Double Trouble: Pregnancy Surprise: Two Little Miracles / Expecting Royal Twins! / Miracle: Twin Babies

‘I don’t know. There was. I put the guard up—does it stay alight all night?’

‘I don’t normally light it,’ she confessed. ‘The girls and I spend most of our time in the kitchen.’

‘So why did you ask?’

‘Because I thought—I’ve got DVDs of the girls, right from when they were born. Actually, from before. I’ve got a 4D-DVD of the scan. It’s amazing.’

‘4D?’

‘Mmm—3D and real time. They call it 4D. You can see them moving, and it’s amazingly real. And I’ve got lots of stuff of them when they were in special care, and all the things they do for you, like hand-and footprints and their tiny little name-bands and weight charts and stuff like that. I thought, if it was warm in there, we could watch them, but you’ll probably think it’s all really boring—’

‘No! No, I won’t. I—I’d like to see,’ he said gruffly, sounding curiously unlike Max, uncertain and hesitant. He was never hesitant, and she looked at him searchingly.

‘Good,’ she said softly. ‘Go and see if you can revive the fire, and I’ll bring us tea.’

And biscuits, some rather gorgeous chocolate biscuits that were more chocolate than biscuit, and some cheese and crackers, because she knew he’d be hungry and he frankly needed fattening up.

He was crouching by the fire when she went in, blowing on the embers and trying to breathe life into the glowing remains, and as she put the tray down the logs flickered to life and a lovely orange glow lit the hearth.

‘Oh, that’s super. Well done. Here, have some cheese and biscuits,’ she instructed, and rummaged in the cupboard next to the television for the DVDs.

‘Scan first?’ she suggested, and his brows pulled down slightly, as if he was troubled.

He nodded, and she slipped it into the slot and sat back against the front of the sofa by his legs, cradling her tea in her hands while the images of the unborn babies unrolled in front of them.

‘How pregnant were you when this was taken?’ he asked softly, a little edge in his voice that she’d never heard before, and she swivelled round and looked up at him, puzzled.

‘Twenty-six weeks.’

A shadow went over his face, and he pressed his lips together and stared at the screen as if his life depended on it. She turned back and watched it with him, but she was deeply conscious of a tension in him that she’d never felt before. When the DVD was finished and she took it out, she felt the tension leave him, and, as he leant back against the sofa to drink his tea, his hand shook a little.

Odd. Max’s hands never shook. Ever. Under any circumstances. And yet he’d always been so adamant that he didn’t want children, that their lives were complete without them. So why had the images of his children before they were born been so moving to him?

The fire was roaring away now, and Murphy heaved himself up from his position in front of it and came over, flopping down against Max’s legs. Max leant down and scratched the dog’s neck and pulled his ears, an absent expression on his face, and Murphy lifted his head and gazed adoringly at Max as if he’d just found his soulmate.

‘I think you’ve got a new friend,’ she said, and Max gave a crooked little grin and smoothed Murph’s head with a gentle hand.

‘Apparently so. I expect he misses John.’

‘I expect he wants the crackers on your plate,’ she said pragmatically, and Max chuckled and the mood lifted a fraction, and she breathed a little easier.

‘So—what’s next?’ he asked, and she put on the first film of the girls after they’d been born.

‘Here they are—they’re two days old. They were born at thirty-three weeks, because my uterus was having trouble expanding because of the scarring and they’d stopped growing. Jane and Peter came in and filmed it for me. They were amazing—so supportive.’

‘I would have been supportive,’ he said, his voice rough, and she felt another stab of guilt.

‘I didn’t know that, Max. You’d always been so against the idea of children. If I even so much as mentioned IVF you flew off the handle. How was I to know you wanted to be involved?’

‘You could have asked me. You could have given me the choice.’

She could have. She could have, but she hadn’t, and it was too late now to change it. But she could apologise, she realised, and she turned towards him and took his hand.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she said, making herself meet his eyes and steeling herself for the anger that she knew she’d see in them. But instead of anger there was pain. ‘Max?’ she whispered, and he pulled his hand away and stood up.

