The Peacock Emporium(134)

I didn’t laugh so much once it got really painful. Then I chewed on the mouthpiece for the gas and air, and shouted, betrayed that no one had warned me it could feel like this. I don’t remember the last part; it became a blur, of pain and sweat and hands and encouraging voices urging me in the dim light to bear down, to go on, telling me that I could do it.

But I knew I could do it. In spite of the pain, and the strange, shocking sensation that heralded the birth, I didn’t need their encouragement. I knew I could push that baby out. Even if there had been no one there but me. And as I stared down my naked torso in our final minutes as one, my hands white-knuckled as they gripped the sheets, she slid out with something of the same determination, the same confidence in her own abilities, her arms already raised as if in victory.

He was there to meet her. I don’t know how, I don’t think I had seen him move. I had made him promise beforehand that he wouldn’t stand there, that he would not spoil his romantic view of me. He had laughed, and told me I was ridiculous. So he was there when she breathed her first in this world, and even in the dim light I could see tears glistening on his cheeks, as he cut the cord and lifted her, holding her up to the candlelight so that I could see her, believe in her too.

And the midwife stood back while he held her, kissing her face tenderly, wiped the blood from her limbs, her dark hair, all the while crooning a love song I didn’t understand. He said her name, the name we had agreed: Veronica de Marenas. And, as if by magic, the lights began to go on again, illuminating the city, district by district, thrusting the quiet streets back into light.

As that woman cleaned me up, both brusque and tender, I watched my husband and my daughter move around the little room, their faces lit by candles, and finally began to cry. I don’t know why: exhaustion, perhaps, or the emotion of it all. Disbelief that I could produce this perfect, beautiful little girl from my own body, that I could be the unwitting creator of such joy.

“Don’t cry, amor,” Alejandro said, beside me, his own voice still choked with tears. He had moved to the side of the bed. Hesitating, he gazed at her, then leaned over and handed her gently to me. Even as his eyes filled with love, his hands moved slowly, as if he was reluctant to let go. And as she looked up at us, blinking in that wise, unknowing way, he hugged me close to him, so that we were all enclosed in a single embrace. “There is nothing to cry for. She will be loved.”

His words cut through everything then, leaving no dark corners, as they do still.

She will be loved.





Acknowledgments


I would like to thank Sophie Green and Jacquie Bounsall, who, while being nothing like my lead characters, did, together with Sophie’s shop, Blooming Mad Sophie Green, provide me with the inspiration for The Peacock Emporium. And to all the customers whose individual stories, snippets of gossip, scandals, and jokes helped shape this book. I am still amazed by what people will tell you if you stand behind a till long enough . . .

A huge thanks to everyone at Hodder & Stoughton for their continuing support and enthusiasm, with special thanks to Carolyn Mays, Jamie Hodder-Williams, Emma Longhurst, and Alex Bonham, as well as Hazel Orme. Thanks also to everyone at Pamela Dorman Books/Viking and Penguin in the US.

Thanks to Sheila Crowley and Jo Frank, whose agenting skills bookended this book, as well as Vicky Longley and Linda Shaughnessy at AP Watt. Thanks to Brian Sanders for his fishing wisdom, Cathy Runciman for her knowledge of Argentina. To Jill and John Armstrong, for space to work away from overflowing laundry baskets, and James and Di Potter for their knowledge of animal husbandry and agriculture. Thanks also to Julia Carmichael and the staff of Harts in Saffron Walden for their support, and to Hannah Collins for Ben, the best work avoidance ever.

A belated thank-you to Grant McKee and Jill Turton, who first got me into print: I’m sorry I sold your car.

Apologies and thanks also to Saskia, Harry, and Lockie, who now understand that when Mummy talks to herself and occasionally forgets to make supper she is not displaying early signs of madness but actually paying the mortgage.

And most of all to Charles, who puts up with me periodically falling in love with my male leads and now knows so much about the process of writing novels that he might as well publish his own. For everything else. XX