Christmas Child

Her father and Emily, still in their dressing gowns, were sitting at the table, the teapot and cups in front of them.

Mattie pulled in a sharp breath, remembering the day they’d been married. Emily had looked lovely, her father so proud and content. They were making a good life together, she wasn’t going to spoil it for them.

She could tell them the truth about her marriage of convenience, of course, and they would understand, be on her side. And worry even more. Best to say nothing about that, let them know what had really happened, bit by bit, when they knew she was settled somewhere, and coping.

‘Mattie—oh, my dear!’ Emily rose immediately and folded her arms comfortingly around her. ‘Edward told me. Now what can we do to help?’

‘Nothing,’ Mattie said as lightly as she could, returning her stepmother’s hug. ‘Except get ready for your trip while I make breakfast.’

‘We couldn’t possibly!’ Emily held her at arm’s length, concerned eyes searching her face. ‘Not while you’re in such trouble.’

‘Yes, you could,’ Mattie said firmly. ‘I feel a whole lot calmer this morning. I shouldn’t have come here. I should have gone to an hotel and got my head straight there, not come whingeing to you!’

‘You do look better,’ Edward said uncertainly. ‘Can I take it you kept your promise and thought about talking things out with James?’

‘Yes. I’ll go ho

me after you leave—remember the promise you made me? It’s Sunday, so he won’t be at the office.’ Subconsciously, she must have made the decision while she’d been dressing. She couldn’t leave him like this, not having given him the opportunity to tell her his side of the story, draw a firm line beneath the end of their relationship.

And she hadn’t told him she would expect nothing in the way of a divorce settlement, or that she wouldn’t expect him to pay for the maintenance of a child he didn’t want. That she could cope as a single mother more than adequately on her own. Tell him that if he ever wanted to know the sex of their child, ever wanted to see it, claim his visiting rights, then he would only have to ask. He probably wouldn’t, but the offer would be there.

She’d apologise, too, for the things she’d said. Telling him he was sick, bitter and twisted had been well out of order. Above everything else, they’d always been friends. Their marriage may have been doomed from the start, but she didn’t want it to end in hatred and bitterness.

‘Well—’ Edward glanced at his wife ‘—I did promise. And you’re sure you’re going to sit down with James and talk, sensibly?’

‘Quite sure. Now will you two please go and get dressed?’

They went, but with a marked reluctance. Mattie told herself she had to try harder in the reassurance department. She made fresh tea, scrambled eggs and toasted bread, more and more convinced that seeing James again was the only right thing to do. That they should part amicably was now desperately important to her.

She wouldn’t let herself think that he might ask her to stay, tell her he wanted their baby, that he didn’t want to put Fiona in her place.

She was realistic enough to recognise that allowing herself to hope for that would only lead to further heartbreak.

The ten-minute walk seemed to take for ever. She tried to hurry but her legs wouldn’t go any faster. What if he’d been so unperturbed by her self-admittedly manic departure that he’d decided to put in a few hours at the office, undisturbed by telephones or faxes?

And thinking of telephones, why hadn’t he called her? He must have guessed that after hurtling out last night she would have gone to her father’s apartment. He hadn’t bothered to phone and check.

Even if he’d taken her statement that she’d sleep in one of the spare rooms at face value, and hadn’t bothered to even look in on her, to attempt to talk things over, by this time he would have realised she wasn’t in the house this morning.

It had been gone ten before her father and stepmother had finally started out, and at least another half an hour had passed while she’d stripped the bed she’d used, tidied up, getting herself calm enough to face him, to say goodbye properly to the only man she had ever loved, to apologise unreservedly for the bad things she’d said about him.

But that was what she’d come here to put right, wasn’t it? she told herself when she finally stood before his elegant front door.

She hadn’t kept her door key. Steeling herself, trying to subdue her jangling, dancing nerve-ends, she pressed the polished brass bell, hoping Mrs Briggs was somewhere deep inside the house and James would answer it himself.

Turning her back on the solid door, she wiped her damp palms down the sides of her jeans and tried to relax her tense shoulder muscles.

Dammit, even her teeth were chattering! And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop the totally irrational hope that, somehow, a miracle would happen, and everything would be all right.

The door was opened. Mattie heard it and tried to get the bones in her legs to remember that they weren’t made of jelly. She forced a smile to her lips and felt it wobble alarmingly as she turned, then fall away completely as she confronted Fiona.

Who said, ‘What do you want?’

Mattie couldn’t breathe, the pain around her heart was too intense.

He’d moved Fiona in already!

She blinked, her throat going dry. Hadn’t the foul woman said that he’d lose no time in installing her, having her in his life, in his bed, because they were still crazy about each other?