Nick gave her a sickly, sympathetic smile. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’
Shut up, shut up, shut up! she wanted to shout at him. She wanted to grab that thick floppy hair and pull his head down and give him a Glasgow kiss, as they called it when you used your own thick skull to smash someone’s face in. She wanted to hurt the wee bastard, and hurt him bad.
He must have seen it in her face, because he had suddenly leant back and said, ‘You’re not going to go for me with an ice bucket, are you?’ Those blue eyes had been bright, eager, as if he was almost hoping she’d go for him because then Duncan would kick her into touch.
She’d heaved herself up and walked away.
She’d walked out of that room and across the hall and into the library. Of all the ‘strategies’ she’d been taught to control her anger, it was the only one that worked: Just walk away.
She hadn’t told Duncan exactly what Nick had said. But maybe she should. Then he’d see. She was that riled up now she wanted to march into that garage and let rip at the two of them. Duncan hadn’t a fucking clue. He hadn’t a fucking clue about his own son.
‘She’s becoming paranoid,’ he was saying now. ‘She accused Nick of smashing up her plastic measuring spoons. You should have seen her going off on one at him. Like a little wildcat.’
‘Well, Dunc . . .’
‘What? I hope you’re not going to say I told you so?’
‘Far be it from me. No, I like Maggie. I’ve a lot of respect for the girl, making something of her life, after the childhood she had. That mother of hers.’
‘Oh, don’t get me started. Social Services have a lot to answer for there. Beggars belief that they missed all the signs of neglect, not to mention physical abuse, year after year.’ She heard him suck in his breath. Then: ‘I know everyone thinks I’m mad. I know it’s not the done thing, having a relationship with someone I used to mentor on the programme. But that was over six years ago. She’s twenty-eight now, Michael – an adult. And yes, she’s damaged, as Jemma kept telling me – you and Yvonne weren’t the only ones to warn me off Maggie. But the simple fact is . . . I love her. And I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to help her. She’s going to be a good mother to this child.’
Maggie backed away and then she was waddling back along the path, her heart hammering. That bitch Jemma! What business of hers was it if Duncan and Maggie wanted to get together? What business was it of Michael and Yvonne’s?
But what she couldn’t get out her head, as she stumbled across the lawn and back to the house, was Duncan’s voice as he’d told Michael he loved her, that he was prepared to do whatever it took to help her, that she was going to be a good mother. It had been almost like he was trying to convince not Michael but himself.
She was sobbing as she lurched through the hall and up the stairs, hauling herself up using the bannisters. At the top, she stopped to get her breath, and then there he was. There he was in front of her.
Nick.
‘Get away from me!’
‘Mags – what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing!’
He made a long, sympathetic face at her. ‘Oh God – have I upset you again? If I have, I really didn’t mean to. Sometimes I open my mouth and these horrendous things come out. It’s the last thing you need, isn’t it, eight months pregnant and some oaf of a teenager is pushing your buttons? Bringing back all those traumatic memories?’
She moved to go past him, but he blocked her way, reaching out to take her arm.
She moved back against the bannisters.
‘People with borderline personality disorder . . . that’s what you’ve got, isn’t it? I know that means you have big problems with relationships. I know it’s an emotional rollercoaster and you find it really hard to control your mood swings, and being pregnant, hormones swirling, must be making it so much worse . . . and I’m making it worse by going on about it, aren’t I?’ He grimaced, all What am I like? ‘Look – from what I understand, the most important thing, with someone with BPD, is to make them feel “heard”. So, you know, Mags, any time you want to talk about anything . . . I mean, I know I’m probably the last person you’d want to talk to, just now, anyway, but – what’s the phrase? I’m here for you?’ Another self-deprecating grimace, which morphed charmingly into an uncertain smile.
And for a moment, just a moment, she wondered if Duncan was right. If she was paranoid. If she’d got Nick all wrong. She had a bad tendency to think people were picking a fight when they were just trying to be nice. That was something Duncan had pointed out to her, all those years ago when she’d been in the programme.
Little Miss Prickles.
But then it happened.
Nick shoved a hand at her belly, so hard she felt the baby squash back against her spine, wriggling like it was trying to get away, and Maggie was trapped against the bannisters as Nick smiled into her face and said, ‘I’m really looking forward to being a big brother.’ Slowly, he increased the pressure, and pain shot through her.
She pushed him away and aimed a kick at his balls which, impeded by her big belly, lost most of its force by the time it connected, almost overbalancing her, but he winced, and she yelled at him: ‘Get the fuck away from me!’ and he put his hands out towards her, like he was fending off a wild animal, and said, ‘Easy, easy! Sorry, I just wanted to see if I could feel the baby kick. Maggie, come away from the bannisters. Come away from the bannisters!’
But she couldn’t move away from the bannisters because he was there, blocking her way, and as he reached for her she had a sudden image of him reaching out to Kathleen like this.
But no. No.
He couldn’t have killed his own mother.
Could he?
‘Get away from me!’ She shouted it at the top of her voice, and thank God, thank God, here was Duncan running up the stairs, going, ‘What the hell?’ and Nick was speaking to him and finally, finally, she got away; stumbled to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her and leant on it.