The Pregnant Tycoon. Caroline Anderson

shook his head. ‘Only short-term and then it was all down to the Macmillan nurses and ultimately the hospice. It was agony to watch.’

      Izzy could hardly imagine it. ‘Did the children know?’ she asked, thinking of the bright, bubbly young things who’d burst in on them just a few minutes earlier and chattered about coffins, of all things, and he nodded.

      ‘Yes. Eventually. We told them she was sick, and then when it was inevitable and the end wasn’t far away, we told them she was dying. She made them scrapbooks—snippets of herself for them to keep, memories they’d shared, things they’d want to know about themselves that only she could tell them. Some of it will only make sense to them when they’re older, of course—things about their births, philosophical stuff about being a mother and what it meant to her—but lots of it was very ordinary and just things she’d treasured about them.’

      Something splashed on Izzy’s hand, and she blinked and swallowed. Tears. Tears for Julia, who’d always wanted to save the world, and for the children—and for Will, his voice quiet and thoughtful, telling her about Julia’s last days. He had loved her, she realised with shock. Really, genuinely loved her. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but now she did.

      She blinked again, squeezing the tears from her eyes and letting them fall, and then he made a soft, clucking noise with his tongue and handed her another fistful of kitchen roll.

      She sniffed, scrubbing her nose with the tissue. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just all so sudden. I mean—I didn’t even know until last night, and now, talking to you like this—it’s all so real.’

      ‘It seems light years ago,’ he said gruffly. ‘We move on. Time heals, Izzy. The kids don’t stop growing just because their mother’s died, and they’ve dragged me with them. I’ve had to cope because of them, and we’ve got through it together. It’s been very positive in a lot of ways.’

      ‘And all I’ve done is make rich people even richer and rescue reputations that probably didn’t deserve rescuing, and acquire some of their wealth along the way. My God.’

      Her voice sounded hollow, and it seemed appropriate. That was how she felt inside—hollow and empty and worthless.

      ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ she said, the tears welling again, and then his arms were round her again—again!—and he was cradling her against his body, standing in front of her so her cheek was pressed against his board-flat abdomen, just above his belt, the buckle cold against her chin.

      ‘Don’t be silly,’ he murmured gruffly. ‘Of course you should be here. It’s lovely to see you, Izzy. It’s been too long.’

      It had, she thought sadly. Much too long. So much too long that it was years too late.

      Too late for what?

      She didn’t want to think about it—not with his belt buckle pressing into her chin and his arms around her and the solid beat of his heart sounding through that wall of muscle. And then his stomach rumbled, deafening her, and she laughed a little unevenly and eased away.

      ‘You sound hungry.’

      He laughed with her, propping himself on the edge of the table just in front of her and staring down into her eyes. ‘I am. I missed breakfast—and, come to think of it, I don’t know if I ate last night. I missed the food at the party. Come on, we’ll go over to the café. Mum’ll feed us.’

      ‘In the café?’

      ‘Mmm—the Old Crock. That’s what she calls herself, and it seemed like a bit of fun to call the café the same thing. She runs it—and the farm shop. Dad’s in charge of Valley Timber and the willow business.’

      ‘The climbing frame and the tree house and the coffin,’ she said, remembering Michael’s words, and she wondered uneasily where Julia was buried. The churchyard, probably, since her father had been the vicar. She’d have to ask him some time—but not now. Now she’d heard and seen enough, and she needed time out to absorb it all and put it into place in her head. And her heart.

      ‘He makes more than coffins. He broke his leg and was in hospital, and he did basket weaving for occupational therapy. He loved it, but it was a bit time-consuming and not really cost-effective, and then he discovered willow hurdles. It’s all come from there, really. But it’s not just him; there are lots of people working for him, many of them disabled. It’s a thriving business and it puts something back into the community, and we’re all really proud of it. Come on. I’ll show you round after we’ve eaten.’

      He held out a hand, large and strong and callused, so different from the soft city hands she was used to, and pulled her to her feet.

      ‘It’s changed so much,’ she said as they went out into the yard and she looked again at all the new enterprises.

      ‘Not really. Not in the ways that matter. It’s still home.’

      Home. Could he have found a word more calculated to tear a hole in her heart? She thought of her apartment, high up in the polluted air above London’s Docklands, with the deli and coffee shop and restaurant just inside the entrance, the health complex in the basement, the home shopping service, the weekly delivery of organic vegetables in a box to her kitchen, the concierge to run errands and fix stuff that went wrong—was that home?

      A cow mooed, and under the bushes just in front of them chickens were scratching in the leaves.

      No, she thought. Not home. This is home.

      But not yours. Never yours.

      ‘You’re lucky,’ she said to him, suddenly choked again. ‘To live here, surrounded by all this.’

      ‘I know,’ he said softly, and she could see the pride and the affection in his face. Then he turned to her and grinned. ‘Come on, come and see Mum. She’ll be delighted to see you again. She loved you.’

      You loved me. Or I thought you loved me. I loved you—

      ‘I’ll be delighted to see her again, as well. She’s a darling,’ Izzy said firmly, and, straightening up, she threw back her shoulders and headed across the yard beside Will.