The Best Man for the Job (8 page)

She was a modern, intelligent, self-sufficient woman. She shouldn’t need looking after. She shouldn’t like it. It didn’t make any sense. But then nothing about her behaviour around Marcus made much sense. Her reaction to him after a month of not seeing him certainly didn’t. He ought to have no effect on her at all, because she was so over him and what they’d done, yet he’d mentioned tucking her up in bed—platonically, obviously—and she’d nearly gone up in flames. He’d suggested she rest her head in his lap and she’d practically scooted over to a row of seats on the other side of the waiting room.

Despite the composed front she’d put on she’d been almost unbearably tense. And not just because of the effect Marcus had on her. Deep down the way she’d been feeling for the past couple of weeks had terrified her. Not that what she’d found out once she’d been called to see the doctor had dispelled any of the tension.

She’d gone in there imagining that maybe she’d be told to ease up on work. Perhaps be prescribed the beta blockers that most of her colleagues seemed to be on.

The appointment had started normally enough. The doctor had taken a note of her symptoms. He’d asked her about work and then her menstrual cycle. When she hadn’t been able to tell him the date of her last period he’d asked her whether she’d had sex recently.

And then it turned a bit chilling. The questions began to head in one horrible direction, terminating with her peeing on a white plastic stick and two blue lines appearing.

What had come after that was a bit of a blur. All she’d been able to hear was a sort of rushing in her ears through which the doctor’s warning about the dangers of stress and the instruction to make an appointment with her GP had only very dimly filtered. Then she’d stumbled out on legs that felt weak and wobbly and wholly unfit for purpose, and collapsed into the nearest chair.

‘What the hell happened?’

At the sound of Marcus’ voice, shock and horror evident in every word, Celia snapped to and blinked. ‘Condoms are only ninety-eight per cent safe,’ she said, recalling the statistic she’d read in one of the leaflets she’d flicked through earlier and what the doctor had reiterated. ‘Seems like we’re one of the unlucky two per cent.’

‘How?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it had expired. Maybe it wasn’t on properly. Maybe it broke. Who knows?’

As they lapsed into silence she could hear the plasticky tick of the clock on the wall, the hum of a busy hospital A and E department and the distant chatter of staff, but the sounds of the cogs and wheels of her brain were fast taking over and her head was beginning to ache more than it had at any point today.

‘So what the hell do we do now?’ he said, still sounding a bit stunned.

‘I have absolutely no idea.’ And now, with all the adrenaline draining away and events catching up with her, she suddenly felt very, very tired. ‘And you know what, Marcus?’ she said, getting to her feet and hauling the strap of her handbag over her shoulder. ‘It’s late, I’m shattered and I don’t think I can deal with this right now.’

He glanced up at her, frowned as he scanned her face, and then stood. ‘I’ll take you home.’

‘I’d appreciate that,’ she said with a weak smile. And then, just in case he got it into his head that he’d be staying and fussing over her when she wanted nothing more than to sleep and then process the news and figure out what she wanted to do about it in her own time, added, ‘But then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.’

* * *

Marcus did mind. Very much. Still. Even though he’d got home a couple of hours ago and Celia probably hadn’t given him a moment’s thought the second he’d driven away.

He hadn’t wanted to leave her. He’d wanted to stay the night. He’d wanted to put her to bed and then keep an eye on her to make sure she was all right because she’d had quite a shock and in her fragile state he wasn’t sure how she’d cope with it.

But she’d thanked him for dropping her off, told him she’d call when she was ready to talk and said a very firm goodnight. And now he was at home, sitting in his study, staring out into the garden and working his way through the bottle of whisky that had been gathering dust unopened at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen.

Thinking.

Remembering.

Wondering.

And, the more he thought about that afternoon, going into such mental detail that he could recall every move they’d made, finally realising what had probably happened.

Celia had been wrong in only two of her answers to his stunned enquiry into how she’d got pregnant. The condom hadn’t expired. And he had enough experience to be able to put it on properly, however desperate he was.

But he
had
ripped at the packet with his teeth.

He could see it now. His body shaking. His hands trembling as he fumbled for the condom and he bit at it, his teeth very likely nipping a hole in the latex...

He swore again and shoved his hands through his hair. How the hell had he made such a schoolboy error? He’d
never
been so heavy-handed. So damn careless. What was it about Celia that had made him lose his mind so completely that for the first time in his life he’d screwed up? And how the hell hadn’t he noticed something was amiss afterwards?

