The No-Kids Club (19 page)

‘Hey, Dad.’ Clare put her arms around his solid form and gave him a squeeze, breathing in the familiar scent of cinnamon and spicy cologne.

‘Hey, yourself.’ He pulled back and ran his eyes over her. ‘You’re looking good, if a little tired. Are you getting enough to eat?’

The thought of food still made her nauseated, but Clare just nodded. ‘I had a big lunch in the hospital caf today. I’m full from that.’ Thank goodness her father had never eaten at the hospital so he wouldn’t know the unlikelihood of that statement. Nobody ever got full from hospital food—unless you were unlucky enough to sample the bread pudding, the equivalent of ingesting concrete.

‘Just tea for me, please,’ Clare said to the waitress hovering over them.

‘So how have you been?’ her dad asked, taking a sip of his drink.

Clare met his gaze, wondering what he’d do if she said she was pregnant. Probably fall off his chair after spurting hot tea all over the table. ‘I’m fine,’ she said finally. ‘Busy. The usual.’ She tried to make her voice sound happy, but instead it came out kind of . . . flat. Life right now was anything but usual.

‘Think you can come for a weekend sometime soon? Tam was just saying she’d love to have you over for a night or two—she’s redecorated the guest bedroom and is absolutely gagging for some visitors. And, of course, we’d love if you spent more time than a few hours here and there. Seems forever since you’ve stayed longer than an afternoon.’

‘That sounds nice,’ Clare said, attempting to remember when she’d last stayed overnight. Maybe Christmas? No, she’d been with Edward then, and they’d holed up in his flat. She tried not to recall how they’d made love just after midnight Christmas Eve, then opened their gifts by candlelight in the first minutes of Christmas Day.

‘I’ll check my schedule and let you know when my next weekend off is. I’d love to come stay.’ She reached out and squeezed her father’s hand. Even though she was all grown up now, his palm still seemed huge to her. Despite the constant tension hanging over her, something inside eased slightly at the thought of getting away from everything. Of course, she reminded herself, by that time the situation would be resolved. It would have to be.

Her father squeezed back. ‘There’s my girl. You know how much Tam loves you. And me too, of course.’ He waggled his bushy eyebrows, and Clare resisted the urge to remind him to pluck them.

‘I love you too, Dad.’ She longed to crawl onto his lap, safe in the knowledge he’d make everything all right, just like when she was a little.

‘Have you given any more thought to seeing your mother?’ The words came from nowhere, and Clare jerked in surprise.

‘What? Um, no.’ And she didn’t plan to anytime soon. She fiddled with the side of the menu. ‘Why? Is Tam asking?’

Her dad grinned. ‘You know your stepmum. She’s like a dog with a bone when she gets something into her head.’ He bent over, rifled through a rucksack at his feet, then drew out a yellowed scroll. ‘I brought this for you.’

Clare squinted, trying to figure out what it was. ‘What’s that?’ she asked finally.

Her father used his teacup to anchor down the top end, then unfurled the scroll part way. ‘It’s your family tree. I don’t know if you recall, but back in Year Five, your teacher made every pupil put one together. You near drove us mad with all the questions about your relatives!’

Clare smiled as she examined her shaky handwriting and the uneven lines. She could sort of remember creating this, but the memory was hazy.

‘Look.’ Dad pointed to the box containing his name. ‘There’s me, and there’s your mum, and there’s’—he moved his finger down the paper—‘you.’ Clare followed his finger, taking in her name hanging by a tenuous thread underneath her father and her mother.

Her dad grinned. ‘You insisted on using our full names, even mister and missus, and by the end, you’d run out of room!’

‘Why did you want to show me this?’ she asked, meeting her father’s gentle gaze.

He took her hand again. ‘Clare, no matter how much you might try to forget, your mother is a part of you, and she always will be. The sooner you make peace with that, the better.’

Anger leapt inside, and Clare scraped back her chair. ‘How can you say that? She left us; she turned her back on this family. She’s no more a part of me than, say . . . Bon Jovi,’ she finished lamely, unable to think of a better example.

‘Oh, but she is.’ Her father nodded gravely. ‘I see her in your eyes, in the way you tilt your head. She’s the snap in your voice when you’re angry, and the way you curl your hair round your fist. And Clare, you may have forgotten she was a brilliant mother, actually. And a good wife, too.’ His shoulder heaved in a sigh. ‘But in the end . . . ’

‘In the end, she abandoned me.
Us.
End of story.’ Clare shook her head so hard her ponytail whipped her in the face.

