CHAPTER EIGHT
Jo leaned weakly against the bath, ignoring the freezing tiles hard against her knees. She felt cold in just a T-shirt and knickers, but when the nausea hit her, she hadn’t time to grab her dressing-gown. She barely had time to reach the bathroom before she retched.
She knelt by the toilet in exhaustion as the spasms in her stomach ceased. Maybe if she breathed deeply, she could calm the nausea with relaxing breaths. But even deep breathing felt too strenuous Instead, she just stayed where she was, closed her eyes and wished she could crawl back, to bed until she felt better.
Bed always seemed more appealing when you couldn’t sleep late. This morning, the soft sky-blue sheets and cosy duvet were positively irresistible, simply because she had to leave them.
Rhona was already halfway to France, complete with the car, kids and enough books to last for three glorious weeks travelling around the Loire Valley. Jo had to edit the August edition of Style on her own. Usually, she loved the challenge of doing two jobs at once, planning the magazine and setting up fashion shoots in between chasing up articles and dealing with endless phone calls. Inevitably someone forgot to get a photo of this new designer or that TV chat show host at home, and the entire office would collapse into panic before Jo took charge and sorted whatever mini-disaster out.
Today she felt incapable of organising her underwear drawer, never mind Ireland’s biggest-selling glossy magazine. It was ten past eight, she realised tiredly. Time to have breakfast.
The very thought of eating made her feel ill.
She closed her eyes for a couple of blissful minutes, and steeled herself to get up and face the day.
Why did something so utterly wonderful as having a baby include one of the most horrible side effects imaginable? And why did she have to be one of the fifty per cent of expectant mothers who suffered from it? She hated the other fifty per cent.
Jo had read all about hormonal surges and gastric juices ganging up on you to make you sick as a pig. But the paragraph about overcoming morning sickness in her ancient edition of Everywoman had been the last straw.
Reading that having a small carbohydrate-rich breakfast ‘… brought to the wife by the husband as soon as possible after waking …” had made her feel even sicker, if that was possible. What she wouldn’t have given to have Richard hovering over her in the morning, bringing sweet tea and sympathy along with toast and marmalade. Stop moping, Ryan, and get on with it.
She got up off the bathroom floor and washed her teeth.
Her face was still deathly pale and she looked tired and drawn. Who cares, she said aloud. Nobody’s going to be looking at me today. They’ll just have to put up with a pale and interesting fashion editor for once.
It was only when Jo was gingerly sipping a cup of coffee that she remembered the lunchtime fashion show, a preview of the Autumn and Winter range from one of the country’s most famous and expensive designers.
Jo had been invited weeks ago and would have to turn up, nausea or no nausea. It was going to be a glamorous, highprofile affair with every fashion editor in the country on full make-up alert, wearing the most expensive outfits from their wardrobes. An A-list fashion show, definitely. Designer Maxine was showing her collection in Stark’s, a chic and overpriced restaurant where the price of one bottle of good wine would feed a family of five for a week.
Not that any of the fashion pack would actually eat very much. Eating and being a fashion journalist were mutually exclusive you couldn’t do
both. Everyone would just pick at their food. Jo nibbled the corner of a piece of cream cracker wearily.
Why did the show have to be today? Instead of slopping into the office in a sweatshirt and comfortable jeans, she’d have to dress up and, for once, she just didn’t have the energy for it.
Damn, damn, damn, she muttered. She opened the wardrobe and stared at the crammed rails of clothes. She plucked a fitted red jacket from the middle of the rail and held it up to herself. Too bright, she decided, jamming it back into the wardrobe.
She mulled over a clinging navy shift dress with a matching short jacket. With the right sunglasses and pearls, it looked very Jackie O. But Jo wasn’t in a Jackie O mood. She looked more like Jack Charlton.
It would have to be the hand-painted silk dress she’d got in the Design Centre. Pale gold with rich, burnt umber brush strokes the clinging dress always made her look like something from a medieval tapestry with her hair falling in curls around her bare shoulders. Perfect.
But it wasn’t. Instead of highlighting her curves, the dress simply highlighted her Kelly. Flat just the week before, it had turned into a little mound overnight and the gold dress stretched across it unbecomingly.
The grey pinstripe trouser suit was just as bad. The ultra expensive black lycra dress, which was guaranteed to vacuum pack even the flabbiest tummy, was even worse. She wasn’t in the mood to wear the navy crepe trousers and matching mandarin shirt, even if it was loose enough to look good.
