Must Be Love (34 page)

‘I know,’ I cut in, recalling the time just before I signed the papers for the partnership with Emma, when she took me through the three-quarter-height door in the back of the stationery cupboard and down the steep stone steps into the cellar to point out the watermark that reaches almost to the top of the bare brick walls. We didn’t stay long. It smelled as if something had died down there. ‘It can’t happen again, though, not with the flood protection scheme.’

‘Oh that,’ Frances says dismissively. ‘They say it’s like putting a net out to catch a wave.’

I’m not sure who she means by ‘they’, but I suspect it’s one of the many self-confessed experts in Talyton who always know better than the professionals. I take a step closer to the desk, stumbling as I go and catching the edge for support.

‘Maz, you’ve gone pale all of a sudden. Are you all right? Is the baby kicking?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ I look down, trying to remember when I last felt it move. My heart beats faster. I’m not sure. I grab my stethoscope from the consulting room. The bell is cold on my skin when I listen in, catching the sound of a heartbeat even faster than mine. The baby elbows the stethoscope away, and I can relax once more.

‘Who’s the fussy mother now?’ says Frances.

I smile wryly. I know I’m afraid I’ll reject it once it’s born, but, as I’ve said before, I wouldn’t be able to forgive myself if it ended up like Emma’s baby, in a tiny grave covered with flowers, because I’d somehow wished it there.

Alex and I share a rare Sunday morning together, just the two of us with no young Fox-Giffords to disturb us with wet chickens and
Bob the Builder
DVDs. We lie in until eleven, then go downstairs to make brunch.

‘That cockerel woke me up at five,’ I tell Alex.

‘You’ll get used to it,’ he says.

‘I heard your father’s Range Rover going out at about six, and then the horses disturbed me at about seven.’ There was a lot of banging of buckets and stable doors.

‘They expect to be fed at the same time every day, and my mother insists on it. She gives them breakfast at the weekends when Lisa isn’t around to do it. She doesn’t work weekends.’

‘Talking of breakfast, what shall we have?’ I open the fridge. It’s nearly empty, apart from a mouldy tomato, half a packet of butter and three slices of ham. Oh, and an insulated container. I open it and find a syringe of an off-white fluid which looks suspiciously like – well, it isn’t milk. ‘Alex, is this what I think it is?’

‘Probably.’ Alex mooches up behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder. I’m wearing his robe. He’s in his night-time attire of a loose T-shirt and shorts.

‘What’s it doing in our fridge?’

‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’ His hand strokes my buttock. ‘You being a vet and all that. The fridge in the surgery’s broken – I had to put it somewhere.’ Alex pads away across the kitchen to fill the kettle, his bare feet leaving transient prints on the stone floor. ‘Liberty should be ready to receive it later today. I know it’s a little late in the season, but I’ve found the perfect stallion and I don’t want to wait another year to get her in foal.’

‘What’s he like, then? Tall, dark and handsome?’

‘Big, bay and gorgeous,’ Alex says.

His excitement is infectious, and I find myself thinking I wouldn’t begrudge him these foreign bodily fluids taking up space in the fridge if there was actually some food in there as well.

‘Alex, when do you go shopping?’

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘I haven’t had time.’

I understand completely: I’ve been wondering how I’m ever going to find a couple of hours to go and buy an outfit for Izzy’s wedding, which is in less than two weeks. There’s no way I’m going to fit into any of my other clothes.

‘Perhaps we should have some kind of system, you know, a list and a rota, rather than this rather hit-and-miss arrangement we’ve been relying on till now.’

‘We could go together,’ Alex says. ‘I can nip across to my parents to get some milk for your cereal.’

‘It’s straight from the cow, isn’t it? I shouldn’t drink it unpasteurised because of the baby.’

‘You’re right.’ Alex smiles.

Little does he know about the sense of remorse that takes a hold of me when I remember a time I did wish the baby ill. It’s different now, I tell myself. Although it’s still growing inside me, it’s a person with a life of its own, its sleep patterns independent of mine. It, too, woke me in the middle of the night, squirming about and landing the odd punch on my bladder.

‘I’ll drive into Talyton as soon as I’m dressed,’ Alex says.

‘I’ll come with you,’ I decide. ‘We can stock up – on cheese, nuts and pulses, instead of all the rubbish you eat.’

