Double Trouble: Pregnancy Surprise

He propped himself up in the doorway and watched her from a safe distance as she dealt with Libby, then she put the little girl back in his arms and washed her hands. Then she lifted Ava out and cuddled her while she found a clean nappy and got it ready, then changed her, too, and dropped the nappy in the bucket.

‘Are those cloth nappies?’ he asked, peering a little closer now it was safe.

She turned her head and raised an eyebrow at him. ‘Don’t look so shocked.’

‘I—I’m not. I’m just surprised. I would have thought—I don’t know; all that washing. You could just chuck disposables.’

‘Mmm. Eight million a day, going into landfill.’

‘Eight million? Good grief!’

‘Mmm. Just in this country. And they don’t biodegrade, either, so they’re there for hundreds of years. Or I can wash these and dry them on the Aga. It’s easier, cheaper and better, and they’re not even made of cotton, they’re made of bamboo. And they’re lovely and soft. Right, Ava, that’s you done!’

‘How on earth do you manage both of them at once on your own?’ he asked, looking utterly out of his depth, and she summoned a grin and shrugged.

‘You learn coping strategies,’ she said honestly. ‘You deal with the urgent one first, and the other one gets to wait. It’s normally Libby who waits, because Ava’s got a shorter fuse.’

‘So she’s learned to manipulate you already?’ he said, sounding astonished for the second time in as many minutes, which made her laugh out loud.

‘Of course.’ She gave him a dry look. ‘She takes after you.’

His head jerked back and he eyed her doubtfully. ‘I’m not sure that’s a compliment.’

She chuckled. ‘It’s not. But babies are amazing. They’re such good little survivors, and it doesn’t take them long to sort out a pecking order. They’ll have you sussed in no time flat, you wait and see. Right, girls, time for breakfast.’

‘Not more of that disgusting goo,’ he pleaded, looking appalled.

‘No. They have instant multi-grain porridge for breakfast, and fruit. That’s good and messy. I’ll let you clean them up.’

He looked horrified, and she nearly laughed again. But then she remembered that any normal father of eight-month-old babies would know what their children had for breakfast, and how to change a nappy, and that they were manipulative and very good at engineering the adults around them.

Except, of course, that Max hadn’t had the chance, and that was her fault.

Turning away so he didn’t see the thoughtful frown on her face, she headed downstairs with Ava, leaving him to follow with Libby. And, if she was really lucky, she’d be able to get through breakfast without drooling over the sight of him in that robe which showed altogether too much of those toned, muscular legs. Not to mention the fact that she knew only too well just how little he’d have on underneath it.

And it was absolutely nothing to do with her. Not now, and not ever again, unless they could turn this situation around and find a way to get the two of them back together. Still, at least he’d phoned his PA, as instructed.

She sounded sensible. Nice. Decent, and utterly on her side. She was looking forward to meeting her—but not yet. There was a lot of ground to cover before they reached that point, and she was going to make damn sure they walked over every single inch of it.

‘Right, girls, want some breakfast?’

He had to learn the hard way, of course, not to put the bowl close enough for Libby to slap her little hand in.

And then there was catching it before she had time to rub it in her hair. And on his face when he leant in to clean her up. Oh, boy, he’d need a shower by the time they were finished.

‘Here.’

He looked up and took a warm, damp cloth from Jules, smiled his thanks and wondered where to start.

‘Move the bowl,’ she offered, and he pulled it out of reach and swiped most of the gloop off Libby’s hand before she could stick it anywhere else, conscious of Jules hovering in range just in case he couldn’t manage.

‘Right, monster, let’s try again,’ he said, putting the cloth out of reach on the edge of the sink and settling down with the bowl and spoon. ‘Open wide.’

He got most of it into her before she decided she’d had enough and spat it out at him with a cheerful grin, and he closed his eyes and laughed in exasperation before getting up, rinsing out the cloth and tackling her mucky little face.

Which she hated, apparently, because she screamed the place down until he stopped, then beamed again.

‘You’re a madam,’ he told her, grabbing her sticky hands and sorting them out one by one, and she giggled and tried to squirm out of the chair.

‘What now?’ he asked Jules.

‘Bath time.’

‘Bath—?’ He rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Sounds messy.’