‘Maybe we’ll do this another time,’ he said, and without a word he headed for the door. She heard him go upstairs; heard the bathroom door close and water running. With a sigh she turned off the DVD player and the television, put the fire-guard up and cleared away their cups and plates, then put Murphy out one last time before shutting him in the kitchen and going upstairs.

She heard the shower turn off as she went into her own bedroom and closed the door, then a few minutes later she heard him come out of the bathroom and go down the landing to his bedroom, closing the door with a soft click.

She didn’t sleep for hours, and, when she woke, it was to hear the back door open and Max calling the dog. The sky was just light, the day barely started, and, as she lifted herself up on one elbow, she saw Max heading down the drive with Murphy trotting beside him. He was wearing jogging bottoms and trainers with a T-shirt, and she watched him turn out onto the hill, cross the river and run away up through the village out of sight, the dog at his heels.

She didn’t know what was wrong, but she had a feeling it wasn’t the obvious. There just seemed to be something else going on, something she didn’t know about, and she didn’t know if she could ask.

Probably not. He’d been pretty unapproachable last night. Maybe he’d tell her in his own good time, but one thing was absolutely certain.

Max was right out of his comfort zone, and living with him for the next two weeks was going to be interesting, to say the least.

Not to mention frustrating and heartbreaking and undoubtedly painful.

She just hoped it would prove to be worth it…

He ran along the lane out of the village, turned left along another tiny, winding lane, cut down across a field and over the river on a flat iron bridge—used by tractors, he supposed—and then up to a bridlepath that cut through to the village again just opposite the drive to Rose Cottage.

It had taken twenty minutes, so he supposed it was about three miles. Not far enough to numb him, but enough to take the edge off it and distract him from the endless turmoil in his mind.

The light was on in the kitchen as he jogged across the drive, and Jules was watching him, her face unreadable at that distance through the old leaded lights. But she had her arms full of washing or something, and she was in that fluffy dressing-gown again, presumably with the little cats underneath.

He suppressed a groan and walked the last few steps to the back door and let himself in, a wet and muddy Murphy by his side.

‘Bed!’ she ordered, and the dog turned and went into his bed in the space under the stairs.

‘Is that just him, or do I have to go in there, too?’ Max asked, and she smiled a little uncertainly and searched his face with troubled eyes.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine. We’ve had a good run—’

She stopped him with her hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes with that way of hers that made him feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. ‘Are you really all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ he said, a little more sincerely, because he was, really. It was just that DVD which had stirred things up, made him sad and emotional all over again, and he hated it. Hated being out of control of his feelings—hated his feelings, full stop.

‘I’ve made tea,’ she said, and he opened his mouth to tell her he didn’t want any damn tea, then shut it, smiled and nodded.

‘Thanks. Are the babies awake yet?’

She shook her head. ‘No. They will be soon. Why?’

‘Oh, just wondered. I need a shower, but I don’t want to disturb them. I’ll have my tea and wait a bit, if you can stand me all sweaty and mud-splattered.’

She ran her eyes over him and gave a tiny huff of laughter, but, as she turned away, he noticed a soft brush of colour in her cheeks. Really? He could still do that to her?

‘I’m sure I can stand you for long enough to drink your tea,’ she said lightly, but her voice was a little strange, not quite itself, and she was folding and smoothing nappies on top of the Aga as if her life depended on it.

He thought of their kiss, just the lightest touch of his lips to hers, and heat seared through him. Because he wanted to do it again, wanted to haul her up against him and tunnel his fingers through that tousled, rumpled hair, and plunder her mouth with his until she was whimpering with need and clawing at him for more…

‘On second thoughts, maybe I’ll go and have a look through my clothes and find something to wear after my shower,’ he said, and retreated to the door before he embarrassed himself.

‘What’s wrong with yesterday’s new clothes?’ she asked, and he hesitated in the doorway, one foot on the bottom of the stairs just outside in the hall, and looked at her over his shoulder.

‘Nothing. I just wasn’t sure if I they’d be right for what we’re doing today.’

‘So what are we doing?’ she asked, looking puzzled.

Good question. ‘Taking the girls to the seaside,’ he told her, thinking on his feet. ‘It’s a gorgeous day, and the forecast is mild and sunny all day.’

