Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes (19 page)

“Probably.” The man shrugged.

“You don’t know?” Helen laughed,
diverted by his answer.

They were walking back towards the
square and the man paused to answer before the blaring music made
it hard for her to hear him. Leaning in so he didn’t have to shout,
his voice rippled laughingly across the short space between
them.

“I come from a large family, who knows
how many people are cousins or aunts twice removed. You know how it
is!”

“Not really, my only relatives are my
parents and a brother.”

The man looked surprised. “Really?” He
paused, as if imagining such a life. “How sad.”

Helen frowned. “Why do you say
that?”

“I love having a large family, there’s
always something going on. That’s why I come back to Barcelona
whenever I can.”

“You don’t live here then?”

“No, London.”

“Oh me too. Whereabouts?”

“Highbury, and you?”

“Earl’s Court.”

Helen wondered how she had fallen into
conversation with this man whose name she didn’t even know. She was
here to work, not to be chatted up by random people. Not that he
seemed to be chatting her up. He wasn’t even looking at her, but
rather he seemed to be preoccupied surveying the square before
them, as if trying to find someone, or to record it all in his
mind.

As if to confirm this, he turned to her
abruptly and declared, “I have to go. Nice to talk to you again.
You be careful out there tonight, the pickpockets will be out in
force.”

“Thanks.” Helen was unsure whether to
be flattered or offended by his concern. Before she could say any
more he was gone, striding across the square towards one of the
stages.

She became aware of a new sensation
itching at her skin. Pausing for a moment to wonder what it was,
she realised it was a sense of exposure, as if a protective force
had been withdrawn. She hadn’t realised how lonely it was being
solo in the middle of a festival, until she had bumped into her
strange shadow. She had felt relaxed walking with him, more
complete somehow. Now he had left her standing alone she felt
vulnerable and in need of the warmth of body contact for the first
time in weeks.

Wrapping her arms around her she
murmured, “It’s just us babies, we will be each other’s
family.”

Chapter
Five

Her brief was to get as many natural
shots of the festival as possible without any one person being so
identifiable a model-release form would be required. It was a
tricky brief and Helen had decided to take as many pictures as
possible and worry about the content and quality later.

Derek would be hopping like
Rumplestiltskin if he could see me, frothing about only amateur’s
taking a gazillion shots. He’d be right, too, it’s going to take me
forever to wade through this lot.

She thought back to the day in the park
with Rosa. If she had taken too many shots that day she would never
have been able to download them in time to email her
submission.

And where would I be now? Still, what
else do I have to do with my time? It’s not as if I have to rush
back to prepare some stupid dinner party or help write acceptance
speeches. Much as I miss Daniel, I don’t miss that.

As she ran off ten shots of some
teenagers dancing at the side of the square, Helen whispered a
small prayer of thanks for the invention of the digital camera. She
couldn’t imagine being restricted to 36 images a time, or having to
change film out here in the busy square. It wasn’t dark yet,
although the September sun had disappeared behind the buildings,
but the lights from the stages made it seem darker and later than
it was. The noise built in waves, like the incoming tide. Her tummy
bopped and moved in time to the music as the babies kicked merrily
inside her.

I wish I was sitting in that café
watching rather than here on my feet trying to find the perfect
shot, whatever that is.

Her brain absorbed itself in selecting
shots, shutter speeds and apertures without much need for
intervention. Helen found herself wondering what the London
stranger was doing and wishing she had asked his name. Now she had
met him several times, his features were beginning to fix
themselves in her mind. He hadn’t towered over her so he wasn’t
tall, but taller than her 5ft 7in, so that she had to look up into
his face.

What stood out in her memory were his
blue eyes. She had never seen a Spanish man, or any man with dark
hair, who had anything but brown eyes. The blue was dazzling
against the tanned skin; she felt goosebumps just remembering them.
They were as incongruous as his London accent and just as
attractive. There was something familiar about his voice that made
her feel at home, even though her Devonian burr was a long way from
an East End brogue.

She wondered idly where her stranger
got his accent – was he actually English and his family had moved
to Barcelona? He had said he had a large family, that sounded more
Spanish than English. But there was no trace of a local accent when
the man spoke. He was intriguing and she found herself wanting to
know more.

Alarm bells clanged loudly in her head,
even as she had the thought. Men were trouble. Besides, what man
wanted to date a woman carrying another man’s offspring?

A blanket of lassitude settled on
Helen’s shoulders, making her limbs and eyelids heavy. Her head
swam with dizziness and she realised she hadn’t eaten since
lunch.

I need to sit down before I fall
down
.
Time to eat, my little ones, you must be starving.
Mummy isn’t taking very good care of you.

Helen looked around for a quiet
restaurant where she could grab some food and review the shots she
had taken so far. If they were good enough she could skulk back to
the hotel and call it a night before the crowds got rowdy. There
would be time to upload them and email some thumbnails to her
publisher, who she knew would still be working even at this late
hour. Being on her own budget, Helen was keen to get a flight home
in the morning if her assignment was completed to satisfaction.

Finding a café that wasn’t already
bursting with bodies began to feel like an initiation test, but
eventually Helen realised most customers were sitting outside so
they could continue to watch the festival. She found a restaurant
in the corner of the square furthest from the stage and sat down
gratefully in an empty booth.

Thankful the menu was in English, Helen
scanned the list searching for something she could eat. There were
so many forbidden foods for pregnant women.

Usually all the tasty ones
.

After sighing over the uncooked meats
and soft cheeses Helen ordered a basic pizza and settled down to
skim through the pictures she had taken so far. She was pleasantly
surprised that some of them captured the soul of the festival. The
first shots, of the masks along Las Ramblas, were particularly
effective, although they also reminded her of her bizarre dream
and, by association, the unnamed stranger.