‘It is. I’ll let you do it.’

‘Bathe them?’ he asked, feeling a little flicker of panic.

‘You’ll cope,’ she assured him drily, but he wasn’t sure. He had a horrible feeling it was just another opportunity for him to make an idiot of himself or do something else wrong.

‘I’ll get dressed,’ he said, and she laughed.

‘I shouldn’t bother. You’ll probably get soaked.’

And her mouth twitched, and he realised she was enjoying this. Hugely.

He clamped his teeth together to hold back the retort, carried Libby upstairs and stopped by the bathroom door. ‘So now what?’

‘Put her on the floor on her tummy so she can practise crawling, and run the bath. Here, you can have Ava, too. I’ll go and find some clothes for them. Don’t undress them yet, though. They’ll get cold waiting for you.’

Cold? How could they possibly get cold? The bathroom was steaming. But they were just little people. What did he know? He’d nearly scalded Ava last night. He wasn’t going to argue.

Run the bath, he thought, and remembered something from his mother’s wisdom: run the cold first, so the bath never has just hot in it.

Wise woman.

He ran the cold, then turned the hot tap on and swished it about until he thought it was hot enough. Was it? Hell, he wasn’t going to risk another scald. He turned the hot off. Hmm. Maybe.

‘Ava? What are you doing?’

He rescued the loo brush from her before she stuck it in her mouth and pointed her in the other direction, then yelled, ‘I’ve run the bath.’

‘Is it hot?’

‘No!’ he retorted with only a trace of sarcasm, and he heard her chuckle.

‘Undress them, then. I’ll be in in a second.’

So he undressed Ava, as she was heading for the brush again, and then Libby, and then he put her back down on the bath mat, rescued Ava yet again from the corner by the loo, and lowered her carefully into the water.

And yanked her out again instantly when she let out a piercing yell.

‘What now?’ Jules had flown into the room and snatched her from him, shielding her in her arms and glaring at him like a lioness defending her cub. ‘I thought you said it wasn’t hot!’

‘It isn’t!’

She bent over and touched the water, then shook her head and laughed weakly, sitting down on the side of the bath and shaking her head. ‘No. You’re right; poor little mite. It’s freezing.’

‘Freezing?’

‘Mmm.’

Freezing. He sighed. ‘I didn’t want—’

‘To burn them?’ Her smile faded. ‘OK. I’m sorry. I just thought it was common sense.’

‘Well, clearly I haven’t got any,’ he retorted, sick of the whole business and wondering what he was going to do wrong next, but she took pity on him.

‘Max, you’re doing fine. Here, look, use the inside of your wrist. It should feel comfortable—not hot or cold. That’s the best test.’

Hell. He was never going to survive this fortnight.

Never mind the rest of his life.

‘How can it be so hard?’ he grumbled gently, retrieving Libby this time from the loo brush and plopping her in the bath beside her sister. ‘Fourteen-year-old girls manage it.’

‘No, they don’t. They manage to get pregnant, but they don’t manage to look after babies without support and coaching and lots of encouragement. Having ovaries doesn’t make you a good mother, and not knowing how to run a bath doesn’t make you a bad father. You’ll get there, Max,’ she added softly.

And he swallowed hard and looked away, because they were kneeling side by side, their shoulders brushing, and every now and then she swayed against him and her hip bumped his, and all he could think about was dragging her up against him and kissing her soft, full lips…

‘Ow!’

Jules laughed and detached Libby’s fingers from his hair, and the scent of her skin drifted across his face and nearly pushed him over the brink.

‘Right, what next?’ he asked, and forced himself to concentrate on the next instalment of his parentcraft class.

Eventually they were washed, dried and dressed in little denim dungarees and snugly warm jumpers, and Jules declared that as soon as he was dressed himself they were going out for a walk as it was a lovely day.

‘Can they walk?’ he asked, and she rolled her eyes.

‘Of course not. We’ll take the buggy.’

Obviously. Of course they couldn’t walk. They could barely crawl. Except towards the loo brush. He put it on the window sill out of reach while he thought about it, and had a quick shower to get the baby breakfast out of his hair. And eyes. And nose.

