Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes (27 page)

The relief Marcio felt to be driving out
of the hills and down into the city gave him a stab of guilt.
Normally spending time with his family grounded him. No matter how
much he looked forward to returning to his boat or apartment it was
always tinged with regret at being away from them. Today, as he
pulled into the harbour to move
Marisol
back to her normal
dock, even the prospect of being aboard the yacht failed to excite
him.

The paper with Helen’s details on was
calling to him from its safe location inside his wallet. He had
promised himself that once
Marisol
was safely stowed he
would find an internet cafe and email her, tell her how much he
missed them all. He hurried towards the locked harbour door, not
even aware of anyone else in the area until he bumped into a young
girl. Spinning round with the momentum, he called a sincere apology
to her retreating form and turned again to the locked door.

Reaching into his pocket for his keys
his heart began to thump, and bile rose in his throat. He patted
frantically at all his pockets, repeating the process twice more
before conceding the search was futile.

He didn't know whether to laugh or
yell. After all his warnings to Helen he'd been caught by the
oldest trick in the book.

I didn’t bump into that girl at all;
she picked my damn pocket.
He still had his keys so he let
himself through to the harbour, leaden feet dragging him to where
Marisol
bobbed in greeting.

For the first time the sight of her
failed to raise a smile. It wasn't the stolen money or the cards
he'd need to cancel, annoying as all that was. No, it was the small
piece of paper tucked into the wallet that was causing his heart to
sink to the bottom of the harbour. Although he'd studied it a
couple of times he hadn't made any effort to memorise the details.
Marcio boarded
Marisol
and tugged hard at the mooring rope,
almost toppling himself into the water.

What an idiot! I don't even know her
surname, just that she lives near Earl’s Court. Bollocks. I should
have given her my number, or gone straight to town to email her
when I dropped her at the airport.

Trying to quell the growing sense of
panic, Marcio ran through all the things he did know about Helen;
her photography, the twins, there must be a way to track her down.
As his rage cooled however, rationality returned.

I can just imagine the response I’ll
get if I start ringing midwives.
I’ll get arrested.

Marcio frowned down at the deck as the
Marisol
chugged along the coast. An image of Helen’s camera,
lying there next to a picnic blanket, popped into his head.
Her
assignment. Of course. I just need to call some magazines.

Feeling buoyant, Marcio started to
compile a list in his head. Helen hadn't mentioned which
publication she was working for, but he'd seen her photos so had a
rough idea where to start. Still, it made him sick to think of
Helen waiting for his call, checking for mail. He hoped he found
her soon or she might never forgive him. Hers was a life already
too full of care.

The open sea calmed his agitated mind
and hardened his resolve to get back to dry land, and then back to
London, as soon as possible.

Marcio found himself wandering the
streets of Earl’s Court, as if he might bump into Helen if he tried
hard enough. When the weather turned wet he gave it up as a stupid
idea.

No pregnant woman in her right mind
would be wandering round London in this god-awful rain.

He rummaged through his memories for
something that might help. With effort his brain threw out the name
of a coffee shop Helen said she liked to haunt in Earl’s Court, so
he decided to track it down.

After the third morning in a row
hugging a cold cup of filter coffee for an hour, staring blankly at
the rain obliterating the view through the café window, Marcio
stood up and decided it was time to formulate an alternative
plan.

Pulling up his hood against the
relentless rain, he made for the exit, nearly bumping into a large
woman wrapped in a flowery raincoat, who was gripping the door
frame as if waiting for the strength to go inside.

He wasn’t going to quit, but really,
life just wasn’t giving him a break.

“Aspiration Publications, good
morning.”

“Ah yes, good morning, I wonder if you
can help me? I’m trying to track down a photographer. I’ve seen
some of her images and am keen to speak to her. Unfortunately I
only know her first name. Do you have a freelancer by the name of
Helen working for you?”

“I’m afraid I can’t divulge that
information sir.”

