‘There’s a Chinese in the next village,’ she volunteered after a few moments. ‘The leaflet’s under the biscuit tin there.’ She pointed to a tin close to where he’d sat himself on one of the two kitchen stools tucked under the tiny breakfast bar. ‘Perhaps you could order while I get dressed.’
‘You don’t have to on my account.’
Her whole demeanour changed and he could have kicked himself. ‘Joke,’ he said lightly, although it hadn’t altogether been. ‘What would you like?’
‘Anything, I don’t mind.’ She clearly couldn’t wait to escape. ‘Help yourself to coffee. I won’t be long,’ she added as she turned away.
He sat for a moment after she had gone and then stirred himself to pour a mug of coffee. Melanie looked exhausted and no wonder—she’d been living on her nerves for well over twelve months now. She was like a cat on a hot tin roof most of the time. A soft, warm, blonde cat with big wary eyes and the sweetest face, but a cat that was nonetheless quite liable to show its claws if the occasion warranted it.
Forde reached for the menu under the biscuit tin and glanced through it. He was absolutely starving, he decided, and quite able to do justice to double helpings. After a little deliberation he thought one of the set dinners would be a good idea to give Melanie plenty of choice. He picked up the telephone and ordered one that was allegedly for three people comprising of sweet and sour chicken Cantonese style; king prawn, mushrooms and green peppers in spicy black bean sauce; shrimp egg Foo Young, chicken in orange sauce; beef with ginger and spring onion; dry special fried rice and prawn crackers.
Walking through to the dining room, he found the table was relatively clear, just a file or two piled in one corner. Placing these on the floor, he dug and delved until he found cutlery, place mats, napkins and glasses. Then he returned to the kitchen and poured himself another coffee.
Ridiculously he found he was nervous, his stomach full of butterflies as it had been on their first date. It had been the evening after they had met at their mutual friend’s wedding; he hadn’t been able to wait for more than twenty-four hours to see her again. He had wined and dined her in a plush restaurant, playing up to the image of wealthy, successful tycoon while being inwardly terrified the whole time she wouldn’t want to see him again. She had invited him in for a coffee when he had dropped her back to her bedsit—just a coffee, she’d emphasised.
They had talked for three hours.
He smiled to himself, remembering how it had been. He had never talked to a woman like that before in the whole of his life but with Melanie it had seemed right, natural to keep nothing back. And she had been the same. Or he’d thought she had.
Restlessly, he walked over to the back door and opened it, stepping into the tiny garden. The night was chilly but not overly cold, and from the light of the house he saw the small space had been trimmed and manicured for the winter. The heady scent of the roses was gone but a softer perfume was in the air and he saw several shrubs in large pots were flowering.
He wasn’t aware of Melanie behind him until she said, ‘I still like splashes of colour in the winter. That’s a Viburnum bodnantense in the corner. Pretty, isn’t it, with those clusters of dark pink flowers? And the Oregon grape is about as robust as you can get and I love the way its foliage turns red in winter. I’ve planted several in Isabelle’s garden.’
He glanced down at her as she moved to stand with him. She had dressed in a soft white woolly jumper and jeans, and her pale blonde hair was pulled into a shining ponytail. She wore no make-up and she looked about sixteen, he thought shakily, swamped with a love so fierce it took a moment before he could say, ‘Is that where the scent is coming from?’
‘Oh, you mean the winter honeysuckle.’ She pointed to a shrub close to the wall of the house. ‘It’s called Winter Beauty and it flowers right through the winter into the spring. Beautiful, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he said, not taking his eyes from her face. ‘Very beautiful.’
She looked up at him and he saw a tremor go through her. ‘You’re cold.’ He took her arm and turned her into the warmth of the house. She felt fragile under his fingers, as though if he pressed too hard she’d break. Warning himself to go carefully, he kept his voice light when he said, ‘There’s plenty of coffee left. Shall I pour you a cup?’
She shook her head. ‘I’d love one but I’m limited to one or two cups of tea or coffee a day now. Caffeine, you know.’
It brought back memories of what had seemed like an endless list of dos and don’ts when she’d been pregnant before, and not for the first time he reflected that there were women who ate and drank what they liked, smoked, even took drugs, and went on to have healthy babies, whereas Melanie… Not that he agreed with such a selfish approach, of course, but Melanie had done everything right first time round. It seemed the height of unfairness she’d lost Matthew the way she had. Quietly, Forde said, ‘Juice, then? Or shall we open that bottle of fizzy grape juice I brought? Non-alcoholic, by the way.’
She had walked into the kitchen so that the breakfast bar was between them, and everything about her suggested she wasn’t about to lower her guard in any way. Her body language was confirmed when she said, ‘Forde, I agreed to see you tonight but I don’t want you to think it means anything other than I recognise we must talk. This baby is as much yours as mine. I know that.’
It was something. Not much, but better than having to persuade her to face that very fact.
‘The thing is,’ she began hesitantly, only to pause when he lifted his hand palm up.
‘We’re not talking about “the thing” or anything else until we’ve eaten.’ He was going to have to fight to get through to her and he was quite prepared for that, but he was damned if he was going to do it on an empty stomach. ‘The food should be here any minute, OK?’
As though on cue the doorbell rang.
Within a minute or two the table was groaning under an array of fragrant, steaming foil dishes and a positive banquet was spread out in front of them.
Far from picking at her food, as Forde had feared, Melanie ate like a hungry cat, delicately but with an intensity that meant she more than did justice to the meal. There were only a few morsels left by the time they were both replete, and as Melanie leant back in her chair she sighed blissfully. ‘That was delicious. I didn’t realise I was so hungry.’
He grinned. ‘Eating for two, sweetheart.’
A shadow passed over her face. ‘Forde—’
‘Or maybe three. It could be twins. There are twins on my father’s side, remember, so who knows?’
Her eyes wide with something like alarm in them, Melanie said weakly, ‘I’m going for a scan this week. I’ll let you know if there’s two.’
‘Twins would be great,’ he said, tongue in cheek. ‘Double the joy.’