Her pregnancy was his fault, he thought grimly, refilling the glass for perhaps the sixth time although he’d stopped counting at three. Entirely his fault. She’d just had her life turned upside down because of him and his complete and utter loss of control and there was no one to blame but him.

Which meant that what happened next wasn’t up to him. Back in the hospital he’d asked what the hell they did now, but there was no ‘they’ about this. It was up to her. Wholly up to her.

How he did or didn’t feel about fatherhood—and he couldn’t allow himself to think about it—was irrelevant. He didn’t have the right to form an opinion about it either way. Whatever course of action she chose she was the one who’d have to physically go through it. He’d put her in a position he was pretty sure she’d never expected to find herself in, so all he could do was accept whatever choice she made and offer his support.

The best thing he could do
now,
he thought, screwing the lid on the bottle and taking it and his glass through to the kitchen—the only thing he could do, in fact, if he didn’t want to drive himself insane with speculation and impatience—would be to put it from his mind until she was ready to talk.

EIGHT

Pregnant.

Hmm.

The following morning, after what had—strangely enough, given the events of the past twelve hours—been the best night’s sleep she’d had in weeks, Celia sat at the little square table in her kitchen and stared at the pile of pregnancy tests she’d bought just in case the one last night had been as faulty as the condom they’d used.

As proven by the half a dozen pairs of blue lines dancing in front of her eyes it hadn’t, and so now she was going to have to face facts.

Heaven only knew how, but overnight she’d managed to block it out. Most probably she’d been in too great a state of shock, too overwhelmed by the enormity of the news and too knackered to process it. This morning, however, she felt refreshed. A bit calmer, at least with regards to her health. Her headache had gone, and the pain and palpitations were dwindling, as if discovering the reason for them—coupled with the sheer relief she hadn’t been suffering any of the things that Marcus had suggested—had alleviated them.

Not that she was feeling all that calm about the fact that she was pregnant. No. That was making her insides churn, the coffee she’d drunk earlier and the toast and marmalade she’d just rustled up rolling around in her stomach and from time to time threatening to reappear.

What a bloody mess.

The emotional side of her was livid at the situation. At bad luck, statistics that left room for failure, and most of all with herself for not being stronger willed in that damn vegetable garden.

The rational side of her thought there was little point in being angry or trying to apportion the blame. What was done was done and she just had to deal with it. She had to put all that to one side and figure out what the hell she was going to do about it, which meant that she now had to face options she’d never expected to have. Had never wanted to have.

She could keep it. Or she could not keep it.

What a choice.

A tiny piece of her wished she didn’t have to make it. That the law, society, religion or even her own moral stance on the subject dictated what she had to do and the decision would be out of her hands.

But she squashed that piece of her because she was lucky to live somewhere where she had the choice. The same somewhere that gave her the opportunity to have a career, independence, freedom of thought and speech and deed.

If she gave her options the kind of logical consideration she gave everything—with the exception of that one crazy afternoon of hot sex with Marcus bloody Black—she’d come to the right decision. She trusted in her ability to do that. She was intelligent, confident and had a whole world of information at her fingertips. She’d research. Weigh up the pros and cons and search the depths of her heart and soul, if necessary. And then she’d make up her mind, and know that whatever she chose it would be the right thing to do.

For her, at least.

What Marcus’ opinion on the subject would be she had no idea. But while he was many things he wasn’t a fool and she had no doubt that he’d make up his mind about how he’d like to proceed, just as she would. If their wishes coincided, great. If they didn’t... Well, she’d cross that bridge if and when they came to it.

* * *

Ever since Celia had rung at the crack of dawn this Monday morning, Marcus had been pacing, his nerves as frayed as the carpet he was wearing to death. The past twenty-four hours hadn’t been easy for him, although he was under no illusion that they’d been anywhere near as tough as Celia’s.

After knocking his monster hangover on the head and updating Lily on Celia’s state—omitting the news of her pregnancy, naturally—he’d gone to the gym, where first he’d ploughed up and down the pool for a good couple of hours and after that had run for miles on the treadmill. When he’d got home he’d tried to work. Then he’d eyed the piles of paperwork on his desk and thought about filing. Ten minutes later he’d made an omelette and stuck a film on.