“Please,” Marcio could hear the
receptionist was a young woman, “please, I’ll be honest with you.
I’m looking for her because I lost her number and I have to find
her.” The words sounded more stalker-like than sincere, even to
him. He could hear the receptionist suck in her breath ready for
one more denial. “Please, just her number, I miss her, them, so
much.”

“Them? Is she pregnant?”

Marcio let out a gale of pent-up
emotion. At last he’d found her. He’d been ringing magazines for
three weeks now, whenever he had the chance, and so far he had met
with nothing but stonewalling. No one would even admit to knowing a
freelance photographer called Helen.

“Yes, she’s expecting twins.” He
decided it was time to offer the whole truth. “We met while she was
working in Barcelona, but I lost her number…” It sounded lame; it
wasn’t going to win this receptionist round. More facts were
needed, however inept it made him appear.

“My wallet was stolen, if you must
know, with her phone number in it. I’ve been trying for weeks to
track her down, but no one will even tell me if they know her.
Please.”

The receptionist could hear the
weariness in the voice on the other end of the line. She considered
her options. It was company policy not to divulge personal details
– as much to keep the freelancers on their own books as to protect
their privacy. However she didn’t want to be the one standing in
the way of romance, and she liked Helen. Whenever she came into the
office she looked so beautiful and elegant, and always took time to
smile and share a word with her.

Marcio hung on nervously, waiting for
his fate to be announced. The silence was broken by the
receptionist’s now lowered voice.

“I’ll give you her email address, sir,
though I shouldn’t even do that. It’s less personal than a phone
number though, so hopefully if she doesn’t know you she can block
your address and that will be the end of it.”

“Thank you, you’re an angel.” Marcio
felt he could weep with relief. He gratefully scribbled down the
half-familiar address, wondering again where the nickname had come
from. He also took the name of the receptionist, determined to send
her some flowers to say thank you again.

Not wanting to lose another moment,
Marcio pulled out his laptop and fired up the internet. Then he sat
staring at a blank email, wondering what on earth to say to
convince Helen he hadn’t stood her up. Would she buy the pickpocket
story, after all the times he’d cautioned her?

I just have to hope Mum was right about
her empathy.

Chapter
Fifteen

It always made Helen smile to come into
the office. It wasn’t just the human contact, although that was
always welcome, especially now. More it was the feeling it gave her
of having achieved something with her photography.

If Daniel could see me now
, she
thought, as she pushed her way through the rotating door.
I’m
sure he thinks I’m snivelling in a gutter, if he thinks of me at
all. He’s not going to imagine me as a freelance photographer
working for such a prestigious company.

Helen could feel the giant smile on her
face as she looked around the spacious reception. Filling her lungs
with air, she caught the scent of stargazer lilies and searched to
find where the smell was coming from. It wasn’t hard to locate; the
receptionist’s desk was dominated by the extravagant white and
magenta blooms.

“Good morning, Lucy, gorgeous
flowers.”

“Thanks, Helen, aren’t they just? I
might have to ask if we can have flowers in here every week, loads
of people have commented on them.”

“Any news on your article?”

Lucy had mentioned before that she
wanted to be a journalist, but was waiting for her lucky break. She
had written a piece for the Standard and was waiting to hear if it
had been accepted.

“Nothing yet.” Lucy’s pixie face fell,
but then brightened again. She looked as if she was about to speak,
as the telephone rang.

Helen hovered near the desk, unsure
whether to wait until Lucy had finished the call, not wanting to
appear rude by cutting their conversation short.

As she gazed around idly, her eye
caught the card stuck in the flowers and, although she didn’t mean
to pry, she couldn’t help reading the words.

You’re an angel! Marcio.

The room went dark. Marcio. She didn’t
expect to see or hear that name again. It wasn’t a common name in
her experience. She wondered if it was a coincidence or whether
this young lady who wanted to be a writer somehow knew
her
Marcio.

