CHAPTER TEN
FOR the past week Francesca had been on bedrest. She had been feeling sick and light-headed. She couldn’t eat. The sight of food, any food, just made her feel sicker. The doctor who had initially warned her that she needed to get her energy levels up had given her a stern warning about the effects of stress on her unborn baby and added some extra spice to his lecture by referring to the vulnerability of women during the first three months of their pregnancy. He had thrown her some scary statistics but by that point Francesca had been too busy thinking about the possibility of losing her baby to pay him much attention.
Bedrest. Dr White had been kind but firm, cutting through her protests about having to work with one raised hand that had stopped her in mid-flow. Bedrest or risk losing the baby—it was as simple as that. And she needed to start eating properly, not just a handful of crackers on the go to stave off nausea.
He had tried to encourage her into chatting about whatever was on her mind but Francesca had just smiled politely at his kindly, encouraging face and assured him that she would take his advice, put her feet up and do something about regulating her diet.
Dr White presented a very sympathetic father figure but Francesca had no desire to spill her feelings out to him or to anyone else. Angelo had walked out of her house, apparently taking her at her word, which was good, and she had not heard a word from him since. Maybe he had gone away, had thought about the ramifications of what she had told him and decided to take the most logical path to dealing with the situation. He was, after all, a highly logical man. He would be in touch, she assumed, in due course, when the need to discuss financial arrangements for the baby became necessary. That wouldn’t be for months yet, by which time she intended to be out of London for good, which would be all to his advantage. A child living an hour and a half out of the city was a child he could visit maybe once or twice a month, just enough to salve his conscience and certainly not enough to arouse any suspicions amongst his friends and colleagues. So much for all that talk about wanting to be involved in every aspect of his baby’s life. So much for marriage.
Well, could she blame him? He had reacted exactly as she had predicted. Her past had brought the shutters crashing down because, at the end of the day, he just couldn’t afford to go out with someone whose credentials were not just average but downright insalubrious.
Francesca, lying flat on her bed, stared up at the ceiling. Next to her was a tray with the remnants of breakfast, brought in by Jack, who had taken to checking up on her three or four times a day and insisting that she eat, like a tyrannical mother hen chivvying a poorly chick into obedience. She half expected that guilt had something to do with that. She hadn’t delved into the details of Angelo’s reaction to what she had told him, but she had disclosed enough for Jack to realise that there had been no cheerful brushing aside of the past. So now he had taken to fussing around her, even though, with her out of action, he was handling the catering business pretty much on his own, only allowing her to do the books and whatever else she could accomplish from the end of a telephone.
In a couple of hours’ time the breakfast tray would be replaced by a lunch tray, complete with a flower in a vase, and some bracing chat about lots of positive things that she should be looking forward to.
Francesca was learning fast how to avoid the concern in his eyes by a barrage of light-hearted patter, just the sort to put his mind at rest, while her own mind relentlessly continued to gnaw over her memories of Angelo. Several times she found herself poised to dial his number. She could always use the excuse of needing to sort things out, but the thought of hearing from his own lips that he wanted nothing further to do with her, that she should cease calling him, that he would do what was necessary but no more, terrified her. In his eyes, she would have been tarnished by her past and she knew that he would not want her to infect his own golden future.
She could feel herself being sucked down the familiar grim path when she became aware of the door downstairs being unlocked and Jack’s footsteps coming up the stairs. Earlier than usual.