Mistress of the Game

Chapter Twenty-Seven

LEXI SAT ALONE IN THE DOCTOR'S WAITING ROOM, GLANCING impatiently at her BlackBerry. How much longer were they going to keep her waiting? Didn't they realize she had a business to run?

It was late October, ten days after Max Webster's shocking suicide, and New York had suddenly plunged headlong into winter. In other years, Lexi's spirits always lifted with the first frost. She loved the cold bite of the air on the city streets, the smell of the chestnut vendors outside her building, the blinding glare of winter sunlight in the crisp ice-blue sky. It roused some childish excitement in her: the promise of Christmas, Santa Claus, brightly wrapped boxes and ribbons, wood smoke, cinnamon. This year, however, the New York cold seemed to have seeped into her bones. She felt drained. Listless. Max's death had neither elated nor shattered her. She was numbed with a cold that froze from the inside out, from her heart to the tips of her Gucci-gloved fingers.

"Ms. Templeton?"

The receptionist was a plump black woman dressed from head to toe in orange. Even her cheap plastic earrings were Halloween-hued. She tapped Lexi on the shoulder.

"We've been calling you, ma'am. Dr. Neale will see you now."

Dr. Perregrine Neale had known Lexi Templeton since she was a child. A keen tennis player in his midsixties, he prided himself on his still-trim figure. With his distinguished gray hair, deep voice and strong, masculine features, Perry Neale was particularly popular with middle-aged women patients; a category to which Lexi now technically belonged, although looking at her clear skin and blond hair without so much as a hint of gray, it was hard to believe she was forty years old.

"Come in, Lexi. Have a seat."

"I won't, if you don't mind, Perry. I'm in kind of a rush. If you could just let me have my test results and a prescription, I'll be out of your hair."

Perregrine Neale gestured to the Ralph Lauren armchair in the corner. "Please. This won't take long. You look tired."

Lexi sat down.

"I am tired. That's why I'm here. I'm sick and tired of being tired."

Perregrine Neale laughed.

"That's to be expected. The first trimester is often the most exhausting."

"I'm sorry?"

"I said it's normal to feel excessively tired in the early stages of a pregnancy. You're pregnant, Lexi."

Now it was Lexi's turn to laugh. "I don't think so, Perry. You must have mixed my blood sample with someone else's. Not to put too fine a point on it, I haven't had sex in months. Not to mention the fact that I'm forty years old and I've been on the pill since dinosaurs roamed the earth!"

"Be that as it may, you're pregnant. I would estimate you're about three months gone. We'll have to do a scan to be sure."

Perregrine Neale's face was deadly serious. Lexi was suddenly glad she was sitting down. Cold beads of sweat began to roll down her spine. She gripped the sides of the chair, fighting back a rising tide of nausea.

"I can't be pregnant."

Painfully, she cast her mind back to the last time she and Gabe had slept together. It was two weeks before she made her move on Kruger-Brent. How long ago was that? She'd come home late, wound up like a clockwork toy after a tense, secret meeting with Carl Kolepp. When Gabe tried to touch her, Lexi pushed him away. But for once, he'd forced the issue, stroking and exciting her as only he could, bringing her to orgasm twice before finally pushing himself inside her, obliterating the tension from her mind and body.

Perregrine Neale was still talking.

"...twelve weeks...nuchal scan...baby's neck measurements..." His voice washed over Lexi like an echo, distant and unreal. "...older first-time mothers...elevated risk..."

"No."

Lexi spoke so softly that at first the doctor didn't hear her.

"What did you say?"

"I said NO!" This time the panic in her voice was unmistakable. "I can't be pregnant."

"Lexi. You are pregnant."

"I mean I can't...I can't have a baby. I can't go through with it."

Perregrine Neale paused. "You want to terminate?"

Lexi nodded.

"I can arrange that, of course. But don't make any rushed decisions. Clearly, the pregnancy was unexpected. Perhaps if you gave yourself a chance to get used to the idea - "

"No." Lexi shook her head fervently. Her mind was filled with images of Gabe, his face, his body. Forcibly, she pushed them out, screwing her eyes closed. "I can't do it, Perry. There's work. Kruger-Brent. We're only just starting to rebuild. The timing couldn't be worse."

"Lexi, please don't take this the wrong way. But you're forty years old. You may not get another chance at pregnancy, at least not naturally. There's always IVF, of course, but statistically the odds are not great."

"I don't want another chance." Lexi stood up. She was shaking, but her voice was firm. "I don't want children, Perry. Please set up a termination as soon as possible."

She walked out of the office, slamming the door behind her.