Baby, what am I going to do with you? Jo asked her bump.
Poor Mummy can’t go to Maxine’s fashion show looking like a bag lady. What am I going to wear? You’re going to have to get used to being asked this question, you know.
She stroked her belly softly, sure that the baby was listening to every word. You’re going to be the most fashion-conscious baby the world has ever known, all right, darling?
If only Rhona wasn’t on holidays. Jo could have rung up and asked if she could take the day off. And just blobbed around all day, watching
the afternoon soaps and drinking tea. Instead, she had to find some bloody thing which would fit her and look nice.
An hour later, she strode into the office looking as if she’d just spent the morning having the works done at the beauty parlour. Her glossy dark hair was coiled into an elegant knot held in place with tortoiseshell pins. She wore a slim-fitting navy jacket unbuttoned over a biscuit-coloured silk dress.
Sheer tights and beige high-heeled mules completed the effect. Jo looked marvelous. Nobody would notice that her open jacket hid a softly rounded stomach.
Thank God you’re here,” gushed Emma Lynch, who rushed into Rhona’s office just moments after Jo had arrived and put her briefcase down on the editor’s desk.
“Why? What’s happened?” Jo didn’t look up as she opened the briefcase, and took out her diary and a computer disk. She couldn’t stand Emma but she had to keep it to herself.
A twenty-six-year-old rich girl with delusions of brilliance and a penchant for tantrums, Emma was one of the most irritating people Jo had ever met. Unfortunately, she was also the publisher’s niece and had recently been appointed to the position of junior features writer, despite her inability to write an entire paragraph without a grammatical error.
No talent and good connections make a winning combination, Rhona said drily. She had agreed to take Emma on for two years when she’d finished her one year public relations course. Everyone else had regretted it ever since.
Emma’s job was to rewrite press releases, get quotes from celebrities about their beauty hints and do general dogs body work. Naturally, this wasn’t good enough for Emma.
She moaned about not getting anything enjoyable to write and had started wheedling her uncle for promotion. She wanted to do ‘proper’ interviews, she’d been telling anyone who’d listen. Not just rewrite boring press releases or answer the phones. But something juicy. Today she’d found just what she was looking for.
“You won’t believe what’s happened!” Emma said dramatically.
She said everything dramatically. It drove Jo mad. “Poor Mary has got the most awful flu and can’t go to London to do that interview with Helen Mirren. She rang in earlier and, because you weren’t here, I took the liberty of ringing Uncle Mark and asking him what he thought..”
Emma smiled a self-satisfied little smile.
“Well, to see if he thought I should go, actually. Because we couldn’t keep them waiting just because you weren’t in …”
“Hold on a minute, Emma,” Jo interrupted coolly.
“When did Mary ring in?”
“At ten past nine, and …”
Jo interrupted again.
“And what time was Mary’s interview scheduled?” “Half six in the Mayfair.”
“This evening?”
“Yes, but the flight was booked and everything …”
“Emma, why did you decide to ring Mark with something like this when you knew I was going to be in this morning, and when you also knew we had plenty of time to get someone else to interview Helen Mirren? Can you tell me that?” Jo’s tone was sharp.
Normally she was able to ignore Emma’s manipulative behaviour and constant running to “Uncle Mark’, but not today.
“Well, I just thought it would be …” stuttered Emma, going an ugly shade of pink.
“Better if you went, Emma? Or better to organise something without consulting me?”
Jo sat down in Rhona’s big swivel chair and steepled her hands in front of her. She knew exactly what Emma had been up to. She’d made Jo look bad in front of Mark Denton, Style’s publisher, and netted a major interview for herself into the bargain.
Denton was a man famous for his lack of patience and his business skills, in that order. He was also unaccountably fond of his niece.
“I thought it would be helpful if I went.” Emma sniffed. Jo eyed her
warily, realising that the younger woman was ready to go into tantrum overdrive. Big mistake, Emma, she!
thought. “Shut the door, Emma, and sit down,” Jo commanded.
Startled, Emma obeyed.
“Now you listen to me. Don’t you dare go over my head ever again, do you understand? I’m the deputy editor and when Rhona is away, I’m acting editor. I will not stand for some little madam trying to tell me how to run this magazine, do you understand?” Jo hissed.
“If you want to learn anything, you’ve got to work with me, not against me, Emma. You got this job because of who you are, but if you ever want to get any job on merit,” she yelled, ‘you’d better stop playing games and learn. And that means taking orders. You’re not going to London for that interview.”