It’s true – you don’t get to really know someone until you’re living with them. I didn’t realise how much Alex depends on a diet of takeaways from Mr Rock’s, ready meals from the Co-op and cake. I hadn’t noticed before how he likes to read thrillers – Wilbur Smith, John Grisham and James Patterson. He used to slip the books under the bed when I was staying overnight. Now I’m a permanent fixture, he leaves them out on the bedside table, and the shelf in the bathroom. I’ve also found photos of him when he was younger – pictures stashed away in a box in the boot room (I call it the cloakroom), along with some old postcards. There’s Alex looking incredibly youthful at his graduation, his wedding to Astra, and another of him with longer hair and eyeliner, dressed in a frilly white shirt for an eighties-themed party, a New Romantic, not the old one he’s become.

When he’s scanning Liberty in her stable a couple of hours later to see if she’s ready for insemination, he plays her soft music on the radio.

‘She’s ready,’ Alex says, his apron rustling as he withdraws the ultrasound probe.

‘Personally, I prefer a natural mating,’ he observes when he injects the semen sample. My sentiments entirely, I muse, smiling, as he goes on, ‘But the stallion’s abroad.’

Assisted reproduction. It’s all horribly clinical, and it makes me think of Emma. There’s no passion, no warmth, no connection.

‘There we go, Libs,’ Alex says. ‘Let’s hope that’s done the trick.’

‘It’s going to be a long wait,’ I say.

‘Yep, eleven months and she’ll have a healthy foal at foot. That’s the plan anyway.’

‘Does she need any special attention from now on?’

‘No more attention than usual. I’ll scan her again in a couple of weeks to check it’s worked, and make sure she isn’t carrying twins.’

That rings a bell. I vaguely recall that multiple pregnancies are a no-no in the horse: you can end up losing both mare and foals if you let them continue.

‘Have you been in touch about those antenatal classes?’ Alex asks.

‘No. I know Lynsey said she found them useful, but the whole idea seems like a bit of a waste of time to me.’

‘You might pick up some useful tips, make some friends … I’ll come with you.’ Alex winds up the lead on the scanner and wheels it outside on the trolley. He stops and looks at me. ‘You haven’t told your mother yet, have you?’ he says, out of the blue. ‘Why don’t you invite her down for a few days? She can stay here.’

‘It isn’t a good idea.’ I can hear her having a go at me, making me feel stupid and inadequate for making such a big mistake, for risking my career. I’ve hardly seen or heard from her since I left London, and I’m more than happy for it to stay that way.

‘Maz, she can’t be as bad as you make out.’

‘Alex, she’d be all over you.’

‘No! That’s ridiculous.’

‘You know all about nymphomaniac mares? She’s an outrageous flirt.’

‘All right, I get the picture,’ he says, but I can see he’s unconvinced. ‘What about the baby? It’s her grandchild.’

‘You don’t understand. I don’t want or need her in my life. I’ve moved on.’

‘But she’s your family.’

‘You’re my family now, you and Bean,’ I say, as Old Fox-Gifford screams into the yard in his Range Rover. He turns the corner too sharply, skidding through the gravel, and brakes too late, crashing into the rear of my car. The rooks fly up out of the trees and the dogs come flying out of the Manor, barking and jumping up at him as he descends stiffly from the driver’s side in wellies, a boilersuit tied at the waist with baling twine, and a striped pyjama top.

‘Who left that bloody thing there?’ he says, waving his fist.

Alex hangs on to my hand, holding me back.

‘Who moved it?’ Old Fox-Gifford goes on.

‘It’s been parked there on and off for the past two weeks,’ Alex says.

‘That’s my spot. I’ve had that spot for fifty years.’ Old Fox-Gifford limps up and addresses his son. Tell your floozie-woman not to get in my way in future.’

‘Tell her yourself. Maz isn’t in the way at all,’ Alex says. ‘I’m not sure you should still be driving. That’s the second accident you’ve had this month, and it’s getting expensive.’

‘You can get it back orf the insurance,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, as Hal the Labrador adds insult to injury by peeing up the wheel of my poor car. He points at me. ‘She can pay for it – she can afford it.’

‘I shouldn’t have to afford it,’ I cut in crossly. Old Fox-Gifford makes my blood boil at the best of times, but this time I’m incandescent. ‘I reckon you did this deliberately, to get back at me, because you can’t stand the idea of me being with your precious son.’

‘Maz,’ Alex warns.

‘Why are you siding with him?’ I say.

‘I’m not taking sides.’

‘Alex, you are.’ It feels like he is. I stare at Alex until he turns away, back to his father. I notice how his hands are clenched into tight, bloodless fists.