Gabe McGregor sat on the veranda of his new Cape Town apartment, lost in thought. Maybe he should have waited? Shopped around a bit before signing the lease? It was the first place the real-estate agent had shown him that met his requirements: private, not too big, excellent security, ocean views. Gabe had signed on the dotted line within a minute of walking through the door.

But now he thought: What am I doing here? This isn't home.

What had he expected? He'd moved back to South Africa because, after Lexi, he had to leave New York. And because he had nowhere else to go. Scotland wasn't home anymore. London was cold and gray, not a city to move to when trying to escape depression. South Africa had been his home once. Maybe it could be again?

Or maybe not. Cape Town was so charged with memories of Tara and the children, of Dia and Phoenix, of happiness found and lost, that when Gabe walked the streets, even the air smelled of grief. He'd hoped his new bachelor apartment might jolt him out of his sadness. Something modern and fresh, with no womanly touches, nothing to remind him of Lexi or his marriage. But it was no good. A fresh start wasn't about geography or chrome kitchen fixtures or black marble bathrooms. It was about moving in his heart. Sipping his Beck's beer, gazing at the bleeding blood-orange sunset, it came to him with searing clarity.

I don't want to move on in my heart.

I want Lexi back.

He'd thought about contacting her after she sent the check. He'd even picked up the phone a couple times and gotten halfway through her number before hanging up, cursing himself for being a fool. It wasn't the money that broke us up. It was the distance, the secrets, the lies. I never really "had" Lexi. Kruger-Brent did, and it still does.

Gabe followed the news about Kruger-Brent's revival with a sort of agonized compulsion. Every article, every TV news story, was a connection to Lexi that both thrilled and tortured him. In interviews, she looked poised and confident, a brilliant businesswoman on her way back to the top. There was no trace of pain, let alone heartbreak, beneath the flawless studio makeup. When Max's suicide hit the news, Gabe expected - hoped? - to see some cracks in Lexi's invulnerable facade. But even her response to that had been cool and on message.

"My heart goes out to his wife and family, of course. But at Kruger-Brent it's business as usual."

No one watching her would have guessed that she had once loved Max with all her heart. That they'd grown up together, as Lexi herself used to say, like two sides of the same person.

It was getting cool. Gabe finished his beer and walked inside his pristine, state-of-the-art apartment.

He'd never felt more lonely in his life.

Lexi woke at five A.M., sweating.

The dreams were getting worse.

She was six years old, walking along the street in Dark Harbor with her father, pushing a doll carriage. Max, adult and naked, ran up to the carriage and snatched the doll. Except it wasn't a doll, it was a baby. Their baby. He wrapped his hands around its tiny, fragile neck and started to choke it.

Lexi was going into labor. Gabe was pushing her through the hospital corridors in a wheelchair. He spun the chair around and said: "I know you're lying to me. Tell me the truth about Kruger-Brent and I can save you."

"Save me from what?"

Blood started gushing from between Lexi's legs, torrents and torrents of blood, till the hospital floor was no longer a floor but a thick, viscous red swimming pool. She was drowning, screaming for Gabe to help her, but he couldn't. "I love you. But I can't go on."

Weakly Lexi crawled out of bed and into the shower. Her appointment wasn't till this afternoon. How am I going to make it through the next ten hours? She rubbed shower gel all over her wet skin, washing not because she was dirty but because it was something to do. Cupping her breasts in her hands, she marveled at the weight of them. The baby - it - was about the size of a pinhead, but already her boobs were preparing to feed the five thousand. She wondered how long it would take them to go back to normal afterward. Days? Weeks? Her usually washboard-flat stomach now had a slight but pronounced curve to it, but it looked more like middle-aged spread than pregnancy. This wasn't her body. It was the body of a stranger. Soft. Maternal. All the things that Lexi was not. Could never be.

She thought about Gabe. Maddeningly, the tears started to well up. She tried not to think of "it" as a baby, still less as Gabe's baby. Even so, the knowledge that she was about to destroy the last piece of what they'd had together...

Lexi put her head in her hands and sobbed.

Goddamn these stupid hormones.

All Lexi wanted was for the nightmare to be over.

"I see this is your second scheduled appointment with us?"

Lexi glared at the abortion-clinic receptionist. Are you asking me or telling me?

"You canceled a previous procedure on..." She scrolled down her computer screen. "On the tenth. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"And what was the reason for the cancellation?"

Gee, well, let me think. I'm throwing away my last chance at natural motherhood? I'm killing the child of the man I love, the best thing that ever happened to me, not to mention my own baby? I'm scared of hemorrhaging to death on the operating table like some kind of sacrificial lamb, being punished for all the sins that no one knows I've committed?

"I had a business meeting."

The receptionist raised an eyebrow.

"An important business meeting. It couldn't be rescheduled."