Emma was openmouthed with shock, but Jo didn’t stop.
“I’m rescheduling the interview so Mary can do it. You haven’t the experience for this type of interview. Now cancel those plane tickets.”
With that, Jo picked up the phone and dialled Mary’s number.
“You can’t do that, I’ve got it all arranged!” shrieked Emma.
“I can and I will,” answered Jo icily.
“I presume you have some work to do, so do it!”
Emma flounced out of the room, slamming the door childishly. Straight off to ring Uncle Mark, no doubt, Jo thought wearily. With a great start to the morning.
She’d just finished talking to Helen Mirren’s publicity consultant when Annette, the receptionist, came in with a cup of tea and a message from Mark Denton.
“He’s in the car and wants you to ring him back pronto said Annette.
“I’m sure you can guess what it’s about. I heard that little bitch phoning him as soon as she left your office.”
That girl will be the death of me,” Jo said.
“Pity she couldn’t be the death of herself Annette said.
Jo waited until she’d drunk most of her tea before phoning the boss. She’d need every spare ounce of self-control not to scream back at him
once he got started. Mark was one of those people capable of sending her into a frenzy of temper, something he regularly managed at the weekly editorial meetings. He remained calm, no matter what, while she was left openmouthed with temper. How Rhona managed to get on with him so well was a complete mystery to Jo.
“What the hell is going on over there?” Mark demanded.
“I’ve just had Emma crying at me over the phone about some stupid bloody interview and wasting money on plane tickets.
Jesus, don’t tell me you can’t run the place when bloody Rhona’s away!”
Jo could feel her blood pressure rise along with her temper.
Relax, she said to herself, don’t lose your cool.
‘ There’s no problem, Mark,” she replied calmly.
“Unfortunately, Mary is sick and can’t fly to London for an interview she’d set up with Helen Mirren. Emma seems to have got the idea that she should “go and had it all arranged until I got here.”
She paused before the lie.
“It would be marvelous if Emma could have gone, but I happen to know that Helen is, er … very particular about interviewers, she prefers more experienced journalists.” She crossed her fingers at the lie.
“Emma just doesn’t fit the bill. If she’s that keen to interview someone, I can set up something less challenging for her, but she’s not ready for big interviews yet.”
“What the hell’s the problem, then?” Denton’s voice was a fraction less aggressive.
“Why’s she ringing me in floods?
Rhona doesn’t have this effect on her.”
Suddenly Jo snapped. If he wanted to know what the problem was, she was damn well going to tell him!
The problem is that Emma finds it very difficult to take orders or to be told what to do, Mark,” Jo said candidly.
“She doesn’t want to be a team player, she wants to be out on her own.
“We’ve had some great journalism students in the office and they’ve been eager to learn, willing to do any job to gain experience.” Her voice was raised and she just didn’t care.
“Emma has never been like that. She thinks she knows it all and she never wants to do what she’s asked. She just doesn’t understand that there’s a lot more to journalism than interviewing someone famous. Emma thinks she’s too good for the day-to-day jobs in a magazine. And to make matters worse Jo paused for breath, ‘she does everything she can to create friction in the office. Ringing you this morning before I got in is a prime example of what I mean. That’s Emma trying to make trouble and abusing her relationship with you she spat.
“I won’t stand for it.
“If you want her to be the editor of Style, Mark, then make her editor. But until you do, don’t expect me to kowtow to her just because she’s your niece, right!”
There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Jo was wondering whether she’d gone too far when he spoke.
“At least I can rely on you for straight-talking, Jo.” Denton said flatly. And that certainly was straight-talking. I didn’t know Emma was such a problem, Rhona never mentioned it before.”
“Emma is in awe of Rhona, so she never puts a foot out of place when she’s around. She doesn’t feel the same about me,” Jo admitted.
“That’s the problem. She thinks she can use you to sideline me. I don’t dislike Emma.” she lied.
“But I won’t have some twenty-six-year-old with zero experience trying to tell me how to run this magazine.”
“Point taken he said coolly.
“I’ll tell Emma not to run to me when something disagrees with her, but I want you to work with her, Jo. She’s got her heart set on journalism and I promised her parents I’d give her a good start.” His voice softened.
“She’s a sweet kid at heart, you just don’t know her.
That tough exterior is all a front.”