‘Oh, Clare.’ Dad’s eyes were sad. ‘It’s not that easy. It’s never that easy. I made mistakes, too. I wasn’t the world’s best husband—or father.’

‘But you were!’ Clare cried. ‘You were always there.’

‘I was there after Mum left,’ he nodded. ‘Because I had to be. But many times your mother asked me to look after you in the evenings so she could take courses at uni—she wanted to learn accounting, to do something to get back to work eventually—and I wasn’t keen. I didn’t say no, but I certainly wasn’t supportive.’ His shoulders sagged. ‘What can I say, I was a selfish bugger. I wanted that time to relax.’

‘I’m sure you had your reasons.’ She refused to believe Dad had anything to do with Mum taking off. And even if he had, no one left a child and a family over unrequited coursework.

So why
had
her mother left, then? Clare met her father’s eyes, realising she’d never understood. In the days that followed Mum’s departure, Clare had asked Dad over and over when she might return, and the answer was always the same: ‘I don’t know.’ It hadn’t been until a few years passed—and it was obvious ‘when’ was ‘never’—that Clare realised she’d never asked why her mum had left. And by then, she’d told herself she didn’t care. Dad had remarried, and the subject had been firmly closed. Clare had been only too happy to leave it that way.

‘Anyway,’ her dad continued, ‘I’m not here to debate who did what—or not. But Clare, you can’t run from memories, from the past. It’s connected to the present, and that’s something you can’t change.’ He ran his finger over the family tree. ‘And that’s why I think you’d benefit from seeing your mother. It might help you let go of the bad and remember the good again.’

Tam must have given him a tutorial before he’d come here, Clare thought. His words were almost the same as hers back at the house that day. Sadness flooded in as she remembered forcefully rejecting Tam’s words, then shoving Edward and his email from her mind in a bid to prove her stepmum wrong—that the past should stay the past, and the key to moving forward was to keep things simple and uncomplicated. She’d tried that with Nicholas, and it certainly hadn’t made her happy. In fact, it’d made her even lonelier.

A puff of air escaped Clare’s lips. Were Tam and her father right, after all? She glanced down at the family tree again, tracing the line that lead to her unknown future spouse. And then—she squinted—what was that going vertically from both their names? Gradually unfurling the document, she followed a line that branched out to show . . . a son and daughter.

Her mouth fell open as she examined the boxes. She’d always thought she’d never wanted kids, yet here was evidence she had. Clare cast her mind back to Year Five—she’d only been nine, and Mum was still an integral part of the family. That was before she’d realised families didn’t always live happily ever after. Okay, so she might have wanted children at some point. But what little girl didn’t? It was how you were trained to think, before your own sense of self came into play.

Before Clare knew what she was doing, her hand slid down to her belly. An unexpected jolt of emotion hit as Dad’s words ran though her head: the past was connected to the present, no matter how much you denied it. Was that why having children scared her?
Was
she letting her mother’s actions affect her present—and
her futur
e?

Dad cleared his throat again, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Have a think about what I’ve said, will you? Or at least tell Tam I convinced you. She keeps asking me if you’ve seen your mum yet.’

Clare forced a smile, picturing Tam’s relentless prodding. When that woman wanted something, she went for it. Dad always joked that was how she’d got him to marry her.

‘I will.’ Gingerly, she touched her mum’s name on the family tree. Try as she might, she couldn’t blot out her mother. And maybe now, it was time to face Mum and all the emotions that went along with it—and to know why she really left.

If that didn’t help Clare see things more clearly, God knows what would.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

P
oppy dragged herself through the front door of her flat Friday night, the pile of post greeting her like a reproach. Alistair was usually back before her, and he always sorted the mail when he returned. The flyers and leaflets clogging the entrance each day made her heart sink with the realisation that he still hadn’t come home.

For the last two days—ever since she’d decided to pursue
adoption
—she’d tried frantically to reach Alistair. First, she’d left voicemail after voicemail, then sent text after pleading text. He’d finally responded saying he’d get in touch soon, but to please respect his need for space.