‘In which case your jeans and jumper will be perfect. Come back and sit down and drink your tea. If you start banging about in the room next to them, they will wake up, at this time of day, and frankly the peace is short-lived enough.’

He swallowed, crushed the lust that was threatening to give him away. But he needn’t have worried because she scooped up the washing and carried it out to the utility room, and he took his tea over to the sofa in the bay window and sat down with one foot hitched up on the other knee, and by the time she came back in he had himself back under control.

Just.

He was right, it was a gorgeous day.

They took the babies to Felixstowe, parked the car at one end of the prom and walked all the way along to the other end. The wind was from the north-west, so they were totally sheltered by the low cliffs at the north end. But, when they turned back into the wind, it was a little cooler so Max turned the buggy round and towed it, while she walked beside him and enjoyed the freedom of being able to swing her arms as she walked.

‘Do you know,’ she pointed out, ‘that, apart from corporate trips when we’ve been abroad, this is the first time in six years that we’ve been to the beach?’

He glanced sideways at her and pulled a face. ‘I suppose you’re right. It’s not something I’ve ever thought of doing—not in England, anyway. And I’ve never been a beach-holiday person.’

‘I’m not talking about beach holidays,’ she said. ‘I’m talking about walking by the sea, with a good, stiff breeze tugging my hair and the taste of salt on my skin. It’s gorgeous—bracing and healthy and—oh, wonderful!’

And then she looked at him, and saw him watching her with something very familiar and deeply disturbing in his eyes, and she coloured and turned away quickly. ‘Oh look—there’s a ship coming in,’ she said, which was ridiculous because there had been lots, but she caught his smile out of the corner of her eye and the breath stuck in her throat.

He had no right doing that to her—bringing back so many memories with just one slow, lazy smile. They might not have walked on the beach, but they’d made love many, many times on their roof terrace overlooking the Thames, with the smell of the river drifting up to them and the salty tang in the air. And she could tell, just from that one glance, that he was remembering it as well.

‘I’ll just make sure the babies are all right,’ she said hastily, and, going round to the other side of the buggy, she tucked them up and then followed behind, staring at his shoulders as he towed the babies and strolled along with the air of a man who did it every day of the week.

Just like a real father, with a wife and two beautiful children, not a pressed man who’d been forced to submit to some bonding time with his newly discovered infants.

Oh, what a mess.

Would they ever get out of it?

‘Jules?’

She realised she’d stopped, and he’d stopped, too, and had turned to look at her, his eyes troubled.

He let go of the buggy and came round to her side. ‘What’s wrong?’

She shrugged, unable to speak, and with a little sigh he put his arms round her and eased her against his chest.

‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ he murmured, but she wasn’t so sure. It was less than two days, and he’d already broken the rules by stealing her phone and trying to find his. Goodness knows what else he’d do while her back was turned. He was up half the night—could he be using her phone?

Did she care? So long as he was there in the day and trying, did it matter if he cheated?

Yes!

Or—no, not really, so long as he learned the work-life balance lesson?

‘Come on, let’s go and get a coffee. There’s a little café I noticed near the car. I’ve brought drinks for the girls, and maybe they can warm up their jars.’

‘Gloop?’ he said, looking wary, and she thought of his new jumper and smiled.

‘It’s OK, I’ll feed them, if you like,’ she promised. ‘I’ll just let you pay.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ he said with a sigh of relief, and, going back to the other side of the buggy, he towed it the rest of the way to the car without a murmur.

The babies were ready for bed early that night.

‘It must be the sea air,’ Jules said as she heated their supper—pots of home-made food this time, he noticed, and wondered if it was better for them.

‘Does that have all the right nutrients in it?’ he asked, and she stared at him as if he was mad.

‘It’s food—not a chemical formula. Roast chicken, broccoli, carrots, roast potatoes, gravy made with stock—of course it’s got all the right nutrients.’

‘And you cooked it?’

‘Well, of course I cooked it!’ she said with an exasperated sigh. ‘Who else?’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It’s just—I hardly ever saw you cook, and I don’t think you ever did a roast.’

‘No, of course not. We never had that long to do something so unimportant—’

‘Jules, stop it! I was just—’

‘What? Criticising the way I’m looking after my children?’

