It Happened In Paradise. Nicola Marsh

I went looking for someone who would,’ she said. ‘Just one more poor little rich girl looking for someone who’d hold her and tell her that he loved her. Totally pathetic.’

      Just how dumb could a girl get?

      ‘You were what? Eighteen?’ he guessed. ‘I don’t suppose you found it difficult.’

      ‘No. It wasn’t finding someone that was difficult. There were someones positively lining up to help me out. Finding them wasn’t the problem. Keeping them was something else.’ Looking back with the crystal clear vision of hindsight, it was easy to see why. ‘Needy, clinging women desperate for love frighten men to death.’

      ‘We’re a pitiful bunch.’

      She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t their fault. They were young, looking for some lighthearted fun. Sex without strings.’

      Something she hadn’t understood at the time. And when, finally, it had been made clear to her, it had broken her.

      ‘I think you’re being a little harsh on yourself.’

      ‘Am I?’ She heard the longing in her voice and dismissed it. ‘I don’t think so.’

      ‘There’s no such thing as sex without strings, especially for women.’

      ‘You’re referring to that old thing about men giving love for sex, women giving sex for love, no doubt.’

      ‘I’m not sure anything as complex as the relationship between a man and woman can ever be reduced to a sound bite,’ he said.

      ‘It can when you’ve just taken your finals and the world beckons. No young man with the world at his feet wants to be saddled with a baby.’

      ‘You were pregnant?’ That stopped him. She’d known it would.

      ‘My last throw of the dice. I thought if I had his baby a man wouldn’t ever be able to leave me. Stupid. Unfair. Irresponsible beyond belief.’

      ‘People do crazy things when they’re unhappy,’ he said.

      ‘No excuses, Nick. Using a child…’ She shrugged. ‘Of course he insisted I terminate the pregnancy and, well, I’ve already told you that I’d have done anything…’

      ‘Where is this child now?’

      ‘You’re assuming I didn’t go ahead with it.’ How generous of him. How undeserved…

      ‘Are you saying you did?’

      They were lying quite still but when, beside her, Nick Jago stopped breathing, it felt as if the world had stopped.

      ‘My punishment,’ Manda said, at last, ‘is not knowing. I was standing at the kerb, looking across the road to the clinic, when I collapsed in agony in front of a car and matters were taken out of my hands.’

      And with that everything started again. His breathing, her heart…

      ‘You lost the baby?’

      ‘Not because of the accident. The driver saved my life twice over that day. First stopping his car. Then realising that there was something seriously wrong and calling an ambulance.’

      ‘You were in that much pain? Was it an ectopic pregnancy?’

      She nodded. ‘By the time Ivo made it back from wherever he was, I was home and it was over. A minor traffic accident. Nothing to make a fuss over.’

      ‘You never told him? You lost your baby and you never told him?’

      ‘He already had the world on his shoulders. He didn’t need me as well. And I was so ashamed…’

      ‘You didn’t do anything.’

      ‘I thought about it, Jago. I was so desperate…’

      He muttered something beneath his breath, then said, ‘And this man who could demand such a thing? Where was he when all this was happening?’

      ‘Keeping his fingers crossed that I’d go through with it?’ she offered. Then, with a shrug, ‘No, that’s unfair. He came rushing to the hospital to make sure I was okay, but I couldn’t bear to look at him any more. Couldn’t bear to see his relief. Face what I’d done.’

      ‘You hadn’t done anything,’ Jago said, reaching for her, taking her into his arms in that eternal gesture of comfort.

      Did he think she would cry again? Before, her tears had been of relief. A normal, human reaction. But this was different. She had no more tears to cry for herself…

      ‘You would never have gone through with it,’ he said, holding her close. And he kept on saying it. Telling her that it was not her fault, that she shouldn’t blame herself. Saying over and over, that she would not have rejected her own baby.

      This was the absolution she’d dreamed of. And why she’d never told anyone.

      She didn’t deserve such comfort. It had been no one’s fault but her own that she’d been pregnant. It was her burden. Her loss. And she pulled away.

      ‘How did you guess it was ectopic?’ she asked. How many men knew what an ectopic pregnancy was, without it being explained in words of one syllable?

      ‘My grandfather was a doctor, wanted me to follow in his footsteps and maybe I would have, if I hadn’t been taken to Egypt at an early age…’ For a moment he drifted off somewhere else, to a memory of his own. Happier times with his family, no doubt. Then, shaking it off, he said, ‘I remember him talking about a patient of his who’d nearly died. Describing the symptoms. He said the pain was indescribable.’

      It wasn’t the pain that she remembered. It was the emptiness afterwards, the lack of feeling that never ceased…

      ‘What happened to you, Miranda? Afterwards.’

      ‘The next logical step, I suppose. My parents, my boyfriend, even my baby had rejected me. All that was left was to reject myself so I stopped eating.’ Then, because she didn’t want to think about that, because she wanted to hear about Egypt and Jago as an impressionable boy, however unlikely that seemed, she said, ‘What about you?’

      ‘Manda…’

      ‘No. Enough about me. I want to hear about you,’ she insisted, telling herself that his use of the diminutive had been nothing more than a slip. It meant nothing…

      ‘In Egypt?’ he asked.

      Yes… No… Egypt was a distraction and she refused to be distracted.

      ‘When you walked away from your family,’ she said.

      She felt the movement of muscle, more jerk than shrug, as if she’d taken him unawares. The slight catch in his breathing as if he’d jolted some pain into life. Physical? Or deeper?

      Then, realising that she was transferring her own mental pain on to him, that it had to be physical, she sat up. ‘You are hurt!’

      ‘It’s nothing. Lie back.’ And, when she hesitated, ‘Honestly. Just a pulled muscle. It needs warmth and you make a most acceptable hot-water bottle.’

      ‘Would that be “Dr” Jago talking?’

      ‘I don’t think you need to be a doctor to know that.’

      ‘I guess not.’ And, since warmth was all she had to offer, she eased gently back against him, taking care not to jar his shoulder.

      ‘Is that okay?’

      ‘Fine,’ he said, tightening his arm around her waist so that she felt as if she was a perfect fit against him.

      Too perfect.

      ‘So?’ she said, returning to her question, determined not to get caught, dragged down by the sexual undertow of their closeness, a totally unexpected—totally unwanted—off limits desire that was nothing more than a response to fear.