Then he threw on his clothes and went down to the kitchen to join them. ‘Right, are we all set?’

She eyed him thoughtfully. ‘Jeans?’

‘You know I don’t own jeans,’ he said, and then gave a short sigh when she rolled her eyes. ‘What? What, for God’s sake? Is it a character flaw that I don’t own jeans?’

‘No,’ she said softly. ‘It’s a character flaw that you don’t need to own jeans.’

He worked out the difference eventually, and scowled at her. ‘Well, I don’t—either own them, or need them.’

‘Oh, you need them, of course you do. How are you going to crawl around the floor with the girls and the dog in your hand-tailored Italian suit-trousers?’

He stared down at his legs. Were they? He supposed they were, and, when she put it like that, it did sound ridiculous. ‘We could go and buy some,’ he suggested.

‘Good idea.’

‘And while we’re in town we can go to the Mercedes garage and talk about changing the car for something a little more baby-friendly.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my car, and, anyway, it’s John’s!’

‘Not yours,’ he explained patiently. ‘Mine.’

She swivelled her head and stared out of the window at his car. ‘But Max—you love it,’ she said softly.

He shrugged. ‘So? I need a baby-carrier, Jules. No matter what happens with us, I need a baby-carrier. So I might as well do something about it now. And there’s no room at the apartment for more than one car, so it’ll have to go.’

‘You could leave it here. Take mine when you have the girls.’

‘I thought it was Blake’s car?’

She frowned. ‘Oh. Um—yes, it is,’ she agreed. ‘So I can’t really let you have it.’

‘So it’s back to plan A.’

She looked at his car and chewed her lip doubtfully. She’d never driven it—never driven any of his sports cars. She’d had a little city car when he’d met her, and she’d hardly used it, so she’d sold it when they’d moved in together and she hadn’t bought another one.

But she knew how much he loved it. It would be such a shame if he had to get rid of it. ‘Or plan C,’ she suggested. ‘You buy another one, and leave it here for when you come up.’

He stared at her, then looked away to conceal his expression, because he’d suddenly realised they were talking as if she was going to be staying here, and he was going back to London without them.

And he didn’t like it one bit.

They bought the jeans and some casual shoes and a couple of jumpers in one of the high-street department stores, and he emerged from the changing room looking stiff and uncomfortable and utterly gorgeous. ‘Better?’ he asked, a touch grumpily, and she smiled.

‘Much. Right, let’s go and sort the car out.’

They did. It was easy, because they had an ex-demon-stration model which he could have instantly, and he held his hand out. ‘Phone?’

‘It’s at home. But I’ve got Andrea’s number in mine, if you want to call her to get the car on cover.’

He rolled his eyes and took her phone, made the call and handed it back in disgust. The negotiations complete, the salesman handed him the keys, and they headed back to the house in convoy, her with the babies, him alone in his new and very alien acquisition.

He followed her into the house and held out his hand again.

‘So—my phone?’

She smiled a little guiltily. ‘It’s fine. You don’t need it.’

‘I might.’

‘What for?’

‘Apart from calling Andrea just now to get the car on cover—emergencies?’

‘What—like contacting one of your business associates to set up a new deal, or checking that one of your overpaid and undervalued team is doing his or her job?’

‘They aren’t undervalued!’ he protested, but she just arched a brow and stared straight back at him until he backed down. ‘OK,’ he sighed. ‘So I have delegation issues.’

‘Hallelujah!’ she said, sounding so like Andrea that it made him want to strangle them both—or do something to ensure that they never spoke to each other again! ‘So, anyway, you don’t need your phone.’

‘But what if there is an emergency?’

‘Like what?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Like I set fire to the house or fall over on you all and squash you or drop one of the babies down the stairs—’

She went pale. ‘Use the house phone.’

‘What if we’re out like we were this morning?’ he pushed, the empty pocket in his jeans making him feel nervous and a little panicky.

‘I’ll have my mobile. You can use that. It’s always in my bag.’

His eyes slid to the bag, just there on the side in the kitchen. It hadn’t moved since he’d arrived last night, apart from to go to town with them, and, now he knew her phone was in it, the temptation to borrow it and sneak down the garden and make a couple of calls was overwhelming. Except, of course, he didn’t have the contact numbers.