‘They’re my children, too!’

‘So learn how to cook for them,’ she said crossly, and threw a cookery book at him. ‘Here you go. There’s chicken breast, mince, salmon steaks, prawns and pork chops in the freezer. Take your pick. You can do supper for us while I get the girls in bed.’

And, stalking off with one of them in each arm, she left him sitting there staring blankly at the book.

Jeez. He could make coffee and toast and scrambled eggs, at a push. And he could unwrap stuff and shove it in the microwave, or pick up the phone and order.

But—cook? Real ingredients? Hell’s teeth, he hadn’t done that for years. Fifteen years? Not since…

He opened the book and flicked through the pages. What was it they’d had in the pub? Chicken breast stuffed with brie and wrapped in bacon, or something like that. She’d given him cheese last night—not brie, but cheddar. Would that do? Maybe. And how about bacon?

He stepped over the dog and investigated the fridge.

No bacon. No brie, either, come to that, and very little cheddar.

But there was pesto, and he thought he’d seen some pasta in the store cupboard in the kitchen when she’d been rummaging for biscuits.

So—pasta with chicken and pesto? A few toasted pine-nuts and a bag of salad…

No salad. Probably no pine nuts.

Peppers?

He hauled out a few things he’d seen served with similar dishes, set them all on the kitchen table and settled down with them to try and find a recipe that tied at least some of them in. Then, having found one, he had to work out how to use the microwave and, worse, how to use the Aga. Or even find the tools to reach that point.

Starting with a sharp knife, and a chopping board, and a deep, heavy pan. That was what the instructions said.

He found them, thawed and sliced the chicken, fried it in the pan with olive oil, onion and peppers, opened the pesto—and discovered mould.

Damn!

But there was rice, too, and prawns, so—how about paella? How the hell did you make paella?

He turned back to the book, wondering how long, exactly, Jules could remove herself from the kitchen. Long enough for him to ruin every single ingredient!

Simple. He’d order something in. Even she couldn’t object to him doing that on the house phone.

Except he was supposed to be doing this himself, and rising to a challenge wasn’t something that normally held him back. So—paella. How hard could it be?

‘Oh! Risotto?’ she said hesitantly, poking it and sniffing.

‘Paella,’ he corrected. ‘The pesto was off.’

‘Oh, it would be. There’s a new one in the cupboard.’

He rolled his eyes and sighed. ‘Right. Well, I was adaptable,’ he said, sounding pleased with himself, and she sniffed again.

‘How much garlic did you use?’

‘I don’t know. It said two cloves. It seemed a lot, so I only used one.’

‘Clove, or bulb?’

He frowned in confusion. ‘What’s the difference?’

‘Um—the bulb is the whole thing, a silvery-white papery thing with bumps and a stalk in the middle. A clove is one of the little bits inside.’

He scowled and turned away. ‘Well, you should have been here if you’re going to complain.’

‘Hey, I haven’t complained.’

‘You haven’t tasted it yet.’

‘Well, so it might be a bit garlicky. So what? I’m not going to kiss anyone, am I?’ she said, and then wished furiously that she could repossess her words, because he turned slowly and studied her.

‘It could be arranged,’ he murmured, his eyes dragging slowly over her as if he was trying to peel away her clothes.

‘In your dreams,’ she muttered, and took out two bowls. ‘Here—dish up. I’ll get us a drink. Do you want some of that wine?’

‘I wouldn’t mind the white. The red could be a bit heavy.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said wickedly. ‘It might balance the garlic.’

Foolish girl. He threw the spoon back into the pan and stalked off into the hall, disappearing out of the front door and slamming it behind him, shrugging on his jacket as he went.

Oops. That had been mean of her to tease him. She knew he couldn’t cook, and he’d done his best. And, apart from the garlic and the fact that it was a bit over-cooked, it looked fine.

His car—the sports car, the silly, fast, dangerous one—shot off the drive in a spray of gravel, and she sighed and covered the pan, pulled it to the side and sat down to wait. Either he’d come back, she thought, in which case she’d apologise, or he wouldn’t, in which case—

What? She’d lost the girls their father, and herself the only man she’d ever loved, just for the sake of keeping her sassy mouth shut?

