This Could Change Everything(68)

Back in the safety of the van, Conor finally allowed himself to burst out laughing.

‘You could have told me,’ Scarlett grumbled, angling the rear-view mirror so she could see her reflection. Flinching at the sight of herself, she wailed, ‘Oh God, no wonder she thought I was a drug-addicted punk.’

‘It genuinely didn’t occur to me,’ said Conor. ‘I knew what you’d been through, so I just didn’t think how you’d look to them.’

It was the truth. There were still twigs and dead leaves caught up in Scarlett’s spiky purple hair, and the snow had melted her mascara pretty dramatically around her eyes. There were fronds of pondweed stuck to the knees of her muddy, blood-stained pink jeans, and the filthy, far-too-big wellies provided the finishing touch.

Scarlett said, ‘Well that makes you a moron, then. Oh, don’t you dare . . .’ Having spotted the phone in his hand, she held up her arm to warn him off.

‘Just one photo,’ said Conor.

‘Looking like this? No way!’

‘Looking like someone who searched for an injured cat and managed to rescue it. If you hadn’t, it might have bled to death by now.’

‘I’m amazed it didn’t take one look at me and drop dead with fright. Oh you bastard!’ Scarlett had dropped her arm, and he’d taken a quick snap.

‘Now smile,’ said Conor. ‘Without pouting.’

Despite her best efforts, she broke into a reluctant grin and raised her middle finger as the shutter clicked again.

‘Perfect,’ said Conor.

‘You can go off people, you know,’ Scarlett told him.

His phone rang and he answered it. ‘Hi, you’ll never guess—’

‘For goodness’ sake, where are you?’ Belinda sounded aggrieved. ‘You promised you’d be here by five o’clock. You’re late.’





Chapter 32


‘Beetroot.’

‘Beetroot,’ echoed Lucas. ‘I didn’t know you liked beetroot.’

‘I don’t.’ Sitting up in bed, Giselle pulled a face. ‘I mean, I didn’t before. But I want some now, more than anything. Out of a jar. And it has to be the crinkle-cut slices in sweet vinegar.’

Lucas nodded. ‘OK.’

‘And piccalilli. The kind with the big crunchy bits of vegetable.’

‘Fine. And is there anything you want to eat it with?’

He’d meant crusty white bread, or even chips. Giselle nodded vigorously. ‘A spoon.’

‘This is so weird,’ said Lucas.

‘I know!’

‘Will it make you feel better?’

‘I have no idea, I just know I have to eat it now.’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘Then I’ll probably be sick afterwards. But that’s just how it goes. If you’re too busy to get them, it’s fine, I’ll go to the shop myself—’

‘I’ll get them, I’ll get them now,’ Lucas said hastily, because Giselle was throwing back the duvet, her eyes suddenly swimming.

‘Sorry.’ She pulled the covers back over her and soaked up the unshed tears with a tissue. ‘I’m driving you nuts, aren’t I? I’m driving myself nuts. Please don’t hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you. It’s just your hormones.’ She’d reached the three-month stage now, and over the space of the last few weeks, her anxieties and mood swings had taken them both by surprise. But that was apparently par for the course and would settle down in time, along with the bizarre pregnancy cravings.

‘I love you.’ She gazed up at him.

‘I love you too.’ If he said it often enough, it would become true.

‘And some Marmite crisps,’ she called after him as he left the flat. ‘And don’t forget to phone your mother.’

‘Right.’ His heart sank further still at the reminder.

‘And a coffee doughnut,’ bellowed Giselle.

Outside, Lucas decided to get the call out of the way. It was almost midday, which he’d learned from long experience was about the best time to do the deed. Not that any time could be called good, but it was one of those things that had to be done, even if she never seemed to want to hear from him.

The sun was out and the square was relatively empty. Sitting down on an unoccupied bench, he dialled his mother’s number and waited for her to pick up. As it rang, he imagined the scene at the other end and, as always, braced himself for the worst.

‘Hello?’

‘Mum? Hi. How are you?’

He heard the inevitable intake of breath, as if the sound of his voice had caught her off guard.

‘Lucas, hello. I’m very well, thank you. Everything OK with you?’

‘All fine. We’re both fine, me and Giselle. She’d like to meet you, Mum. We were thinking of coming up to see you next weekend, or whenever would suit you . . .’ He could sense the increasing tension at the other end of the phone, knew already what the answer would be.

‘Oh Lucas, I don’t think so. I mean, I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, but she doesn’t need to meet me. Maybe another time . . . not just now, though. I’m not up to having visitors . . . sorry!’

‘You’d like her, Mum.’