‘Max, get over it,’ she said firmly, and he realised there was no way he was going to talk her round. He swallowed hard and told himself Andrea would ring when she needed him. Except that he’d forgotten to tell her…

‘Max, let it go. Andrea said she’d ring if it was urgent.’ And then she added curiously, ‘What’s she like? She sounded nice.’

He smiled at that, a little wryly. ‘I don’t know if I’d call her “nice”. She’s fifty-three, slim and elegant, and frighteningly efficient; she rules me with a rod of iron. You’ll probably love her, but it’s not like having you there, Jules. It was great working with you. You just knew what I wanted all the time and it was there, ready. I hardly had to think the thought, and sometimes I didn’t even need to do that. I miss you.’

‘I’m not coming back just because your new PA isn’t as good as me,’ she retorted, but his mouth quirked and he shook his head.

‘Oh, she’s good, but at the end of the day, when we’ve finished work, she doesn’t look at me like you did,’ he said, his voice lower. ‘As if she wants to rip my clothes off. And I don’t undress her in the shower and make love to her up against the tiles until the security staff wonder who the hell’s being murdered because of all the screaming.’

She felt a tide of colour sweep over her at that, and shook her head. ‘Max, stop it. It was only once.’

‘And it was amazing,’ he said softly, and, reaching out his hand, he cupped her flushed cheek and lifted her chin, as his mouth came down and found hers in a gentle, tender kiss that could so easily lead to…

She stepped back, her legs like jelly. ‘Max, no! Stop it.’

He straightened up, his eyes burning, and gave a crooked smile. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, but he didn’t look in the least bit sorry. He looked like the cat that got the cream, and she could have screamed with frustration.

‘So—how about that walk we were going to have?’ he said, which just showed what he knew about babies and their timetabling.

‘The girls need lunch and a nap, and so do I. We can go for a walk later if it’s still nice.’

‘What am I supposed to do, then?’ he asked. She realised he was utterly at a loss with so much unstructured time on his hands, and she gave a wicked little smile.

‘You could wash the nappies.’

He’d never gone in her handbag.

It was one of those unwritten rules, like swearing in front of ladies and leaving the seat up, that his mother had drummed into him as a child.

But, with the house quiet and all of them asleep, he stood, arms folded, and stared at her bag. It was only the phone. Just one call. He could sneak down the garden, or out to the car, and she’d never know.

He could even see the corner of it, sticking up out of the pile of junk that she seemed to have in it. And that was a change. Her bag had always been immaculately well organised before, and now it was a walking skip.

With a phone in it.

He caught the corner of it gingerly between finger and thumb and lifted it out of the bag as if it would bite him. It was a very ordinary phone, and he knew how to use it because he’d made a call on it this afternoon. And he knew Andrea’s number was in there. He had to talk to her, he told himself, trying to justify it.

He had to.

He went into the address book and then, on impulse, he scrolled down to M, and there he was: Max, and his mobile number. And the apartment. And work. He looked under ICE—in case of emergency—and found his numbers all repeated.

In her new phone.

Because of the girls, he reminded himself, squashing the leap of hope, and then had a thought. If he rang his mobile number, it would ring, and he’d be able to find it…

What on earth?

She lifted her head, stared at the pillow and pulled it aside.

Max’s phone was ringing—on silent, because she’d silenced it, but the vibration had alerted her. And the number that had come up was her mobile.

Which was in her handbag.

‘You’re cheating,’ she said into it, and there was a muttered curse and he cut the connection. Suppressing a smile, she threw back the covers and slipped out of bed, pulled on her jeans and jumper, ran her fingers through her hair and went downstairs.

He was standing by the bag, her phone in hand, looking defiant and guilty all at once, and she felt suddenly sorry for him, plunged head-first into this bizarre situation that was totally outside his experience, dislocated from everything that was familiar.

Except her, and even she’d changed beyond recognition, she realised.

She smiled. ‘It’s OK, Max, I’m not going to bite.’

‘Just nag me.’

‘No. Not even nag you. I’m going to ask you, one more time, to take this seriously. To give it your best shot, to see if we can make a go of it. If not for us, then for the girls.’