Helen’s vision blurred and she felt as
if she might choke on the emotions jammed in her throat. Looking
over the high desk at Lucy’s short purple hair, Helen tried to
imagine the young girl with
her
Marcio
.

It must be someone else. It can’t be
him.

She wanted to ask Lucy, to demand an
explanation. It seemed as if the conversation were coming to an
end. Helen’s stomach twisted as she tried to find the words, to
think of a casual way of asking about the flowers. All the while,
the words swam in front of her eyes.
You’re an angel, you’re an
angel.
It would certainly explain his long silence.

I wonder if he ever meant to get in
touch. Maybe he had a girlfriend here in London all the time. I was
just a weekend fling.

Seeming to sense the waves of emotion
pouring off Helen, Lucy looked up from her call, motioning that
someone was going on and on and she was trying to hang up.

Helen felt a shiver pass across her
skin, covering her arms in goosebumps. Lucy was so attractive, so
unencumbered by baggage, of course he would prefer her.

Stretching her rigid cheeks into some
semblance of a smile, Helen signalled that she needed to go and
hurried away.

In the ladies toilets Helen sat on top
of the seat and sobbed. She tried to tell herself it was okay, she
had already accepted that Marcio wasn’t interested. It didn’t help.
Not wanting her was one thing, but leading her on when he was
already seeing Lucy, that ripped at her peace of mind.

She was meant to be meeting her
publisher to discuss a brief for a piece with a writer, but she
wasn’t sure she was up to the meeting now. Pulling out her phone,
she called the office that was just down the corridor and explained
she was running late.

“Are you okay?” Her publisher’s voice
was full of concern. “You don’t sound at all well.”

“I’m fine, Sandra, just a bit tired
that’s all.”

“You need to take care of yourself and
your little ones. Are you sure you’re up to doing this piece?
Working with a writer is a bit more involved than just taking
pictures. They’ll have a view of what they want you to do.”

“No it’s fine, I need the work. I’ll be
in later to discuss it with you.”

“No need, if you’re sure you’re happy
to do it, I’ll give you the details now and you can head over
tomorrow. I think the piece is required for release this week. It’s
at a day care centre on North Road, do you know it?”

Helen wrote down the details in her
diary, hoping she would be able to decipher the shaky words later.
“Yes, I know where that is. What time am I required and who is the
writer?”

“Can you be there for 9am? The kids
will be cleaner and better behaved in the morning.” Her voice
resonated with the experience of a mother of four. “The writer’s
name is,” Helen heard papers rustling as Sandra located the name,
“Mr Thompson. I don’t have a first name.”

“Okay, no worries, I’ll find him. Do
you have a contact number for him?”

Sandra read out a mobile number which
Helen added under the name. Hanging up the phone, Helen dropped the
handset into her lap and rested her head against the cubicle wall.
She was glad the assignment was for the following day. As much as
she needed to be busy, she didn’t think her steady hands would be
in much evidence today.

Making her way out the cubicle Helen
paused to examine her reflection to see if she was red and blotchy.
Any kind of concern from Lucy at her appearance would probably
break down the fragile wall she had built over the gaping hole in
her heart.

Marcio checked his email for the tenth
time that morning. Still no response from Helen. Was she really
that mad at him? If that was the case there really wasn’t much else
he could do. He wondered if it was worth trying to get Helen’s
phone number from Lucy. If he could talk to Helen, maybe she would
hear the sincerity in his voice. Then she might understand that the
story about being pickpocketed wasn’t an excuse but the truth.

I’ll ring Lucy first thing tomorrow,
she must have the flowers by now, maybe she’ll relent and give me
Helen’s number.

The thought alleviated the greyness in
his mind for the first time that day.

Chapter
Sixteen

“You!”

A furious voice accosted Marcio as he
arrived at his morning assignment. He was still standing on the
pavement, double-checking he had the right place, and for a moment
he didn’t realise the voice was directed at him.