With Love From Cape Town. Joss Wood

the look in Richard’s eyes—he had pinned his prey, now he was going to finish her off. Niall groaned aloud. He’d had a bad feeling about this appearance all along. He should have listened to his gut and tried to talk her out of it.

      But it seemed once more he had underestimated his wife. She smiled. ‘Yes, I can see why you might think there is a conflict of interests. But I can assure you, my husband makes no personal profit from his private work. He uses any income from fee-paying patients to subsidise those who can’t afford it and who aren’t eligible for treatment on the NHS. Any funding left over goes to research. I’m sure you know that he is a world leader in this area? His research has involved looking at taking ovarian tissue from teenage girls with cancer prior to treatment. This may be the only way these young women will be able to have children. Before, it was an impossibility, now there is hope. His research also involves polycystic ovary syndrome, one of the main causes of infertility but also a factor in significantly increasing morbidity in this group of women.’

      Niall sat bolt upright. How did she know all this? Not about his reputation, that was why she had sought him out back when they had met, but about him not taking any profit from the business? Just as she hadn’t shared her finances with him, neither had he felt the need to share his with her. She must have winkled the information out of Lucinda, he guessed. Part of her journalistic training. That would teach him to underestimate his wife.

      ‘I should also tell you that my husband takes none of the profit from any new treatments his research generates. He believes that new discoveries in science shouldn’t belong to an individual but to society as a whole.’

      Could he be hearing right? Niall thought, growing more surprised by the minute. But was that pride he heard in her voice?

      Applause broke out from the audience. Robina had clearly disconcerted Richard. Her response not what the presenter had expected.

      ‘Oh? But you live an affluent lifestyle, don’t you? A large house in one of the more expensive parts of Edinburgh, a couple of flash cars, holidays abroad.’

      ‘I have explained my finances as far as I’m prepared to,’ Robina replied coolly. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to ask you publicly about yours.’ She arched an eyebrow at Richard. Once more Niall felt like cheering. Obviously she knew something about Richard that wasn’t in the public domain. Once again, it seemed that she had put her investigative skills to good use.

      ‘Returning to your documentary for a moment,’ Richard continued. Although the famous smile was still fixed to his face, the strain was beginning to show. ‘Do you really think that you can empathise with the women appearing in your documentary? What would you know about the pain they are going through?’

      Niall caught his breath. This was different, much more dangerous. Ella who, since his outburst, had been watching quietly, eyes fixed to the screen, looked up at her father.

      ‘What is it, Daddy? What did that man say to make you angry?’

      Niall put his finger to her lips. ‘Not now, darling.’ He could hardly bear to watch as he saw the emotions flit across his wife’s face. He saw shock, pain and confusion. It seemed, like Niall, she had realised that Richard knew about the miscarriage. The presenter was too clever to ask her outright, knowing that she would wonder how he had found out. Apart from the hospital staff involved in her care, only Robina, her mother and he knew. But clearly there had been a breach of confidentiality somewhere.

      For a long moment Robina sat in silence and Niall wanted to put his hand through the TV screen and strangle Richard Christchurch. But then she sat up straight and slowly crossed one leg over another, only the tell-tale nibbling of her lower lip indicating to Niall how anxious she was.

      ‘I can empathise,’ she said slowly, ‘because following a miscarriage a few months ago, which resulted in an infection, the likelihood is that I too am infertile.’ Her eyes shimmered and she blinked furiously.

      Niall could only guess at the strength it had taken her to say the words live on TV. Especially when she had been unable to even talk to him about it. Hadn’t talked to anyone as far as he knew, except perhaps for her mother, but he didn’t even know that for certain.

      Richard’s jaw dropped, her response apparently not what he was expecting, or hoping for.

      ‘I am sorry,’ he said insincerely. ‘I had no idea.’

      ‘It’s not really something that has come up,’ Robina said quietly. ‘Obviously it is not a secret, but neither is it something I have spoken about in public before. But I think you would agree that I am well placed to be doing the documentary.’

      She turned and looked directly into the camera, raising her chin. ‘When my show returns, we will be covering miscarriage. I ask anyone who has gone through this and wishes to share their experiences on TV to get in touch with the producers of my show. But for you out there, for whom it is all still too raw, you are in my thoughts and my prayers.’ She blinked rapidly once or twice. Niall knew that anyone else would have let the tears fall, letting their public know that they too were human. But not his Robina. She could never pretend in public what she could barely allow herself to feel in private, and he admired her for it. But at the same time he wondered what keeping it all inside was costing her.

      After Ella was in bed, Niall poured himself a whisky, stoked the fire and waited for his wife to come home.

      He looked around the small sitting room she had made her own and felt a wave of sadness wash over him.

      The cosy room was still exactly how it had been when Mairead had been alive except for one item; a small, intricately carved African stool Robina had brought with her.

      It hit him like a sledgehammer. He’d never really thought about it before, but what had it been like for her to live here surrounded by his first wife’s belongings and her taste in furnishings? Although he liked the little room with its plain white sofas, elegant furnishings and pale walls, it wasn’t Robina’s taste. He knew enough about his wife to know she preferred richer, more vibrant colours, abstract paintings instead of landscapes. In fact, her taste couldn’t be further from his first wife’s.

      Picking up his whisky, he started pacing. What a blind, stubborn fool he had been. Why hadn’t he realised what it must have been like for Robina? To come to a strange country, to live in the house he had once shared with his wife, to look after her child? He had been only too glad to know that Ella had someone who loved her, but if he were honest with himself he had been resentful of the way Robina’s career had got in the way of the life he had thought they had mapped out. He had treated her as if she were some kind of replacement for his first wife. Not a woman in her own right with her own needs and desires. Stupidly he had thought that their love for one another was enough. Seeing her on TV just now had removed the last vestige of self-delusion from his eyes. She was lonely and lost and he had failed her when she had needed him the most. He had refused to see how much living Mairead’s life had eaten away at her confidence. They had married without really knowing each other, and again that had been his fault. Having fallen deeply in love with her, he hadn’t been able to bear her living several thousands of miles away, and had persuaded her to marry him, although they had barely known each other. And she had unquestioningly uprooted herself from everything she had known and loved to live with him and his daughter in Scotland.

      And she had mentioned the miscarriage. Publicly. What strength that must have taken when she couldn’t even talk to him about it. Did that mean she was beginning to come to terms with it at last?

      He drained his whisky. Somehow he needed to win his wife back, make her believe he loved her and only her. Make her understand that he could no more live without her than cut off his right arm. It was probably too late, he thought miserably, but he was going to try. Damn it! He was going to do more than try. Suddenly inspiration hit him. He had a plan. All it would take would be patience.

       Chapter Seven

      ‘DADDY