But no matter how hard he’d tried to distract himself he’d still spent every single agonisingly slow second of the day battling the desire to ring her. She’d said she’d wanted to be left alone and he had to respect that, but it had been hard. So when she’d called this morning he’d nearly fallen to his knees in gratitude because he didn’t think he would have been able to hold out much longer.

Wasn’t sure how much he—or his carpet—could, because by his reckoning an hour and a half went way beyond the ‘about an hour’ she’d told him she’d be.

Just as he was shooting a quick frustrated glance at the clock on the mantelpiece and wondering if he shouldn’t call her, the peal of the doorbell burst through the house and he stopped mid-pace, whipped round and strode to the front door. He opened it, drew it back and at the sight of her felt a great wave of relief rock through him.

She looked
so
much better than she had on Saturday night. Her complexion was pink instead of grey, her eyes bright instead of dull, and even though she was still way too thin, of course, she seemed to have her energy back.

And totally unexpectedly, the overwhelming urge to pull her into his arms and kiss the life out of her slammed into him.

He curled his fingers around the edge of the door to stop himself from reaching for her and concentrated on keeping his feet planted on the floor instead of moving towards her, because taking her into his arms and kissing her was so inappropriate given the circumstances it filled him with self-disgust.

‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling faintly, with any luck completely unaware of what was going through his head.

‘Hi,’ he said, his voice so hoarse it sounded as if he hadn’t used it for months. He cleared his throat, flashed her a quick smile of his own and then stepped back. ‘Come in.’

‘Thanks.’

She walked past him, looking up and around, at the pictures on the walls, at the furniture in the hall. Even though he’d been intending to take her straight into the kitchen and offer her a drink, when she veered into the sitting room he let her because something deep inside him, something he wasn’t keen on analysing too closely, wanted her to like what she saw.

He thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans, watched as she peered at photos, ran her gaze over his bookshelves and took in the furnishings, and he had to bite back the urge to ask her what she thought because he was pretty sure that she wasn’t here to discuss his interior design.

‘You have a nice house, Marcus,’ she said, once they’d made it into the kitchen and he’d handed her the glass of water she’d requested when he’d offered her something to drink.

‘You sound surprised,’ he said, the gratification that she liked it overriding the irritation that despite everything she still harboured some of the old impressions she’d had of him.

‘I am a bit, I guess. It’s big but somehow it feels cosy. Lived in.’ She lifted the glass and took a sip. ‘It’s unexpected.’

‘Why, what did you expect?’

She shrugged and shot him a smile. ‘I don’t know, really. Something more along the lines of a shag pad, I suppose.’

‘You haven’t seen the bedroom.’

The minute the words left his mouth he wished he could scoop them up and stuff them back in because that had sounded an awful lot like flirting, and what the hell he thought he was doing flirting with Celia,
now,
he had no idea.

She snapped her gaze to his, her eyes widening and her breath catching. ‘No,’ she said softly. ‘I haven’t.’

Marcus ignored the temptation to suggest that she go with him and check it out, and told himself to get a grip. He had to pull himself together. He really did. Before he made even more of a fool of himself.

‘So how are you feeling?’ he asked, folding his arms, leaning back against the granite counter and deciding that whatever it was that was affecting his ability to think straight it might be safer if he stuck to the likely reason she was here.

‘Better after a couple of good nights’ sleep,’ she said dryly, ‘but strange.’

‘Strange’ he could understand. He was feeling very strange indeed. A bit baffled by the way she was affecting him given the situation they were in. On edge and horribly awkward, which was a new one when it came to the things he felt around her. A new one for him generally, come to think of it. ‘How’s the headache?’

‘Gone.’

‘The palpitations?’

‘Receding.’

Thank goodness for that. ‘Nausea?’

‘No.’

He ran his gaze over her figure, taking in the summery dress that hung off her a bit too loosely, and frowned. ‘Are you eating?’

She nodded. ‘I am.’

‘Properly?’

‘Properly. I went to the supermarket this morning and everything. Scout’s honour.’

Good. ‘So no work today, then?’ he said, remembering it was Monday.

‘I took the day off.’

‘That must be a first.’

‘The first in two years.’ She shot him a quick wry smile. ‘Stuff on my mind, you know?’

He did. On his mind too, actually, and frankly he’d had enough of skirting around the issue with small talk and edginess. ‘So I imagine you’re here to talk about the pregnancy.’