He swallowed hard, and looked away. ‘I need to make a call, Jules. There’s something important I forgot to tell Andrea.’

‘Is anyone going to die?’

He looked startled. ‘Of course not.’

‘Or be hurt?’

‘No.’

‘So it doesn’t really matter.’

‘It’ll just hold things up a few days until they realise.’

‘Realise?’

‘There’s a document I was going to get faxed to Yashimoto.’

‘And he won’t ask Stephen or Andrea for it?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

‘So what’s the worst that will happen? You’ll lose a few thousand?’

‘Maybe more.’

‘Does it matter? I mean, it’s not as if you’re strapped, Max. You don’t ever have to work again if you don’t want to. A few pounds, a few days out of a lifetime, isn’t so much to ask, is it?’

He turned slowly back to her, his eyes bleak. ‘I thought we had it all. I thought we were happy.’

‘We were—but it all just got too much, Max. And I’m not going back to it, so if you can’t do this, can’t learn to delegate and take time out to enjoy your family, then we don’t have a future. And, to have a future, we have to be able to trust each other.’

He didn’t move for a moment, but then he sighed softly, threw her phone back into her bag and straightened up.

‘You’d better show me how to work the washing machine, then, hadn’t you?’ he said with a little twisted smile, and she felt the breath ease out of her lungs.

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ she said, almost giddy with relief, and, leading him into the utility room, she introduced him to the concept of home laundry.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE babies were cute.

Sweet, messy, temperamental and cute. And boring.

Not when they were awake, but when they were asleep, and Jules was asleep, and the house was so quiet he wanted to scream.

And it struck him he was the one doing all the adjusting.

How fair was that? Not fair at all, he thought, simmering, and it hadn’t been his idea that he’d been cut out of their lives.

So far—thirty-odd hours in—he’d learned to run a bath the right temperature, how to put the washing machine on, how to aim food at a baby’s face, not always successfully, and how not to drink tea. That had been lesson one, and one he was unlikely ever to forget.

But now, at eleven o’clock at night, when he would usually be working on for at least another three hours, Julia had gone to bed, the babies were settled till the morning and there was nothing to do.

Nothing on the television, no way of keeping in touch with Yashimoto—who would by then have been back in the office, because he started early—and no way of contacting anyone in New York, where they’d all still be at work.

He paced around the kitchen, made tea, threw it down the sink, because he’d drunk gallons of the stuff during the day, and contemplated the wine he’d brought back the night before from the pub. He’d only had a couple of glasses, so there was nearly two bottles, but he didn’t drink alone. Dangerous.

Then he thought of the pub.

He stepped out of the back door to let Murphy out into the garden, and coincidentally see if the pub lights were on, and realised it was in darkness. Of course it was, he thought in disgust. It was a gastro-pub in the country—a restaurant, really, more than a pub—and they stopped serving at something ridiculous like nine, so he couldn’t even go there and drown his sorrows. And it was so damned quiet!

Except for that screaming he could hear in the background. He’d heard it a moment ago, and now he was standing outside the French doors he could hear it clearly, a truly blood-curdling noise, and it chilled him to the bone. Murphy’s hackles were up and he was growling softly, so Max called him back inside and shut the door, then went upstairs and knocked on Julia’s bedroom door. She opened it a moment later, wearing pyjamas with cats all over them and rumpled with sleep, and he had to force himself to stick to the point.

‘There’s a noise,’ he said without preamble, not letting himself look at the little cats running about all over her body. ‘Screaming. I think someone’s being attacked.’

She cocked her head on one side, listened, and then smiled. ‘It’s a badger,’ she said. ‘Or a fox. They both scream at night. I’m not sure which is which, but at this time of year I think it’s probably a badger. The foxes make more noise in the spring. Did it wake you?’

And then she looked at him and sighed. ‘Oh, Max—you haven’t been to bed yet, have you? You ought to sleep. You’re exhausted.’

‘I’m not exhausted. I’m never asleep at this time of night.’

‘Well, you should be,’ she scolded softly, then went back into her bedroom and emerged again, stuffing her arms into a fluffy robe that hid the cats, to his disappointment. ‘Tea?’

He didn’t want tea. The last thing he wanted was tea, but he would have drunk neat acid just then to have her company.