The Patterson Girls (22 page)

Joe chose this moment to speak up. ‘No.' He snorted. ‘My mum had six kids and my brothers only have to look at their wives to get them pregnant.'

Dr Slater laughed and Lucinda wanted to punch them both. Instead she said, ‘And my mother had four children. No problems my side either as far as I know.'

But at that moment the curse popped into her head.

She'd tried to forget about it these last few weeks and hadn't told Joe because she already knew what he'd think, but it was part of her family history, right? Almost about to say something, she caught herself at the last moment. She was pretty sure that wasn't the type of history the doctor was interested in and she didn't want her mental state called into question.

‘In that case,' began Dr Slater, ‘my advice is to stop worrying so much about conceiving, make sure you have intercourse every day when Joe's at home, and come back to me in a few months if you still haven't had any luck.'

Joe chuckled. ‘A guy can't complain about that medical advice.'

Dr Slater half-laughed, then pushed back her chair. Joe started to stand as if that was the end of that.
Do you think we're idiots?
Lucinda wanted to scream. It's not as if they weren't having enough sex already and she'd read every book on fertility and conception under the sun, so she knew their timing and everything else was right. And even though Dr Randall was a friend of Madeleine's, it still might take them months to get an appointment. How many friends' pregnancies would be announced or babies born while she waited? No, she couldn't keep going the way they were. She couldn't stand it!

‘My sister has already spoken to Doctor Randall,' Lucinda said firmly, her hands tightly gripping her handbag, ‘and he has agreed to see us. We just need a local referral.' She gave the doctor a look that she hoped conveyed her message:
I'm not leaving this surgery without that little piece of paper.

Dr Slater sighed, turned to her computer screen without saying a word, opened a document and began to type. Lucinda tried to peer past Joe and read the words but she couldn't make them out. Joe looked to her questioningly but she looked away, peeved at his lack of support. Sometimes she seriously wondered if he wanted to have a family at all—oh, he said all the right things to his
mamma
, but he didn't take their efforts seriously the way she did.

Finally, Dr Slater stopped typing and reached over to the printer as it shot out a couple of pieces of paper. She folded the top one up, put it into an envelope then made a show of sealing it shut, before handing it to Lucinda.

‘Here's your referral. And—' she picked up the other piece of paper and thrust it towards them ‘—since you're eager to get started, I'm sending you for some blood tests so that Doctor Randall will have the results by the time you go to his appointment.'

Lucinda blinked. It was actually happening. She felt like the two bits of paper in her hand were winning lottery tickets. Despite the fact blood tests made her faint and this was only the first step in what might be a very long and arduous process, she wanted to fling her arms up in the air and dance around the doctor's surgery.

‘Thanks,' Joe said, standing. ‘We really appreciate it, don't we, Luce?'

‘Yes.' Lucinda nodded, still smiling, willing to forgive Dr Slater's initial reluctance because now she had more important things to focus on. She couldn't wait to call Madeleine and tell her the news.

Chapter Seventeen

Taking a deep breath, Abigail placed her violin case down on the cold pavement beside her and prayed that the rain and the police would stay away long enough for her to make a few pounds. Although hopeful that next week would bring a positive pregnancy test and a reason to pack up her bags and head back to Australia, she had to do something just in case. Her credit card was almost maxed out and getting a job had proved a lot harder than she'd imagined.

Following Nigel's suggestion, she'd drafted a brief post for Facebook about being available to teach violin and piano to children or adults in their own home and had been about to publish her status when she'd realised the problem. Her sisters were on Facebook and although they rarely commented on anything she had to say, she'd bet her last penny they'd make a big deal about this. Disheartened, she'd gone to Plan B, which involved ‘borrowing' Pamela's printer, Sam's paper and dusting off her old résumé. Despite the rain, she'd spent two days trekking around London, going into shops—she'd started with the music stores—asking if they were looking for workers.