Yeah, thought Jo. She’s just a cuddly little thing, like a bloody piranha. Still, you’ve got enough opinions off your chest for one day, Ryan. Keep your mouth shut if you want to keep working.
“I know what you mean she answered warmly. What an Oscar-winning performance.
“She’s probably insecure. I never spotted it until now. I was quite taken in by that tough act. Don’t worry, Mark, I’ll work with her. But she’s got to learn to work under me, she’ll never get on in this business if she automatically puts up her fists to the boss.”
“Yeah, you’re right, Jo. Help her out, she’s a good kid,” Mark said earnestly.
“Of course. I’ll bring her in later and get this sorted out.”
That’s great, Jo. Talk to you tomorrow.”
With that, he was gone. Jo ‘hung up with relief and leaned back in her chair. It was still only eleven o’clock, but she felt as if she’d been in the office all day. This isn’t good for you, my darling, she addressed her bump.
By the time Jo had discussed the beauty pages and the lucrative sun cream advertisement supplement with the beauty writer, Nikki, chief sub Tony and Aidan from advertising, it Was nearly time to leave for the lunch. After redoing her lipstick and anchoring a few stray hairs back into the knot at the nape of her neck, she grabbed her handbag and marched out of Rhona’s office.
Nikki was standing up beside the reception desk, talking rapidly on the phone and attempting to open her mascara at the same time.
Annette was unwrapping a sandwich covered in cling film and talking to Brenda, who was eating a rice cake and eyeing the mayonnaise squelching out of Annette’s tuna sandwich hungrily.
Emma was nowhere to be seen.
“She went off to lunch half an hour ago,” Annette informed Jo.
“She said she wouldn’t be back.”
“OK,” said Jo.
“Brenda, will you talk to Nikki about writing the sun cream supplement. I was hoping to get Emma working on it, but if she’s not back today, I want you to take over.
How’s the diet going?” she added, as Brenda spread a meagre amount of diet cottage cheese on another rice cake.
“Fine,” answered Brenda glumly.
“I’ve lost nearly a stone. I’ve only another ten pounds to go.”
“When’s the wedding, anyway?” Jo asked. The end of July. My sister’s lost all her weight and she’s bought a size twelve wedding dress. I’m not going if I can’t get into a size twelve.”
“Don’t be daft, Brenda,” interjected Nikki, sliding tanned skinny arms into a slinky little pale gold cardigan.
“You’ll look marvelous whatever size you are. I’ll give you some of that wonderful Lancome face tanner and you’ll look sexy and sun kissed
“Nikki, you’re starting to sound like a cosmetics press release,” laughed Jo.
“I sleep with make-up brochures under my pillow and absorb it all.” Nikki took a brush out of her handbag and ran it through her straight blonde bob.
“I don’t put milk under my cornflakes any more, I replenish their lost moisture with a vital enriching fluid!”
“Don’t mock it,” Jo said. Think how handy all that “replenishing moisture” jargon comes in when you’re writing ad features.”
That’s this afternoon’s work,” Nikki smiled on her way out the door.
“Now, I’m going to stuff my face in Bewley’s with my beloved husband and he’ll kill me if I’m late. Bye.”
“I’m going to be late myself Jo said, looking at her watch.
“Annette, I’m going to Stark’s for Maxine’s fashion show. God only knows when I’ll be back. These damn things always start late. When Emma comes in, tell her she’s not to leave this evening until she’s seen me, right?”
“No problem,” said Annette.
The four o’clock news was blasting out of Annette’s radio when Jo finally walked into the office, clutching a hand painted silk scarf from Maxine’s beautiful, albeit overpriced, new collection.
“Emma’s gone home, Nikki had to leave early but left the beauty feature on your desk and you’re to ring Anna from Models Inc. about who you’re going to pick for the wedding dress feature.” Efficient as ever, Annette handed over a sheaf of pale yellow phone messages along with
some post. “I thought Emma was to stay until I’d talked to her said Jo crossly.
“Wouldn’t listen, just marched off about five minutes after she got back from lunch Annette explained.
Jo sighed and walked into Rhona’s office, wishing she’d had the chance to tackle Emma before the little bitch went home to Mummy with tales of woe about the horrible deputy editor. Would Denton sack her before or after her maternity leave?
“Oh, Jo,” called Annette. “I nearly forgot. Richard rang and said he’d see you tonight at your place.”
Jo felt her heart quicken. Richard wanted to see her, he’d changed his mind, he must have! Oh, thank you, God, thank you, she whispered fervently. He wants me to give him another chance, I just know it.
