by Catherine
I examined my reflection in the cheval-mirror with critical eyes. "Nick," I called, "does this dress make me look fat?"
My husband appeared behind me, resplendent in evening dress. "Darling," he said, slipping his arms around my thickened waist, "you're eight months' pregnant."
A chorus of groans erupted from the doorway. "God, Nick, haven't you learned anything?" said Andy as we both turned.
"That's no way to talk to the mother of your child," Roger added.
"I was merely pointing out," replied Nick, holding me closer, "that it's not the dress ..."
Catcalls came from the other two. I grinned at them. "If four pregnancies have taught me anything," Andy declared, "it's that you never, ever let on that your wife looks anything less than beautiful."
"That goes without saying," said Nick, kissing my neck.
"No, it doesn't," Roger chided. "You have to tell her every day." He smiled at me. "You look gorgeous, Cat."
"If I weren't a married man-" Andy began.
"You'd still be in trouble." Andy's wife Tracey pushed past the pair of them, looking lovely in a green silk dress, the matching wrap draped over her arm. "Can't you leave the poor girl alone? This is her first time."
"It's okay, Tracey," I said. "They're almost funny enough to be distracting." In truth, butterflies had invaded my stomach, even though I knew I wouldn't be in the limelight.
Andy backhanded Roger's arm. "Didja hear that? 'Almost,'" he snorted. "I think we've been insulted."
"Wouldn't be the first time," Simon commented as he passed. Tracey threw up her hands. "What is this, Paddington Station? Out, out!" She shooed the men out of the room, then caught hold of Andy by his tuxedo jacket. "Wait, you." She kissed him soundly.
"Mmph," Andy managed, grinning at her when he came up for air. "What say after the show, you and I try for a fifth, Mrs. Taylor?" Tracey gave him a look that would've frozen an Eskimo. "Out," she repeated.
His grin widened. "I said try," Andy emphasized. "We don't have to succeed." He winked at me as he slid the ever-present sunglasses into place; Tracey closed the door firmly behind him. "God, he's exasperating sometimes," she said, shaking her head.
"You love it, though," I responded. She grinned, reminiscent of her husband. "Oh, God help me, yes!" We laughed.
Tracey and I had become great friends. She and Andy had been the witnesses at our registry-office wedding, not quite a year ago. Now that I was pregnant with my first child, I found myself relying on her even more.
Someone knocked at the door, then Giavanna, Roger's wife, looked in. "Just came to see if I could help," she said, her red satin-and-velvet gown rustling as she entered. "Oh, Cat, you look ravishing!"
"'Ravished,' more like," I laughed, stroking my swollen belly.
Gia smiled. "I told you that gown would be perfect for you."
"You were right," I said, kissing her cheek. "You always are."
"At least when it comes to clothes," Gia amended. The three of us admired the empire-waisted, teal silk gown in the mirror for a moment, then Gia opened the jewellery-case I'd brought with me. We tried several different pairs of earrings until I chose the demure diamond studs Nick had given me when I'd finalized my book deal with Macmillan. Gia found a plain gold necklace, which she fastened at my throat despite my protests. "It's just the thing to finish your look," she insisted.
Tracey checked her watch. "Right, the limo's waiting for us," she said. We joined the guys downstairs in the lobby. Simon greeted me with a kiss on the cheek. "How're you doing, love?" he asked. "I never see you, tucked away out there in the country."
"I'm well, thanks," I replied, slipping my arm through Nick's. My husband added, "It's a short train-ride, Charley. You can visit any time you like."
Simon muttered something along the lines of not wanting to disrupt our domestic bliss with three tearaway girls in tow. I leant close to Nick. "Yas?" I asked.
"Photo-shoot," he replied. "She's got the girls."
"Speaking of," I continued as we walked to the waiting limousine, "you phoned Tati, right?"
"Of course," Nick said, helping ease me into the back seat. He smiled as he slid in beside me and shut the door. "You worry too much about her."
I said nothing, content to smile back and keep my own counsel. Tatjana had been resentful when her father had remarried; there had been several shows of defiance, most of which had featured the words, "You're not my mother, I don't have to listen to you," usually shrieked at top volume. I'd stood my ground, however, winning her grudging respect by not resorting to paternal authority. We now lived, if not in harmony, then under a flag of truce.
Across from me, Simon was looking at his bandmates with a wistful expression. "Shame John couldn't be here," he said on a sigh.
"He's got more important things to do than attend the Brits," Andy said. He and Tracey were seated next to Nick and me, his fingers casually twined with hers. Tracey nodded. "Gela's due any day now," she added, glancing my way.
"He'll be here in spirit," I said, putting my hand into Nick's. I knew he was disappointed at his friend's absence. Duran Duran was their band, and it didn't seem right that John wouldn't be there to accept the lifetime achievement award. Nick gave me a slight smile and squeezed my hand.
"And via satellite," Roger, sitting opposite Andy, put in. He shrugged. "Really, none of us has to be there."
"Wish I'd thought of that," Andy muttered. Tracey elbowed him. "Stop being such a misery-guts," she chided with a smile. "You love it, don't try denying it."
"Besides," I added, "someone's got to pick up the hardware." Andy gestured. "Send Charley," he said. "That's his job."
