The Greek and the Single Mum. Julia James

she had worked up an appetite. However, she was very cautious about what she drank—her single glass of wine was still half full, and she was only taking tiny sips from it. She hadn’t made a big deal out of it, and Xander hadn’t remarked on it. Usually she drank a glass of white, and then red, and sometimes had a small liqueur afterwards, while he nursed a brandy. Tonight she would make do with coffee only.

      Her mind, she found, was running on. She would need to buy a good comprehensive manual, she knew, and start finding out everything that was going to be in store for her now. It was such a complicated, overwhelming process, with her body and her psyche going through such profound changes. Physically, she felt wonderful—except for that distinct reluctance to eat first thing—but that might well change, she knew, over the coming months.

      Another wave of unease went through her. Her figure would change totally, obviously, and what would Xander think? She’d always been so slim, so slender. How would he take the swelling of her body? Well, she would cope with it when the time came. It was only in the last trimester that the weight really piled on, and until then, if she kept fit, as she obviously must now, she should not look too bad. Her eyes softened. Xander might actually find her roundedness appealing…

      Again, hope pierced her.

      The meal continued, with both of them refusing dessert, and Xander ordering coffee and liqueurs.

      ‘Just coffee for me, please.’ Clare smiled at the waiter.

      She felt Xander’s eyes flicker over her a moment. Then it was gone again.

      The coffee arrived, with his customary cognac, and the waiter departed again. The restaurant was thinning out now, the hushed voices more subdued. She watched as Xander cradled his glass in his long fingers and swirled it absently, his eyes going to the slow coil of topaz liquid within.

      She felt her pulse quicken and took a breath. Now she must tell him. It was the right moment. She must not put it off. Nothing would be gained by doing so. Yet for an instant she desperately did not want to say anything! Wanted to put it off, procrastinate, delay what she must tell him.

      She opened her mouth, his name forming on her lips.

      ‘Clare.’

      His voice came before hers. Her name. Clipped, pronounced.

      Slowly her mouth closed, and she looked at him. Inside, emotions warred. One was dismay that he had spoken just as she was going to—but the other was sneaking and sly. She didn’t have to tell him just yet…

      Her eyes rested on him expectantly, waiting for him to continue. But there was a hesitation about him—something she was not used to seeing.

      ‘Yes?’ she prompted. Her voice was cool, composed, the way it always was—except in the throes of passion, when she cried out his name in ecstasy. ‘What is it?’

      Something shadowed in his eyes, and was gone. He swirled the brandy once more, then lifted it to his mouth and took a slow mouthful, lowering the glass. The air of preoccupation had vanished. There was a set in his shoulders, a tightening in his jaw. She looked at him, wondering what he was going to say to her. Wondering, far more anxiously, whether it would mean that telling him her news now would be delayed beyond this evening.

      For a second longer he was silent. Then his eyes went to hers. There was no expression in them.

      ‘I’ve met someone else. In New York.’

      She heard the words. They were flatly spoken, his accent hardly showing. For a strange, dissociated moment she did not understand them.

      Then he was talking again.

      ‘There’s never a pleasant way of doing this, but I wanted you to know how very much I’ve appreciated you over these last months. But it is now…’ Did he hesitate again, just for a fraction of a fraction of a second? She could not tell, was blind and deaf to everything. ‘Over,’ he said, breathing out with a short, decisive breath.

      She was sitting there. Just sitting there. Everything around her seemed to have gone into immense slow motion. As if it was not there. Was not there at all.

      Her heart rate had slowed. She could feel it, slowing down like a motor running out of motion. Everything stilled inside her, around her, in the whole universe.

      Her face did not move. That had stopped as well. Nor did her eyes. They were still looking at him. Just looking at him.

      His eyes had a veiled look to them, and she could see his lips press together, as if in irritation. And as she went on just looking at him, because everything in the entire universe had just stopped, the line of irritation strengthened.

      Then, abruptly, it was gone. He was moving, sliding his hand into his jacket pocket and gliding out a long, slim case. He placed it in front of her with a precise movement.

      ‘As I said—’ his voice still had that strange clipped quality to it ‘—I’ve appreciated you very much, and this is a token of that appreciation.’

      Slowly, very slowly, as if there were lead weights on them, she pulled her eyes down to the slim jeweller’s case in front of her, beside her coffee cup. Slowly she lifted her hands and opened the case. A long line of white fire glinted at her.

      Diamonds, she thought. These are diamonds. A diamond necklace. For me.

      He was talking again. His words came and went. She could hear snatches, as if through a thick, impenetrable fog.

      ‘Naturally I don’t want you to have any immediate concerns about accommodation. So I’ve taken an apartment for you, which is yours for the next month. That should give you ample time to make alternative arrangements—’

      The words were coming and going, coming and going…

      In strange, dissociated slow motion, she felt herself stand up.

      ‘Clare?’ His words had broken off. Her name came sharply.

      ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’ she said. Her eyes drifted to his. He seemed very far away. As far away as a distant star.

      She felt for her handbag and walked away from the table. It was the strangest feeling—feeling nothing. That was what was so strange about it. Walking through a fog of nothingness.

      She found the Ladies’ and went inside. There was no one else there. For a moment she just looked at herself in the mirror above the row of gleaming basins.

      She was still there. That was odd. She’d thought she had gone. That everything had gone.

      But she was still there.

      She blinked a moment. Her fingers closed around her clutch bag. For one moment longer she just looked at herself in the mirror. There was the faintest scent of lilies in the air, from the massive bouquet that adorned one of the vanity units to the side.

      A sudden, hideous spurt of nausea leapt in her throat.

      She turned on her heel.

      The door swung open in her hand, and she was in the carpeted corridor outside. To her left was the way back to the restaurant. To her right the corridor led to a side entrance to the hotel that opened into a quiet street off the main West End thoroughfare the St John was situated on.

      Her feet walked to the street door. It swung open at her touch.

      Outside, on the pavement, the night air should have felt chill. But she did not feel it. She did not feel anything.

      She started to walk.