Second Chance - Jane Green [88]
And if they are not partners, if they are not friends, if they are not lovers – although she does have sex, reluctantly, when she has to, when Marcus refuses to take no for an answer – then what are they?
And what, after all, could possibly be the point?
Olivia stands in line at Boots and clutches the pregnancy test to her chest. She’s convinced someone she knows is going to walk in and see her, convinced someone will catch her in this miserable, awful situation – a situation that she already knows can lead to only one possible outcome.
This test is merely a formality.
She hadn’t used protection, hadn’t known quite how to bring it up. Being in a relationship for seven years, she had forgotten the rules, forgotten how to play them. Plus she had been on the pill with George, never had to think about contraception. And somehow bringing up condoms at the point of entry hadn’t seemed quite, well, appropriate.
And it had been the day after her period ended so she’d been pretty damn sure it would be fine. Who gets pregnant on day eight, for heaven’s sake? A physical impossibility, surely…
But she now knows that it’s not. Heading home with a sinking heart, she pees on the stick and attempts to read a magazine for a minute while she waits for the test to take hold, but she can wait only a few seconds, and already, as she stares, she sees the beginning of a blue line.
Oh God. Please let this be a mistake. Please let this be a false positive, let there be such a thing. She rips the other packet open, pees on the stick and, again, there it is. No doubt about it. Olivia, who has never wanted children, who is single and doesn’t have enough money to raise a child even if she wanted to, is pregnant. There it is in blue and white. Undeniable.
With child.
Chapter Nineteen
Saffron reaches for the phone, bleary-eyed, knocks it out of the cradle, curses as she reaches down by the side of the bed and finally finds it.
‘Hello?’ She is still half asleep, and half opens one eye to see the time flickering on the digital clock on her bedside table. Five thirty-six. Who in the hell is calling at this ungodly hour of the morning?
‘Saffron Armitage?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m calling from the National Enquirer. We’re running a story in the next edition about your affair with Pearce Webster and wondered if you’d like to make a comment.’
‘What?’ Saffron sits bolt upright in bed and shrieks, then slams down the phone, shaking.
The phone rings again seconds later.
‘Hello, this is Jonathan Baker from E! Online. We’ll be running a story on this morning’s edition about your relationship with Pearce Webster. Would you give us a…’
Saffron slams down the phone again and huddles in bed, under the covers, as the phone rings. And rings.
And rings.
Each time she hears the machine pick up and journalists leaving messages, and then, horrifyingly, ten minutes later her doorbell rings. She gingerly opens one wooden slat of her blinds and gasps in horror as she sees news crews parked all the way up her street, journalists huddled together with microphones tucked under their arms, drinking Starbucks, waiting for her to emerge.
‘Oh fuck,’ she whispers, sinking into a corner of the room and rocking back and forth. She grabs her mobile phone and dials the only person she can think of to get her out of this mess.
P.
‘Do you know how lucky I am to have a husband who is like you?’ Anna opens her arms as Paul carefully sets her tea down on the bedside table, then sinks into her, planting a great, squashy kiss on her lips.
‘And do you know how lucky I am to have you?’ he says, turning his head to lick the marmalade off his fingers.
‘So, oh lucky man of mine, how do you feel about White Barn Fields?’ Anna has been lying in bed waiting for Paul to come home with fresh croissants and the Sunday papers, entertaining thoughts of how they could do up the house using the little money they have left.
‘You’re thinking it