Emma instantly forgotten, Jo rushed to the loo to see how she looked. Her carefully applied foundation had almost vanished in the summer heat and there were little smudges of mascara under her eyes. No problem. She whisked out her make-up bag and started the repair job.
How like Richard not to say when he was coming, she thought happily, blotting up excess lipstick with a tissue. But who cared what time he arrived? He was coming to see her, that was enough.
She was squirting another blast of Tresor onto her wrists when the doorbell rang.
Richard looked better than ever, blond hair gleaming against faintly tanned skin. A broad smile showed off the perfectly white teeth he brushed religiously.
“Jo, my darling,” he murmured, sliding one arm around her waist as he pulled her close for a slow, sensuous kiss.
“Oh, Richard she said softly.
“I’ve missed you so much.”
“I know, my darling, I know. These,” he produced a huge bouquet of pink roses from behind his back, ‘are for you.”
Jo felt tears prickle behind her eyes. Pink roses. They’re so
beautiful she said tearfully. Thank you.” “Don’t cry,” Richard said quickly.
“Let’s put these on ice.”
He bent down and picked up two bottles of white wine from the doorstep.
“It’s your favourite, darling, German Riesling. Now, have you got anything to eat? I’m starved.”
“Er, no.” She’d spent the whole weekend planning to shop properly and had still only made it to the corner shop for milk, bread, cheese and ice cream. Chocolate-chip Haagen Dazs. Sinful but glorious.
Anyway, why didn’t he bring something to eat if he was hungry? In fact, why had he brought wine when he knew she couldn’t drink any? Oh well, he was just being Richard thoughtful and thoughtless at the same
At least he was making an effort. He never remembered practical things, but he was trying. She’d just have to get used to his foibles when they were living together. So what if he always drank the last of the milk and then expected more to materialise magically, that was Richard for you. She could live with it. Thank God he was back. She loved him so much, she couldn’t let her damn hormones screw their reunion up.
In the kitchen he’d found the corkscrew and was expertly opening the first bottle. She stared lovingly at the back of his neck, admiring the way the denim blue shirt clung to his strong shoulders.
“Glasses, darling?” he inquired. Jo opened a cupboard and handed him a wine glass.
“I can’t drink, Richard, because of the baby.”
“Have a sip,” he said persuasively.
“Half a glass won’t kill
They sat on the big three-seater settee, the way they always had. He lounged at one end, the glass of wine beside him on a small table. Jo sat curled up beside him.
Sky Sports blared out of the TV, but Jo didn’t mind. He paid the subscription so he never missed an important match and usually she sat and read while he watched, bored with the endless discussions of
players and tactics. Now, she sat peacefully, watching him watching TV, content just to be close to him.
Maybe it was the weekend without him, a weekend without his touch, that made her so needy. She’d missed him, missed his touch, missed his arms around her.
After two years with Richard, she’d almost forgotten all those times when she’d felt desperate for a man’s touch, felt alone and unloved when her current man wrote himself out of her life. She certainly should have remembered what it felts like, it had happened often enough. But that was all in the past. Thankfully.
Her fingers spread out on Richard’s chest as he watched the’ TV, luxuriating in the feeling of soft denim warmed by his skin. He didn’t respond, totally absorbed in the game. Nothing changes, she thought happily, delighted at his presence and determined not to freak about the things which had always irritated her before. The poor man needed time to get used to pregnancy mood swings.
She felt perfectly happy. Serene, almost. This was bliss. He’d changed his mind, he’d come back to her and the baby. They had a future again. They were going to be parents. She was going to have the most beautiful, most adored baby in the whole world. It was all so perfect.
When the match was over, Richard was still hungry.
“Let’s get pizza,” he said, stroking her cheek gently before kissing her on the forehead.
“A twelve-inch pepperoni with garlic bread.
My wallet’s in my jacket.” Jo felt hungry herself, despite the large lunch she’d wolfed down in Stark’s.
He was opening the second bottle of wine when the pizza arrived. The quarter of a glass of wine that Jo had drunk was rattling acidly around her stomach, but she was still starving.
They ate enthusiastically straight from the box, strings of mozzarella dripping juicily from the slices of pizza they pulled apart with their
“Delicious,” Jo mumbled, her mouth full.
“Like you,” Richard grinned back.