‘I haven’t been able to think about anything else for the last twenty-four hours.’

‘No, well, it’s kind of all-consuming, isn’t it?’

‘What’s your take on it?’

He didn’t have one. At least not until he knew what hers was. ‘I’d rather hear yours.’

She tilted her head and looked at him steadily, a frown appearing on her forehead. ‘Have you actually thought at all about what you think we should do?’

‘Of course I have,’ he said, because he
had
thought about it. Sort of. Not that he’d really come to a conclusion one way or another. What would have been the point of that when, as it wasn’t his decision to make, any opinion he had would only be irrelevant?

‘Because you do realise that the only way we can work through this is if we’re honest.’

‘I do.’ And he would be honest, because he wanted what she wanted. ‘Want to sit down?’

‘Sure.’

She pulled out the nearest chair and sat down and he walked round the table to take a seat opposite her.

‘OK. Right. Well. Here goes.’ She put her glass on the table, leaned forwards to rest her elbows on the table and took a deep breath. ‘As you can probably imagine
I’ve
given it a
lot
of thought and the way I see it we have three options. One, I keep it. Two, I have it and give it up for adoption. Or three, I have an abortion.’

Even though he could feel his heartbeat speeding up Marcus didn’t move a muscle. ‘Go on.’

‘As far as I’m concerned option number two isn’t viable. I have no moral grounds for going through the whole nine months of pregnancy only to give the baby away at the end.’

‘So that leaves options one and three.’

She nodded. ‘It does.’

‘And which have you decided on?’

‘Option number three.’

* * *

There. It was done.

Celia held her breath as she waited for Marcus’ reaction to the conclusion she’d spent so many heart-wrenching hours coming to. So many thoughts going round and round in her head. So many scenarios playing out over and over again. So much turmoil churning around inside her.

She hadn’t come to the decision easily. She’d never given anything more consideration. She’d applied logic, practicality and emotion, looking at it from every angle she could think of. And then she’d looked at it from what she thought might be Marcus’ angle, even though she was becoming increasingly aware that he may have angles and depths she’d never considered before.

Given what she knew for certain of him, though, she’d assumed that he’d be on board with her decision. That he wouldn’t want the disruption to his life any more than she did.

But right now his face was so totally unreadable she couldn’t tell what he was thinking and it was disconcerting to say the least.

‘I see,’ he said, his voice devoid of any emotion whatsoever. ‘You want an abortion.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly say I
want
one, but I think it would be for the best.’

‘Right.’

There was still nothing in his expression to let her know what he thought, and she felt a flutter of alarm. What if she’d been wrong in her assumption he’d think the same? What if he wasn’t on board with this? What if he wanted the baby while she didn’t? What would happen then?

‘Look, Marcus,’ she said, bracing herself for the possibility of having to negotiate or compromise or who knew what, ‘while I don’t rule out having children at some point in the future, the timing of this one couldn’t be worse. My career is very important to me. I travel a lot. I work horrendous hours. I’m up for partnership, and after everything I’ve worked for I can’t jeopardise that. This pregnancy was an accident and I—’

‘You don’t have to justify your decision, Celia,’ he cut in, thankfully putting an end to her rambling, which was in danger of becoming faintly hysterical.

‘Don’t I?’

‘No. Because I happen to agree with you.’

She blinked. Sat back. A little bit stunned and a whole lot relieved. ‘You do? Really?’

He nodded. Once. ‘Really.’ He leaned forwards and looked at her, his gaze intense and unwavering. ‘You wanted to know my take on it? Well, this is my take on it. I don’t want a child either. It’s not something I’ve ever wanted. While the timing is neither here nor there for me I think we’re both well aware I’m hardly father material. We’re not in a relationship. And when it comes down to it I’m not sure we really even like each other.’

Oh. That took her aback, although she didn’t really know why, because he was right. She might still be fiercely and annoyingly attracted to him but did that constitute like? She didn’t think so.

‘So what kind of people would we be bringing a child into that situation?’ he continued.

‘My thoughts exactly,’ she murmured, and wondered if he’d somehow been able to read her mind because so many of his arguments were hers.

‘We’d both end up miserable and God only knows what effect that would have on a child.’

‘Not a good one, and I should know.’

‘So that’s it, then,’ he said briskly. ‘Decision made.’