Having to do this was demoralising in itself but the response she got from almost every potential employer made her want to scream. ‘Bit over-qualified to work here, aren't you, love?' Just because she had a First Class Honours degree in classical music, didn't mean she wasn't prepared to stand behind a counter and learn how to use a cash register. Hell, she'd even try her hand at pulling pints if someone would have her. But it seemed no one was hiring right now. They'd all taken on extra staff for the Christmas period but now that was over, if anything, they were cutting back.

Which is why she felt she had no other option but to put herself out here for passers-by to take pity on. Her hands shaking—she'd never done anything illegal before in her life but couldn't afford the time or money it would take to get a busker's permit—she bent down and released the clasps on her violin case.

‘I'm sorry,' she whispered as she tenderly picked it and the bow up out of its case. It felt like sacrilege to be playing her prized instrument on a dirty London street with the overcast sky frowning down at them, but the second she lifted it up and put her chin on the chin rest, she began to relax. She positioned her fingers on the strings, took a deep breath and launched into Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major.

Before long a small crowd had gathered around her and people were tossing money in her case at a pleasing rate. She smiled her thanks as the coins dropped and clinked against each other, thinking that perhaps she'd go out and splurge on a baby name book when she was done. And something delicious to eat. If she
was
pregnant, she needed to keep her strength up. She was so distracted by these thoughts and the actual glee of playing for an audience again that she almost didn't hear the shout from one of the onlookers.

‘Pigs are coming!'

Her fingers faltered on the strings, as she wondered what farm animals were doing in central London, and then it clicked.
Police
. How the person guessed she didn't have a busker's permit she had no clue, but she called out her thanks as she shoved her violin and bow back into the case and fumbled to get it shut. A coin lodged in one of the clasps and a cold sweat erupted on the back of her neck as the crowd dispersed.

A menacing figure dressed in the Met's navy blue approached from about twenty metres away. Clutching her not-quite-shut case under her arm, Abigail launched into a run. She didn't know where she was headed, just that she needed to get away.

‘Oi, Miss!' The policeman's angry voice followed her and she upped her speed as if she were running from a rabid dog.
No Abigail, nothing like that. Just the law
. Good Lord, what had become of her? She ran until her legs burned, her clothes were soaked through from an inconvenient downpour and she felt certain she'd lost her pursuer. And then she found an empty bus shelter and slumped down onto the bench. Her heart rate took a good ten minutes to return to normal and about the same time her body stopped shaking. She took a breath—wished she'd thought to pack a bottle of water—and then looked around, trying to work out where exactly she'd run to.

Just as she determined she was at least three or four Tube stations away from her flat, her phone pinged, alerting her to a Facebook message. Not ready yet to emerge from her hideaway and happy for a distraction, she pulled it out of her jacket pocket and glanced down at the screen.

Nigel
. A warm flush came over her drenched body as she slid her finger along to unlock her phone and read the message. It had been four days since they'd parted ways at Heathrow and she'd pretty much given up hope of him contacting her. He'd been on her mind a lot because of the baby possibility but she'd told herself maybe it was a good thing he'd been silent.

Hey, how you doing? Hope you're all recovered from jet lag. Not sure if you're keen or not, but my boss has a daughter who's been learning the violin and her teacher just quit. I told him I might know someone. She's a bit of a brat if I'm honest, but she goes to a posh girls' school and might have friends who are also interested.

Hell yes, she was interested. If they went to a posh girls' school she could charge appropriately.
Thanks. I'm well,
she replied,
and most definitely interested in an intro to your boss and his delightful daughter.

His reply was instant.
Great, but that wasn't the only reason I messaged. I have the ulterior motive of wanting to catch up. Interested?

Abigail bit her lip. Catch up? Was that a euphemism for shag each other silly and then part ways again? And did she care if it was? That's what they'd agreed to after all.
Sure. When?

Is tonight too soon?