As if the mere memory of him conjured
him up, her heart began to beat a little quicker as she saw him in
her picture of the cellist outside the church. Clicking on the zoom
button, Helen studied his profile, his mocha skin and thick black
hair. His face was relaxed, almost fatherly, as he watched the
cellist. Helen realised how much more handsome he was when his
features were not marred by the sardonic expression he seemed to
wear whenever they spoke.

If he wasn’t stalking her, and it
didn’t seem likely, it was a strange run of coincidences that kept
them bumping into each other. He felt like her Barcelonan guardian
angel and Helen thought how nice it was to have the protection of a
man again.

Don’t be silly
, she admonished
her traitorous mind.
You do not need a man to protect you or
your babies. This is the Twenty-First Century; women do not need
men to shelter and guide them.

A waiter arrived with her food and
Helen was glad of the interruption. When he had placed a steaming
plate and a small glass of wine in front of her and departed, she
found her mind immediately resumed its previous chain of
thought.

Just because you don’t need
something
, her mind argued,
doesn’t mean it isn’t rather
nice to have it. You don’t need a glass of wine with your dinner,
in fact it’s on the list of forbidden things for someone in your
condition, but it makes you feel warm and content. Life should be
about more than mere need.

She looked guiltily at the wine and
vowed only to have a mouthful.

The Midwife did say a single unit every
now and then wouldn’t hurt.

Sitting back, the food restoring her to
calm, Helen thought about her interior dialogue. Was that indeed
the crux of the matter, the thing that was causing her such
disquiet? Not that she couldn’t cope with the twins by herself, but
that she didn’t
want
to?

In a few short months she had gone from
having a stylish apartment, a man to love who loved her in return,
a hobby that excited and fulfilled her, a fairy-tale wedding to
look forward to, followed by the hope of children, to this: a
future full of struggle and fear, where money was a constant worry,
where she would need to give all her love to two small children who
would be incapable of giving her much in return for a long time.
Where there was no one for
her,
to love and protect
her
.

Of course she had her family. She knew
her mother would be ecstatic if she chose to raise the babies in
Devon where there would be doting grandparents on hand. Some days
the temptation was tangible. It would be so easy to rent out her
flat and jump on a train. Some days she wasn’t sure what she was
fighting for. Thinking about it now, Helen tried to pinpoint the
cause of her reluctance. She pictured herself back on the farm,
where she had worked so hard as a child. She imagined her parents
and tried to visualise her children growing up there too.

I don’t want that for them. I want them
to have the choices I didn’t have: To run and play and be children,
without having to muck out the pigs or collect eggs.

That was certainly part of it. Not all
of it though. Twirling the rich red liquid in her nearly-full wine
glass, Helen thought about her life in London and realised that,
selfishly – if selfishness were permitted in a parent – she wanted
to stay in London because there she was
Helen
. Not Maggie’s
daughter or Simon’s sister or the lass from the farm.

Of course for a long time she had been
Daniel’s fiancée, although she hadn’t realised at the time how much
of herself she had given up to fulfil that role.

And now I guess I’ll always be the
twins’ mummy.

With a sigh, Helen fished out enough
Euros for the bill and tip and gathered up her belongings. She felt
there were enough pictures to keep her publisher happy and,
besides, she had nothing left to give this evening. Two wriggling
babies were demanding that their mummy put her feet up and rest and
who was she to deny them?

Marcio hurried across the square to
catch-up with the face he’d spotted near the stage. A friend had
promised Marcio a five minute interview with the headline act and
Marcio was keen to seize the moment. It was just the angle his
article needed to get the editor’s attention. Food reviews were all
very well but only lead articles made any kind of money and he had
an urgent need for cash. Another reminder had arrived that morning
and he felt honour bound to pay them all, even though he knew she
would happily pay her half and more if only he could bring himself
to ask.

It was bad enough that she had
humiliated him in front of all his family and friends, he’d be
damned if he was going to visit her,
them
, cap in hand.

I’d rather starve.

Looking back across the square, Marcio
saw the strange lady with the copper hair staring bemused at the
carnival chaos. Why did he keep bumping into her? It was as if fate
kept drawing them together. Barcelona wasn’t a big city but, even
so, she did keep turning up like a bad copper penny.

She looked so fragile and lost that
some primal need rose up in him, instructing him to protect and
care for her. She was such a target.
I’m amazed she chooses to
wander the city alone, particularly in her condition.
He
wondered what she was doing at the festival. She obviously loved
taking pictures, but it was strange she was there by herself. Was
she working? He knew some freelance photographers who were taking
shots of the festival. He’d approached a couple, hoping to offer a
complete package of article and image to his editor to improve his
chances of securing a lead slot. She seemed an unlikely freelancer
though. She didn’t have the edge, although he knew that pregnancy
softened the hardest female. He’d seen his sisters, all strong
sassy women, crumble and cry over the smallest thing due to
hormones. It had frightened him to begin with but he had so many
nephews and nieces now that pregnancy and birth were no longer a
shock.

Not that I’m likely to experience
fatherhood myself
. He swallowed the metallic taste in his
mouth. He couldn’t imagine ever trusting a woman again, certainly
not enough to want to marry and rear offspring.
My role is to be
the perpetual uncle, the endless bachelor.

“Marcio, Hola!”

Startled out of his reverie, Marcio
realised his friend had spotted him and was coming through the
throng, arms outstretched in greeting.

“Pedro, good to see you. Thank you so
much for arranging this, I owe you.”

“It’s nothing, friend. Come through
now, he’s getting ready backstage and has agreed to five minutes
and five minutes only.” In a quieter voice he added, “He’s a bit of
a diva, between you and me, so tread carefully.”