‘Maz, you’re right,’ he mutters. ‘I’ve had enough of this! It’s time we had this out. Properly.’

‘What do you mean, son?’ Old Fox-Gifford’s expression turns from smug to aghast as Alex stands up to him.

‘I’ve had enough of you.’ Alex pauses – for effect, I believe, because I think he’s determined to savour this moment. ‘I’ve made a decision. If you can’t be polite to my girlfriend, if you really can’t tolerate the idea she’s carrying my baby, my much-wanted and loved child, then I’m ready to quit.’

‘Quit? Quit?’ Spittle flies from Old Fox-Gifford’s lips. ‘What do you mean, quit?’

‘I’m leaving the practice. And the Barn. Yes, moving out.’

‘You wouldn’t dare. If you do that, I’ll make sure you’ll never work around here again.’

Alex folds his arms across his heaving chest. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Alex? Leaving his beloved practice?

‘There’s nothing you can do, Father. Like you, I thought it was impossible, that the only way I could get away from you was to leave Talyton altogether, but I’ve realised it doesn’t have to be like that. I have plenty of supportive clients and I’ve already spoken to Stewart and he’s offered me one of his old outbuildings as a base.’

Has he? I didn’t know, I think, but they are very good friends so it isn’t surprising that they have talked about the possibility of Alex giving up on Talyton Manor Vets. ‘You’re bluffing, Alexander. You can’t give up the family firm. After all we’ve done, after all we’ve worked for?’

‘I can do whatever I like,’ Alex says hoarsely. ‘I have my own mind. I’m not your bloody puppet!’

Realising Alex is deadly serious, Old Fox-Gifford’s shoulders collapse and he seems to shrink.

‘How will I manage?’ he whines. ‘Have you thought of that?’

‘It’s up to you,’ Alex says, and I feel so proud of him – and touched – that he’s willing to take such a drastic step for me and the baby. ‘You can carry on just as you wish. I don’t care.’

‘It’ll finish your mother off,’ Old Fox-Gifford says, but Alex seems perfectly aware that he’s turning the emotional screw for his own ends.

‘It’ll probably kill you first,’ Alex says coolly, although I can see the blood vessels in his neck pulsing with anger.

Old Fox-Gifford falls silent. I’ve never seen him unable to answer back, and I start to wonder from the way his face is twitching if he’s about to have a fit.

‘It’s up to you, Father. Either you apologise to me and Maz, or’ – he pulls his mobile out of his pocket – ‘I’ll phone Stewart and set the ball rolling.’

Meekly, Old Fox-Gifford holds up one hand. He’s shaking.

‘All right, Alexander,’ he sighs. ‘You win.’

‘This isn’t about winning.’

‘I know … I apologise to you …’ He turns briefly to me, but doesn’t meet my eye. ‘And Maz.’

It isn’t much of an apology, I think, but Alex deems it enough. For now.

‘Thank you, Father. I hope that from now on, you can at least be civil to my girlfriend, if nothing else.’ Alex takes my hand, gives me one of his heart-wrenching smiles, then goes on, almost as if nothing has happened, ‘Where have you been anyway?’

Still chastened, Old Fox-Gifford clears his throat. ‘I saw a downer cow at Stewart’s – we didn’t get her up.’

‘Shame,’ Alex says, and the tension begins to dissipate under the sunny sky, the raucous rooks wheeling back and fluttering down into the trees. Old Fox-Gifford whistles for the dogs and shuffles away, more bowed than ever. Alex slides his arm behind my back, and in response I look up at his face. His expression is soft, quite unlike how he was with his father.

‘Thanks, Alex,’ I murmur. ‘You didn’t have to do that for me.’ Tears touch my eyes when he responds.

‘I’d do anything for you, Maz.’ He pulls me gently around to face him, and holds me close so I can hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. ‘You know that.’

I do now, I think, answering him with a kiss. No one has ever done anything like that for me before. No one has ever been so gallant.

‘Now, what about your car?’ Alex begins. I know I could easily buy another one, a more up-to-date model, but that isn’t the point. I’m fond of my car. We’ve been through a lot together, good times and bad, and I’m reluctant to give it up.

‘I can get it fixed so you can sell it on.’

‘Alex …’

‘All right, we’ll keep it – I’ll find room in one of the sheds so it’s under cover. In the meantime, we’ll find you something else.’

‘I’m not having some monster gas guzzler.’

‘I’ve told you, I’m not having you and my child whizzing about the countryside in –’

‘Anything but an armoured tank,’ I finish for him.