are all being really nice, trying to keep this occasion special for me. They do, after all, offer a maternity line, catering to people in my predicament, so they’ve got to be courteous. Apparently a fifth of their customers are expecting, so who knows why the other brides-to-be are being so snooty. One stick insect, who was flicking erroneously through my rail, gave me a ‘poor you’ look when she realized her mistake. Another girl who’d been paying up at the till shouted across the floor, “watch your waters don’t break!” Not that it’s that busy, it’s midday, just before the lunchtime rush, but everyone in the shop had turned for a good look at this point, smirking smugly when they’d seen the bump. I’d wanted the parquet to open up and swallow me whole, but I didn’t let it show. I got back to rummaging through the range, head held high. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, I reminded myself. Ours isn’t going to be a conventional ceremony. So what? 

“See,” says the shop assistant, zipping me up, smiling at my reflection. “Bump doesn’t have to mean frump.”

It does, it has to be said, actually look quite nice. It’s an elegant, full-length ivory number with a lace bodice, V neckline, empire waist and long sheer sleeves. It’s simple, yet stylish. The bump is beautifully swathed in silk. If pregnancy chic were to hit the wedding scene, this would be it! 

“I really, really like it,” I say.

The shop assistant, thankfully fairly young, around my age, watches me turn from side to side, making sure I look pregnant, not fat.

“When’s the big day?” she asks.

She comes to my front to check the fit, straightens the shoulders slightly.

“You mean the wedding or the baby?” I ask.

“Both,” she laughs, taking a step back.

“Well, it’s a risky strategy,” I say, still focused on the mirror, “but we’re getting married mid-December and the baby’s due the beginning of January.”

It’s a gamble, but we’re banking on the Scott Richardson case having finished before we tie the knot. It would be nice and neat to get work and wedding done and dusted before the baby comes along. It does, however, rely on all components playing ball.

“How lovely,” she says, passing no judgment on us leaving it so late. “A Christmas wedding.”

“Yes,” I say.

I hadn’t thought of that. For us it was more about getting a date in the diary that fit with the venue and a Registrar. Besides, despite Adam’s objection to the institution, I’ve always had a bee in my bonnet about being married before having kids, always hoping he’d change his mind in time and luckily he did. I didn’t want to wait till afterwards, which is why we’re rushing the whole thing through. We’re keeping everything low-key, ceremony followed by champagne breakfast in a country hotel with about forty close friends and family. I haven’t given much thought to flower arrangements, there hasn’t been time, but now the shop assistant’s brought it up, a spot of holly and some poinsettias would go down well.

“Do you think any of the other dresses will be as nice?” I ask.

Not that I want to forward wind this whole finding a frock lark, it is kind of fun, but time’s of the essence. I’m due to meet Sebastian the computer geek in Mayfair in fifteen minutes. On the peg this gown was by far and away superior.

“Do you know, nine times out of ten, a bride ends up buying the first dress she tries on,” informs the sales assistant.

“Really?” I say.

I’m not the most enthusiastic shopper at the best of times. If this lady is right, if chances are I could spend a week traipsing round London, changing in and out of clothes, just to end up back at square one, I might as well call off the search party now, and save myself a whole load of trouble. In any event, I’ve always thought when you find the right one, there’s no point looking any further. It confuses the issue, clouds your judgement. Finding our house was like that. Once we’d seen it, decided we wanted it, we stopped looking at anything else that came on the market. I guess it’s been a bit like that with Adam, full stop. Is that why I agreed to marry him, I wonder, marvelling at how much cheaper maternity bridal wear is, despite the extra material. The gown’s a steal, in the sale, a penny under two hundred quid. Anyway, back to Adam. Ending up with him, coming full circle certainly saves myself a whole load of trouble. The baby’s not a bastard and I don’t have to play single Mum. Beyond that though, is he really the right one? I’d thought so, for twelve years. I can’t have been wrong all that time. 

***

Le Boudin Blanc is a wonderful French bistro in Shepherd’s Market, a small pedestrian enclave that feels more Paris than Mayfair. Adam and I stumbled upon it quite by chance a few years back, looking for a bite to eat after seeing a flick at the Curzon. It’s brimming with buzz and bustle, with a chic clientele and food that never disappoints. They do the best French onion soup I’ve tasted outside France. Their steaks are to drool for, soft and rare, they melt in the mouth like butter. Whilst the grub’s not too pricey, the mark-up on the wine is massive. Nonetheless, I indulged in a thirty-five quid Cote du Rhone, the second least expensive bottle, which Sebastian the computer geek has practically downed single-handedly. He’s loosened up nicely, which is just as well.  I need him to surrender to my seduction. I need him to show me the messages posted on Sahara.com. I need to know what was so offensive, what was so graphic that the operator was forced to block them. I need to know the e-mail address of the sender. Yes, I suppose I could subpoena Sebastian, force him to take the stand, but an unwilling witness isn’t usually the best. It would be much better if I could get this information voluntarily.

Sebastian’s pretty much as I imagined, tall and lanky with straggly, long fair hair, although when he approached the table ten minutes late, in his John Lennon glasses and sideways satchel, I had to admit he was slightly cooler and better looking than I’d expected. His eyes had practically popped out of his head when I stood up to shake his hand. He’d ogled like a school kid, taking in the huge boobs, lifted with a specially padded bra, the pregnant belly in figure-hugging top. “Wow,” he’d said, about ten times, in varying tones, varying lengths, varying degrees of astonishment. A date with his walking, talking fantasy and a free lunch to boot. He knocked back the first glass of wine in one, for Dutch Courage.