They never got to see the Liverpool match. Instead, they ended up on the carpet, kissing garlic butter off each other’s mouths and pulling at clothes with greasy fingers.
When they finally made it into the bedroom, Richard finished undressing her, carefully unclasped her bra and buried his face between her breasts, fuller now than they’d ever been before. He licked each nipple eagerly before sucking them, making Jo arch her back with pleasure.
“Oh, darling,” she moaned, ‘that’s wonderful.” She ran her fingers through his hair as he kissed her breasts, sending quivering bolts of desire through her body.
“How’s this?” he asked, sliding his hand down her belly until he was stroking the soft skin of her thighs, making her purr with pleasure. His fingers stroked the soft silk of her skin, gently roaming under the elastic of her silk panties to touch her softly, fingers tantalising and questing.
God she wanted him, she was ready for him, so ready. Who needed foreplay after a weekend apart?
“I’ve missed you, Richard,” she said, moving out from under him, straddling him and leaning down to kiss his lips gently.
She nuzzled his neck while one hand fumbled with his belt, trying to open it without looking.
When she turned to look, her breasts, heavy and ripe, swung low and his lips moved to catch a nipple in his mouth.
It was amazing, simply amazing what he could do to her. She felt sexier than ever before, as though being pregnant made everything make sense. Pregnant, she was utterly womanly and feminine, ripe and blooming, thanks to this man who was burning her skin with his touch.
“And I’ve missed you,” he groaned, his hands pulling her hips down hard onto his, grinding his hard body under hers.
“I
want you now, Jo.”
Quickly, he slid her panties off and ripped off his boxer shorts. Pulling her on top of him again, he slid inside her, feeling her soft, welcoming and wet.
“Oh, Jo,” he moaned, burying himself in her as deep as he could.
“That’s so good.”
It was, it was wonderful. She clung to him, sweat beading on her upper lip as he thrust into her, again and again. She wanted him so much, she was so excited. She was nearly there, nearly coming.
“Oh, Jo,” he shouted, job God!”
His body spasmed, as he thrust deep inside her before he collapsed on top of her body, breathing shallowly and quickly in post-orgasmic exhaustion.
Her own excitement dipped instantly, needing his friction to bring her to orgasm. Damn. As he lay on her heavily, she breathed more evenly and wrapped her arms around his body.
She wouldn’t come now, the moment had passed.
That was amazing, Jo,” he murmured.
Gently stroking his cheek, she felt a rush of emotions well up inside her. She loved him, but he was so selfish. Just because he was as horny as hell after a sex-free weekend didn’t mean he had to completely forget about her satisfaction and make love like a chauvinist pig. She’d been so turned on and she’d missed him so much, “she been crazy for him.
And he hadn’t cared that she hadn’t come.
Damn him! Richard never changed, did he?
He shifted beside her, reached one hand up and caressed her face.
“I love you, Jo, you know that?”
Of course, she melted. He’d always had the power to do that to her, to make her forget his behaviour with just a few words. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t come. They were together, together with their baby. That was all that mattered.
Her fingers smoothed his hair, moved down to massage his shoulders. His skin was damp with sweat.
Together they’d made a baby, a precious life. Yes, they’d had their fights and they’d argued bitterly a few days ago, but that was natural. People fought and argued. Now Richard had accepted their baby and he wanted to be with her. OK, so he hadn’t said it in so many words. But he meant it. He didn’t have to say it. She knew.
“Darling, I’m so tired,” Richard said sleepily. He slid one arm under his head like a pillow. That was great, I’m just so tired.
“Night.” he muttered.
She watched him, sexy, handsome and thoughtless. But he was her man, the father of her unborn baby. Maybe fatherhood would knock some of the thoughtlessness out of him.
Moving gently so she wouldn’t wake him, Jo untangled her limbs from his and climbed out of the bed, padding silently into the bathroom to wash her teeth. Almost too tired to take off her make-up, she forced herself to go through her usual beauty routine.
She splashed cleanser on her face, wiped away the grime of make-up and pollution with cotton wool, and brushed her teeth carefully. She quickly applied a film of moisturiser, then rubbed body lotion into her breasts, to keep pregnancy stretch marks at bay. That’d do.
She switched off the bathroom light and wandered into the sitting room and turned off the TV. Richard’s jacket and jeans were flung on the settee and the huge pizza box sat opened on the glass coffee table. Grease-marked kitchen paper and two crumpled sections of tinfoil lay on the ground. The smell of garlic bread permeated the air. She’d tidy it up in the morning.
