She ran herself a bath, eating the biscuits in the meantime, and after undressing lay in the warm soapy water drinking the hot milk with her eyes shut, until a pair of tiny feet reminded her she was guilty of neglect.
'Hello, Sweet-pea.' It had become a habit to talk to the baby when she was alone, and now she watched, fascinated, as her belly answered, protruding then subsiding several times. 'Are you a boy or a girl, Sweet-pea?' she asked softly. 'Not that it matters. You're strong, that's the main thing, and you'll be beautiful to me whatever sex you are or whatever you look like.'
The tears were hot and scalding and they surprised her because she didn't really know why she was crying—she had hardly ever cried in her life before she was pregnant and now she didn't seem to be able to stop. She wasn't sure if she was crying for the baby who would have to make do with her most of the time as mother and father, or Zac—the ten-year old Zac who had wrenched her heart, and the man himself who tied her up in knots every time they met.
Or perhaps her tears were for her mother, who had never known the bitter-sweet joy she was experiencing now in spite of she and Zac being parted, and who would still miss out on the wonder of grandmotherhood. Not for Coral a warm, baby-scented little bundle snuggling into her neck and a downy head against her chin—her mother would never know or understand the sheer thrill she was feeling now at her baby kicking, Victoria thought sadly.
But most of all, she admitted silently, once she had climbed out of the bath and padded through to the bedroom, she was crying for herself. Because she wanted Zac. She loved him and she wanted him, and she didn't want to have to bring their child up alone.
Would she have given him a second chance if she hadn't been pregnant? she asked herself as she pulled her nightie over her head with trembling fingers. Patiently waited and loved him and prayed that he would change? Hoped that he would have learnt to love her the way she-loved him, and accept that the eternal triangle had no place in their marriage? Probably. She nodded soberly to herself. She didn't like to admit it—it smacked of weakness—but that was probably what she would have done.
But she didn't have that option. The baby was too important for her to risk it being brought up in a warring home, with a mother reduced to desperation by a husband who couldn't see his way of life was detestable to her. She couldn't take the risk that Zac might change, not now. Might wasn't good enough.
It wasn't even just his affair with Gina. Victoria plumped down on the bed, shutting her eyes as she hugged her middle and swayed back and forth. He would never understand that she needed to share everything with him and function as his partner as well as his wife and lover.
Perhaps it was the result of her lonely, isolated childhood, but she couldn't bear the thought of entering a marriage where two people pulled in opposite directions. She just wasn't strong enough emotionally to cope with that sort of forced isolation again.
And then the memory of Zac's face and the pain in his dark eyes as he had talked of his own young days pierced her through. She didn't know what was worse if she thought about it—having an idyllic childhood until the age of ten and then having your world fall apart, or having the sort of upbringing she had gone through. At least she hadn't suffered the pain of having experienced what she'd always missed, unlike Zac.
She slid down under the light covers after a time, but her mind continued to dissect each moment of the afternoon and evening, every word that had been spoken, every gesture and action, until she thought she'd go mad.
What was Zac doing right at this moment? The thought came from nowhere and hit her like a ton of bricks, causing her to clench her teeth and sit up sharply as her hand reached for the lampshade. She didn't care what he was doing, she told herself irritably as light flooded the room. She couldn't afford to think in this way; it was too weakening.
She was unsettled because of the day spent in his company and the things they had shared; that was all it was. She had known all along this crazy idea of spending time together wouldn't work—for her at least. It was too bittersweet, altogether too painful, although obviously he could handle it perfectly well.
Did he ever spend the night with Gina? She liked that thought even less than the previous one, and knew she had to cut the cycle before her mind continued on such a self-destructive path. A book. She'd read a book for a while, she thought determinedly. She had at least four or five she had been meaning to get into for months now.
She read for an hour or more, forcing her mind to concentrate when it jumped all over the place, but she couldn't recall what she had read when she eventually settled back down under the covers. It was some time before she drifted into a restless, troubled sleep full of nightmarish images and strange long corridors where a little girl ran and ran, frightened and alone, and when she awoke the next morning it was to the realisation that she still had a long way to go in putting Zac Harding out of her heart and her life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Victoria saw Zac several times during September, and she couldn't fault his studious concern and decorum. She couldn't fault it, and by October, which blazed in with a riot of ochre, russet and crimson on the leaves of the shrubs and trees in the little park nearby where she took an early morning stroll each day, she had hardened her heart to the feeling of pain and regret that always accompanied his now distant approach.