Oh, damn. And she couldn’t even phone him to apologise.

CHAPTER FIVE

HE HIT the M25 before he saw sense, and he came off at the first junction, pulled up in the tatty, run-down service area, cut the engine and slammed his hands down on the steering wheel.

What the hell was he doing? She’d been teasing him! That was all. Nothing drastic. She’d always teased him, but he’d forgotten. Forgotten all sorts of things. What it felt like to hold her, what it felt like to touch her, to bury himself inside her—

He swallowed hard. No. He couldn’t let himself think about that. It was too soon; he was way off being allowed that close to her. But he wanted her, wanted to touch her, to hold her, to feel her warmth.

God, he was lonely. So damned lonely without her.

So he couldn’t do this, couldn’t throw in the towel, give up on his beautiful little girls and run away, because she’d teased him about the bloody garlic!

With a shaky sigh, he started the engine, pulled out of the car park, shot back down the slip road onto the A12 and went back to his wife.

He wasn’t coming back.

She’d sat in the window, huddled by the glass with a fleece wrapped round her shoulders and waited until the pub was shut, but there was still no sign of him.

What if he’d broken down? What if he’d gone off the road in a fit of temper? He seemed so angry these days, angrier than she’d ever seen him. Was that her fault? It must be. What else could it be?

And now he was who knew where, maybe lying upside down in a ditch full of water.

Lights sliced across the garden, blinding her with the glare of his headlamps as he turned in and cut the engine. The security lights came on as he got out of the car, and then she heard the car door slam and his feet crunch across the gravel as he approached the front door.

He paused and looked at her through the window, his face sombre, and then, with a slight shake of his head, he walked to the door, and she heard it open and close. Then he was there, filling the hall doorway with his brooding, silent presence.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, getting up and walking towards him, her foot a little stiff from sitting with it tucked under her for so long while she watched for him. ‘I shouldn’t have been so mean to you.’

‘It’s OK. It’s not your fault,’ he said gruffly. ‘I overreacted.’

‘No, you didn’t. You were doing your best. I know you can’t cook, and I should have given you more help, not just flung you in at the deep end and expected you to cope because you criticised me.’

‘I didn’t. Or, at least, I didn’t mean to. I was just asking. I’m sorry if it came over as criticism.’

So many sorries. From Max? She shook her head slowly and went over to the Aga. ‘Forget it. Have you eaten?’

‘No. I was going home. I’d got to the M25 before I came to my senses.’

She frowned. ‘That’s fifty miles!’

‘I know. I was—Well, let’s just say it took a while for me to calm down. Which is ridiculous. So, in answer to your question, no, I haven’t eaten, and yes, please, if it isn’t ruined. Not that I think you could ruin it. I’d already done a fair job.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ she told him, determined to eat it if it choked her. ‘So, I believe I was going to pour you a glass of wine?’

He gave a choked laugh. ‘That sounds good.’

‘Red or white?’

He smiled. ‘I’ll finish the red. It’ll balance the garlic,’ he said with irony, and she smiled back and handed him the bottle and a glass. She turned back to the paella, taking the lid off and blinking at the smell, but she dished up without a word, and they sat down at the table and ate it in a slightly strained and civilised silence, until finally Max pushed it away and met her eyes.

‘Bit heavy on the seasoning for me,’ he said wryly, and she put her fork down and smiled with him.

‘I’m not really hungry,’ she lied. ‘Shall I make some tea?’

‘No. I’m fine with the wine, but I could do with some toast or something.’

‘Cheese and biscuits? Or I might be able to find an apple pie in the freezer I could put in the oven?’

‘Sounds nice. We can have it later, after the cheese and biscuits.’

She chuckled and cleared away the table, put the cheese and biscuits out and the apple pie in the oven, then got herself a glass and poured a little wine into it.

‘Sorry, I didn’t realise you wanted some.’

‘It’s OK. I don’t usually, because I’m still feeding them, but tonight—well, I just thought I’d join you.’

‘Feel free.’

She swirled it round in the glass, then met his eyes over the top of it. ‘So—why were you so angry?’ she asked tentatively. ‘It wasn’t just the garlic thing.’