The sun didn’t wake her, even when it shone in through a crack in the curtains at dawn, a shaft of light cutting through the dark of the bedroom like a floodlight. It was the morning sickness that did it, waking her up just after seven with bile rising in her throat. She knew she was going to be sick right now.
She got to the loo just in time, retching painfully as her sleepy body tried to come to terms with another bout of pregnancy nausea.
“Baby, how can you be doing this to me?” Jo groaned wretchedly, hanging over the toilet bowl for the nth morning in a row.
“Why can’t I be one of those lucky cows who don’t suffer from morning sickness?”
After ten minutes waiting to get worse, she began to feel marginally better. Thank God. Jo got up shakily and reached for the Bathroom Duck. What a stupid bloody name, she thought, squirting a blast of lemon goo around the rim of the toilet. Doesn’t look anything like a bloody duck.
Her mouth felt like the inside of a bin man wellie, she thought. That’s daft too. Who the hell knows what a bin man wellie tastes like?
She couldn’t face brushing her teeth so she stumbled into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. A cup of sweet tea would be the business. She was absolutely exhausted, bull there was nothing like a session of puking to make you totally!
and undeniably awake. I One empty wine bottle stood on the counter and she!
jammed it head-first into the bin. Bloody ironic to feel like!
she was incredibly hung-over every day when she hadn’t!
drunk mote than half a glass of wine since getting pregnant.
The other bottle stood on the coffee table. By rights!
Richard should have the most appalling hangover since he’d!
drunk most of the two bottles. But he’d probably be fine, all that training to be a sports photographer had made him immune to hangovers.
Sky News was chirpy and irritating. Jo watched it for half an hour and then decided to tidy up. What was the point in spending all morning groaning about being sick? Since she was up that early and since Richard would lie in bed for hours, she might as well take advantage of the fact and clean the flat.
It didn’t take long to bin the remains of the pizza, but it would take a bit longer to get rid of the smell of garlic bread left hardening overnight on the coffee table. When she’d dumped everything and put down carpet freshener for when she could hoover, she picked up Richard’s discarded clothes and folded them neatly.
His wallet lay on the hall table with the change from the pizza beside it. Jo smiled at the wallet, remembering buying it for him in Bloomingdale’s in New York.
It had been made by Gucci and was miles cheaper than it would have been in Dublin.
“So you’ll think of me whenever you open your wallet,” she’d joked at the time. It was an old Dublin gag they’d both known and laughed at how did you find your girlfriend? I opened my wallet and there she was. Jo put the change into the wallet and tried to slide it into the inside pocket of his jacket. It wouldn’t fit. Something bulky was blocking it. Puzzled, Jo pulled an envelope out of the pocket, smoothing it out to reveal a Ryanair travel folder.
Something clicked inside her head and she opened it quickly.
It couldn’t be, no way. It just couldn’t be.
The ticket was open-ended, executive class to London the following Monday morning. Jo stared at it for a moment.
London. He was still going to London.
Her mind sped back over the previous night’s events.
Richard had never said anything to make her think he’d changed his mind. She’d just assumed that he had, assumed that his very presence was proof that he’d acquiesced. That he wanted her and their baby. The flowers, the wine, everything.
But he hadn’t. What had he come for, a quick fuck? she thought bitterly. Why hadn’t he said anything? Because that would be too difficult, too confrontational, of course.
“I hate rows,” he claimed from time to time, usually when they were in the middle of one. He preferred to walk away from the argument, get into his car and drive off for the day.
Then he’d ring her the next day, say sorry and arrange dinner.
By then, Jo’s temper would have cooled and the fight would be shelved, if not forgotten.
Damn him, she wasn’t going to let him run away this time.
He wasn’t going to breeze back into her life for a few hours and just breeze out again. This was serious. She was pregnant and he was going to run away again? No way.
“Richard,” she said loudly, shaking his shoulder.
“Wakey, was key
He blinked tiredly, screwing up his eyes at the harsh sunlight streaming into the bedroom.
“What time is it?” he mumbled hoarsely.
Ten past eight,” she snapped. “Jesus, Jo, why did you wake me?” he groaned.
“I’m shattered.”
“You’re shattered?” she screeched.
“What about me? When were you going to tell me about London, Richard? When?
Were you going to ring from the airport? Or from your hotel in London?”
“Oh for God’s sake,” he muttered, turning away from her in the bed.