It doesn't matter that it's all over and that he obviously finds you totally unattractive now, she told herself on a dew-drenched morning towards the end of the month as she lumbered round the square of park, the sharp smell of clumps of late chrysanthemums and the faint aroma of woodsmoke from an early morning bonfire somewhere near mingling in the air.
Zac had taken her to the cinema the night before, and it had seemed to Victoria that the building was full of lithe, slim, model-type females with ten-inch waists and small pert bosoms. And she, in spite of the concealing folds of her maternity dress which, like the summer ones, wasn't really a maternity dress at all, had felt like a giant hippopotamus waddling along at his side.
Zac, of course, had been his usual well-dressed, lean and altogether devastating self, and she had coped with her inadequacy—not to mention the sort of fierce sexual desire that no self-respecting hippopotamus should have— by hiding behind a grumpy façade that had made the evening a trial for both of them.
He had made no attempt to kiss her goodnight after walking her to her door—if the tepid pecks on the cheek he had indulged in since the day on the boat could be called kisses, she thought morosely—and had walked away as though he was glad to see the back of her. Which fee probably was, Victoria admitted with black humour. The front wasn't any big deal. He also hadn't said when he'd be seeing her again.
Which was fine, just fine, Victoria told herself sharply, turning in the direction of home so she could have a cup of coffee and two of the wickedly addictive chocolate biscuits she now kept a hoard of before she set out for
work. This chummy, friendly thing had been his idea anyway, all part of the supposed compromise he had harped on about. If he chose to end it, that was fine—great—by her. She hadn't cried once in the last few weeks, and she was doing very well all round. She was. And when the baby was born she'd do even better—not only would she have her child to love and look after, but she could start planning the rest of her life. She would be in control then in a way she felt she wasn't now.
She was still speaking silent encouragement to herself when she arrived at work half an hour later to find Mrs Bretton in a dreadful flap, the older woman's face as red as a beetroot.
'Oh, Victoria, oh, I'm so glad to see you, dear.' Mrs Bretton almost leapt on her as Victoria opened the door of the shop. 'I don't know how it's happened, I've never done it before in my life, but I totally forgot about an order for a bride's bouquet and a box of buttonholes one of my neighbours asked for. Her daughter's getting married today—at the registry office, you know?' Mrs Bretton whispered the last few words and bobbed her head in a meaningful way, which Victoria assumed meant the girl in question was going to be another hippopotamus in a few months' time. 'And she rang me late last night to ask why I hadn't dropped the bouquet in. Well, I felt terrible, I can tell you.'
'And you said?' Victoria prompted gently.
'I made an excuse, said I was waiting for a delivery of some flowers for the bouquet, and that I'd pop it round before eleven this morning,' Mrs Bretton said breathlessly. 'Look, I've done all the buttonholes—I was here at six this morning—and I've done most of the bouquet but you know what I'm like with the arranging side. Would you finish it off? It needs your touch. And then I'll pop everything round to her if you don't mind holding the fort for a bit? I won't be all that long.'
'No problem.' Victoria looked at the bedraggled bouquet on the table in front of her and added gently, 'You go and freshen up while I see to the flowers, then.'
By twenty past nine the bouquet was transformed into something lovely, and by twenty-one minutes past Mrs Bretton was on her way out of the door. She turned on the threshold to glance back at Victoria as she said, 'I'm just going to nip and get a wedding card and a little present, some glasses or something, on my way, so expect me back about elevenish. All right, dear?'
Victoria nodded. 'That's fine, and don't rush.' It wasn't the first time she had been left in charge of the shop since she had started working for Mrs Bretton, and she was quite confident of coping with any eventuality. 'I'll get on with the order for those table decorations for Mr and Mrs Baxter's silver wedding celebration tonight, shall I, if I get a moment between customers?'