The way she felt at that moment tonight wasn't soon enough. It would be good not to spend the evening hiding away in her room, trying to avoid Pamela and Sam.
Sounds good. Where shall we meet?

Want to come to my place?

Abigail answered in the affirmative, happy that he hadn't suggested coming to her. She was curious about seeing where he lived. He sent her an address in Hackney and told her not to worry about dinner.

Somewhat buoyed by the exchange, Abigail opened her violin case, removed the stuck coin, closed it again and then went to catch the Tube home.

From the street, Nigel's apartment wasn't much to look at. It was one of those old, dirty brown brick buildings that went the length of the block and had white doors and windows every few metres, but the cars parked along the street indicated the residents were comfortable. Her hand shaking ever so slightly, Abigail raised the black steel knocker and made her presence known. Within seconds she heard the sound of hurried footsteps and straightened as the door swung open.

Nigel stood before her, wearing low-slung faded jeans, a plain black t-shirt and no shoes. Her breath caught in her throat. She'd forgotten how downright sexy he was and the bare feet thing made her think of home, which was comforting after the day she'd had.

‘Hey,' he grinned, then leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I'm glad you found me.'

She smiled back, her nerves evaporating at his easy way. ‘Me too.'

He stepped back a little and gestured into the house. ‘Coming in?'

‘Yep.' She nodded and stepped past him, catching a whiff of some divine male cologne as she did so. ‘What is that smell?'

‘You don't like it?' Nigel shut the door behind them.

‘On the contrary. I like it very much.' So much it made her want to launch herself at him. That's why she was here, right? To have mad, no-strings attached, monkey sex. She squeezed her thighs together at the thought.

‘Good. It's a sample from a client. We're putting together a bid for their next big campaign.' Nigel reached towards her and she sucked in a breath as his hands landed on her waist. ‘Can I take your coat?'

‘Yes.' A delicious fizz rushed through her as he unzipped her black waterproof jacket and gently eased it back and over her shoulders. Considering it was the middle of a freezing London winter, she had plenty more layers beneath, but this small gesture felt like a prelude to what was to come. She couldn't get there fast enough.

He turned and hung her jacket on a hook by the door and she noticed two more hanging alongside it.

‘Do you live with anyone else?' she asked, wondering why the thought hadn't crossed her mind.

He nodded. ‘Yes, but Chad—an American—is barely ever here. He travels a lot for work, so we've got the place all to ourselves tonight.'

‘Good.' She smiled at him in a way that could not be misconstrued and in reply, he took hold of her hand and led her down the narrow hallway into the living room. It had a bright and airy feel considering outside it was already pitch black and drizzling again. An old-fashioned fire roared in the corner and stark-white, plump couches were angled towards it. A few black throw cushions adorned the couches, bookshelves lined one wall and the others held black-and-white photos of international landmarks.

‘Those are Chad's photos,' Nigel informed her. ‘He's a travel photographer. This is his place.'

‘Uh huh.' Truth was she didn't give two hoots about the décor of Nigel's pad or who owned it.

‘Can I get you a glass of wine?'

Abigail almost said yes, thinking that perhaps they could both do with a little Dutch courage to follow through on what had seemed like a very good idea when they were together in Hong Kong airport. And then she remembered that alcohol might not be a good idea. But she'd led Nigel to believe she was on the pill, so she couldn't exactly tell him she might be pregnant with his baby. ‘I'll just have a glass of water if that's okay. I've got a bit of a headache.'

‘You should have said.' Yet Nigel didn't look annoyed, he looked concerned. ‘Can I get you some painkillers? Do you need something to eat?'

She thought maybe he needed to work on his playboy—by definition fuck buddies didn't play Florence Nightingale to one another—but his genuine concern warmed her heart. It only made him all the more attractive and she realised, if she was pregnant, that this might be her last chance to do something so reckless. Considering he'd been the best sex of her life so far, she wanted this last hurrah.