Temporary Parents. SARA WOOD
was the sound of the ‘Open/Closed’ notice being turned around. Luke’s footsteps coming closer. His hand supporting her elbow.
‘Coffee and a chat, I think.’
He had such a warm brown, tender voice, as if he knew something of the trauma she contained so silently. He would make a willing listener, and she liked him enormously.
They cooked together in the bakery, shared the deliveries to swanky parties in Knightsbridge where the shop outlet was based and worked behind the counter as a happy and friendly team.
But she didn’t want to tell anyone. If she did, she might break up. That was the last thing she wanted, with Max on his way. She knew Luke would want some kind of explanation, though.
He shut the door which led into the office. There was the delicious smell of baking from the ovens beyond. He moved her bakery sneakers aside and pushed her into an armchair with the obvious intention of settling her down for a confidential heart-to-heart.
‘I know something’s wrong. You’re terrific with customers. You care. People respond to you. But kids are another matter. You clam up. So...what do you have against them?’
‘Nothing.’ She adored them. That was the trouble.
Her face crumpled and the first sob rushed up from her chest. Then Luke was kneeling beside her, holding her, patting her back, murmuring soothingly into her thick bob of black hair.
‘Oh, curses!’ She’d wanted to look wonderful when Max turned up. A kind of ‘look what you turned down’ defiance. To appear independent, successful, content and strong. Instead, she’d be bag-eyed and ready to cry at his first scathing remark. He’d be bound to condemn her and Fay for being push-overs. She’d be pathetic—too feeble to stand up to him.
‘Hush, hush,’ Luke said, consolingly.
It was a long time later before the unstoppable flood of tears dried up. Luke made her a strong, sweet coffee and then she plucked up courage and gave him a shortened version of her story.
‘I—I can’t have children, Luke—’ There was a considerable pause while she drank long and deep, forcing the coffee past the mass of whatever was trying to block her throat. ‘I adore them,’ she said in a small, unhappy voice. ‘It’s as simple as that. And my ex-boyfriend’s coming here lunchtime with some dreadful news about my sister.’
She found that she’d been squeezing Luke’s hand tightly, and eased her grip, leaving a red mark and the impression of her short nails in his palm.
So much passion in her! Who would ever guess? Laura Tremaine, dull and plain! Pint-sized, snub-nosed, with a skewed, enormous mouth. Overlooked because of her bubbly, beautiful and sexy sister but with a cauldron of emotion simmering beneath an apparently docile surface.
‘I think there’s much more to that story, but I won’t pry,’ Luke said shrewdly. ‘Go upstairs. Gather yourself together. When Max comes, I’ll send him up. I’ll be glued to the intercom in case you need me. Go on!’ he urged, when she hesitated.
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Selfish,’ he corrected. ‘You’re a damn good cook, Laura. I don’t want to lose you. We’ll come to some arrangement about the baby side of things—’
‘No. It won’t be a problem.’ She stood up, feeling a little better for her outburst. ‘I’m OK now. Honestly. And...thanks again. You’ve been very understanding.’
Luke opened the door to the shop and then paused. ‘Not surprising. I knew the signs. My wife can’t have kids either, you see.’
Laura went quite cold. Slowly her gaze swivelled to meet his and she recognised his sense of loss with immediate empathy. Only people who were denied children could ever know that desperate, almost frantic feeling of need. It was so fierce and uncontrollable that it could ruin the whole of your life and every relationship that ever came your way.
Max had changed her life totally. She was different—who she was, what she did, her friends, everything. Boyfriends had complained she didn’t give of herself. True. How could she, when she’d nothing to give ultimately?
She felt that her status as a woman had become flawed and inferior, like faulty goods. A hopeless sensation of inadequacy had grown inside her, swelling up and occupying every thought and action as if she had a phantom pregnancy. She knew she’d never get over it, however deep she tried to bury it. The sadness would stay with her for the rest of her life.
Thanks, Max.
And here was Luke, telling her his most personal secret. She held out her arms in silent sympathy, and Luke walked into them. There was nothing sexual about the gesture for either of them. Just two unhappy people linked by a poignant tragedy.
‘Glad I told you,’ she said, Luke’s soft jacket muffling her words.
‘Yup.’ He hugged her harder.
At some stage, someone began to bang on the street door. Although Luke’s bulk obscured her vision of the impatient customer, Laura realised they must be in full view.
‘Bang goes your reputation,’ she said, stepping back and producing a wry smile.
It wasn’t funny, but Luke laughed, releasing some of the emotional tension between them.
‘Sounds like Jasper’s come for his BMW! Upstairs now,’ he urged. ‘Put the slap on. Don’t let Max get under your skin. Stick it out. Some time...you might like to meet my wife. You’ll like her.’
He gave a sentimental, dreamy smile and Laura wondered if she would ever find a man who loved her unconditionally.
‘Thanks.’
Laura touched his chest in an affectionate gesture, and ran up the narrow stairs to her bedsit, wishing her legs weren’t shaking so much. She was dreading this meeting.
Her arrival was greeted noisily by Fred. Her face softened and she went over to the free-standing perch by the window.
‘Hi, Fred, darling!’ she murmured, affectionately tickling his stubbly head. He nuzzled up and made ecstatic clicks with his beak. ‘Got to dash,’ she told him reluctantly, and glanced at her watch.
Laura groaned. A thousand butterflies took off in her stomach and began a pitched battle. It was nearly her lunch hour already! Max would be here at one. He was brutally punctual. Where had the time gone?
She whirled and inspected herself in the dressing-table mirror. She looked awful. Rumpled and crumpled with red-rimmed eyes and a blotchy face—and her hair flicking out in all directions and looking as if she’d spent the morning having it whipped up by the dough mixer.
As for her dress... It wasn’t flattering at all. Wondering exactly what was suitable for meeting an ex-lover with a confession to make, she quickly slipped the simple grey jersey down to the floor and stepped out of it, mentally running through the limited choice in her wardrobe.
Something smart. Severe. That would help to keep her nerves together. She was a firm believer that clothes could alter moods.
The shoes were fine. High, as she always liked them, giving her a feeling of authority and efficiency. And altitude. And they bolstered her confidence when dealing with the well-off, well-bred clientele.
Since Max was just on six feet and towered over her, she’d need both confidence and height or he’d be constantly looking down his nose at her. She’d keep them on.
Help! A quarter to one! She felt weak with apprehension. Better hurry. Get the face sorted. The more barriers, the better.
She sped into the bathroom as fast as her smart shoes would allow, feeling chilly in just her chainstore bra, briefs, suspender belt and stockings. Frantically she turned on the cold tap and gasped aloud with shock as she splashed water over her swollen face—and accidentally flung some at her chest, too.
Somewhere in the background, Fred squawked. Probably