Poppy bit at her thumb as she considered for the hundredth time what to do. If she kept trying, it’d seem like she didn’t respect his wishes. But she desperately needed to convince him she was ready to move on to other options! In fact, she’d stopped the injections and had starting reading online about the adoption process. Alistair was right: it was all straightforward, and if everything went well, it wouldn’t take long to have a child in the house! Her heart flipped at the thought of a baby gurgling and cooing in the nursery. She would finally be a mum. The heartache at not getting pregnant would always be there, but she realised now that pregnancy was only the start of the journey.

The sound of the key scraping in the lock made her heart leap with hope. Alistair was home! Poppy turned towards the doorway, her pulse racing.

‘Hey there,’ she said tentatively, watching as he scooped up the post and sifted through it. She wanted to race over and throw her arms around him, but by the coldness of his face, it was clear he didn’t feel the same.

‘Hi.’ His voice was almost robotic, and her heart dropped. ‘I thought you’d still be at work. I’ve just come to get some things.’

‘All right,’ she croaked to his back as he walked up the stairs.
Shit
. He hadn’t even looked at her! She swallowed hard against the rising fear. Okay, she’d messed up. Royally. But they could either recover and go on, or . . . Determination flooded into her. The longer this lapsed, the harder it would be to move ahead. It was time to put their marriage back together.

Poppy hurried up the stairs, her resolve growing with each step on the faded carpet. When she reached the bedroom, she was almost bursting. Inside, Alistair was neatly removing a bundle of socks from a drawer.

‘Alistair,’ she said, crossing the room and touching his shoulder. ‘Please. I really have to talk to you.’

He swung around to face her, and her heart melted at the
familiar
floppy hair and stubble. ‘Poppy, I’m sorry, but I told you: I need a break from all of this. Please let me have that.’

Poppy shook her head. ‘No, Alistair. I won’t. Because I don’t think being apart is a good thing. We’ve—I’ve—let our marriage fade into the background to focus on getting pregnant, and more time away from it won’t help.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’m ready now to look at other options.’

‘So you’ve said in your many messages.’ Alistair raised an
eyebrow
. ‘But do you mean it this time? Really and truly? Because I thought you were before, too. Are you only saying this now because you want me home again?’

Poppy dropped her head. She could see why he might think that. ‘No,’ she said, inching closer. ‘I want you to come back for
you
. I miss you. I miss what we had together.’

Alistair ran a hand through his hair. ‘Maybe you should have thought of that before deciding to go behind my back. Having a child is supposed to be about
us
, not you.’

‘I know,’ Poppy said softly. ‘I realise that now.’ She paused, daring to lay a hand on his arm, nearly melting with relief when he didn’t shake it off. ‘I’m sorry.’

The silence in the room was deafening as Alistair’s grey eyes met hers; Poppy could barely breathe.

‘I’m not doing the injections any longer,’ she continued. ‘I’m ready to move ahead.’ She shook her head. ‘Let me rephrase that. I’m ready to move ahead with you.’

A huge grin split Alistair’s face and he held open his arms. Poppy scooted into them, leaning her forehead against his chest and breathing in his fresh clean scent. God, she’d missed him. He’d only been gone a few days, but it felt like ages.

‘It’s good to be home,’ Alistair said as he stroked her hair.

‘It’s good to have you home.’ Poppy swivelled out from under his arm. ‘Nothing felt right without you in my life. No matter what happens, I need you here.’

Alistair drew in a breath. ‘How would you feel about delaying things a bit on the adoption front?’

Poppy studied his face. ‘What do you mean? I thought you wanted to get started straight away.’

‘Well, I did. But I’ve been doing some thinking, too.’

‘Okay,’ Poppy said slowly, wondering where he was going with this.

‘We both agree pregnancy overtook everything else in our lives. I think we should have a breather. Take a little time together, just the two of us, before we get ready to meet our child.’

Get ready to meet our child, Poppy thought, her heart
filling
up. What a wonderful way to put it. Although she wasn’t keen on
waiting
, she knew in her heart Alistair was right. Parenthood was going to be a long road, and they needed to work as a team. Plus,
now tha
t he’d mentioned it, she
was
looking forward to
living agai
n—
drinking
wine and coffee, and maybe even going on
holiday
!

Poppy threw her arms around Alistair, burying her face in his neck. Then, she pulled back and grinned. ‘That sounds brilliant.’

And as they fell onto the bed together, for once she wasn’t thinking of anything to do with a baby.