“It’s no big deal. I’m just going for a couple of weeks to see what it would be like working there. I’m not emigrating.”
“Not yet, maybe, but you will. Ireland’s too bloody boring for you, isn’t it, Richard?” she demanded.
“You want excitement, don’t you? The world would end if Richard Kennedy actually had to settle down for more than five minutes! All I want, to know is where I fit into all of this? Or have you forgotten that I’m carrying our baby?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Jo!” He sat up in the bed, raked his hair out of his eyes and looked at her warily.
“I haven’t forgotten. I just thought you might have given the subject some more thought. You know, what it’ll mean to your career or whatever, and maybe even changed your mind. We don’t have to do this now.”
Jo stared at him angrily. She couldn’t believe what he was saying. If she hadn’t wanted an abortion on Friday, she damn well wasn’t going to want one now.
Richard pushed the duvet back abruptly and got out of bed.
He strode into the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
“I’m afraid we do have to do this now,” she shouted through the door.
“The baby isn’t going to go away, Richard, I’m still having it.”
The toilet flushed. Richard marched out of the bathroom, wiping his face on a towel. He didn’t speak.
“When you turned up last night, I thought you’d changed your mind,” Jo said fiercely.
“How can you do this to me? Is this your party piece, running away
from women when you get them pregnant? “It was as if she’d flicked a switch. His face changed in an instant, becoming dark like thunder. Jo had never seen him like this and she was stunned, afraid almost.
“I didn’t do anything he snarled.
“You wanted to trap me, didn’t you? Well it’s not going to work.”
Almost absently, Jo took her old pink flurry dressing-gown off the hook on the bedroom door and wrapped it around her.
It was sunny outside. The weather forecast on Sky had promised balmy weather, but Jo still felt cold. She stood beside the bed and stared blankly at the dressing-table mirror, not seeing her reflection at all.
He picked up his watch from the dressing table and strapped it onto his wrist. She followed him into the sitting room where he picked up his clothes and dressed silently, barely contained rage in every movement.
“Richard,” she said tentatively.
“We have to talk …”
“No, we don’t. You’ve made your bed, you lie on it,” he spat.
That did it.
“Don’t talk to me like that, you arrogant pig!” she yelled.
“We both did it, do you think I got pregnant on my own?” She faced him angrily.
“Yeah, well I don’t want it,” Richard said, venom in every syllable.
“I’m leaving.”
“You cant Jo said.
“How dare you talk to me like that, you’re all the same, bloody men terrified of commitment!”
“And you’re all the bloody same he answered harshly, ‘getting pregnant at the drop of a hat because it’s the only way to get a ring on your finger. Well it’s been tried before, sweetie, and I didn’t bite the bullet that time either!”
“What do you mean?” asked Jo, stunned.
He said nothing, just continued buttoning his jeans calmly.
Jesus, he couldn’t be saying what she thought he was saying.
“Beate. She got pregnant, didn’t she?”
“So?”
“Why did you never tell me?”
There was nothing to tell he said flatly.
“Did she have the baby?” Jo asked.
“What is this?” he demanded. Twenty fucking questions?” She hesitated at the anger in his voice.
“I just wanted to know.”
“Yes, all right? She had the baby and I have never seen it and she probably wouldn’t let me, even if I wanted to, which I don’t!” he slid his feet into his Italian suede slip-ons and picked up his jacket.
“Oh, Richard, why?”
“Look, just because you’ve always played happy families doesn’t mean that everyone else does, right? You don’t know what it’s like to have a father who couldn’t give a shit whether you lived or died, a father who’d kick you rather than say a kind word. I do,” he hissed.
“I know just what that’s like and I’ll tell you something, it turns you off the idea of having kids. I don’t want any fucking kids. I decided that a long time ago. That’s my choice. If you’re so fired up about a woman’s right to choose, why don’t you ever think about a man’s right to choose, eh?”
Jo said nothing, silent in the face of Richard’s fury and anger, an anger which had lived inside him for thirty-sever!
long years.
“All that feminist stuff about a woman’s body being her own, that all sounds great when it’s about women,” he continued angrily, ‘but let a man say what he really wants, and that’s different’. I don’t want kids. Simple as that. That’s my decision,” he hissed.
“I gave you the chance and you didn’t take it. So you do what you want. You will anyway.”
With that, he picked up his jacket and car keys and walked to the
“Call me a bastard or whatever you want, I’m sorry. It’s over.”
The front door slammed. She was alone.