The limo cruised to a halt in front of the theatre. Ushers stood at the end of a long red carpet, ready to open doors. Nick and Simon stepped out first, and hundreds of flashbulbs popped. I flinched at the barrage, even though I was still inside the car. I felt Tracey's hand on my shoulder. "It's okay, love," she murmured.
"No, it's not," Andy growled. "Goddamn fuckin' paparazzi." I glanced at him. His jaw was set; I could see a muscle jumping near his ear. Just then, Nick bent down to help me out of the car. I saw him take in the scene at a glance. "Everything all right?" he asked.
"Bloody photogs frightened Cat half to death," Andy snapped. Nick looked at me, concerned. "Are you all right, love?"
"Andy's exaggerating," I said, though I could feel my heart banging against my ribs. "I was just a bit startled." I levered myself out of the limo. Nick steadied me with an arm around my waist. "You look pale, darling," he murmured, letting me know he didn't believe my denial. Behind us, Tracey was arguing with her husband in hushed tones. I couldn't hear what she said, but when they got out, I saw that Andy had put on a tight-lipped smile.
The seven of us walked down the red carpet; Simon let himself be sidetracked for an interview with a blond woman I vaguely recognized as a television personality. Reporters and photographers clustered around him. It took a moment to realize that he was creating a diversion so that we could enter the theatre unhindered. I looked at Nick, who smiled in that enigmatic way of his.
The evening passed in a pleasant blur. Once I'd sat down, I was able to collect myself. Nick held my hand casually, rubbing it with his thumb from time to time, which helped. By the time the hosts, a pair of young comic actors, appeared, I felt quite calm; even the baby had settled down.
The event was filled with laughter and applause, as various artists and groups made their way to the stage in sequence and the hosts reeled off their prepared jokes. I missed some of it; Tracey and Gia had to escort me to the ladies' room several times. I made sure I was on hand when the hosts announced the lifetime achievement award, though. They showed the usual assortment of clips, bits of videos from "Planet Earth" up to the newest one, and interviews with famous fans and with artists the band had worked with over the years.
At last, the guys went up onto the stage to accept the awards. A huge television screen appeared behind the podium; it flickered to life with the satellite hook-up from Los Angeles, and John joined them long-distance. Then someone stepped out of the wings. "Oh, my," I murmured to Tracey and Gia. "Did Andy know Warren was going to be here?"
Tracey shrugged. "He kind of guessed," she said. "It's no problem. It's not like they're rivals-exactly." Andy had never made a secret of his feelings towards Warren Cuccurullo; Andy didn't keep many opinions to himself. We watched Simon and Nick greet Warren with backslapping embraces; Roger offered the erstwhile Duran guitarist a handshake. When his turn came, Andy seemed to make the best of it, putting on a polite smile and shaking Warren's hand.
Each of the guys had a chance to say a few words. John surprised us into applause by announcing, "It's a girl." Nick was last; he leant towards the microphone and looked straight at me. "Darling, this is for you. Without you, I'm nothing at all."
I lifted a hand to my mouth as tears filled my eyes. Tracey put an arm around my shoulders. Somehow, I managed to blow my husband a kiss. He smiled, stepping away from the microphone.
When they returned to their seats, I grabbed hold of Nick. "You bastard," I murmured, hugging him. "You made me cry."
"Good thing you wore waterproof mascara, then," he teased, kissing me.
Warren had followed them. "Hey, dollface," he greeted me, leaning down to give me a peck on the cheek. "Keeping these guys in line?"
"Hi, Warren," I responded. "What else do I have to do these days?"
"Write," he said. "I loved that first mystery of yours. When's the next one?"
"In six months," I said. "I saw the cover-art this week."
"ITV's filming the first one," Nick added, "and they've optioned the next three."
"That reminds me," I turned to him. "I have to go to the set tomorrow. Elspeth wants to discuss some things. And Sarah emailed last night; she wants me to stop by the office."
"Why does Elspeth want you on set? And what does Sarah need that she can't talk to you on the phone?" Nick grumbled.
"I'll find out tomorrow," I said. "Don't be a misery. We've got the suite for the night; we might as well use it. Besides, I'm sure you can find something to do here in town."
"I'll come with you."
"Nick," I protested. "You'll be bored stiff."
"Hey, I'm here for a couple days," Warren put in. "And we need to talk about TV Mania, anyway."
Nick looked torn. I knew he really wanted to hash out some business with Warren; TV Mania had been dormant over the last few years, what with the first reunion album and tour and now the follow-up album. At the same time, he clearly didn't want me traipsing around London alone.
"Andy and I will go with Cat," Tracey said. Nick and I looked at her; Andy suddenly sat up. "We'll what?" he said. Tracey elbowed him. "Er, yeah," he said. "Yeah, we'll keep Cat company."
"That's great, guys," I said, "but you've got to get back home." Tracey dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand. "Junior can look after the girls," she assured. "Besides, I hardly ever get down to London anymore. We can go shopping when you've finished." Andy sighed, no doubt envisioning hours in Harrods. Tracey shot him a look. "No, no, that's fine," he protested his innocence. "Shopping-that's good. Great. I meant great." He trailed off under her glare, slouching in his seat again and making sure the sunglasses were still in place.
"Well, all right," Nick said, stroking my arm. "But promise me you'll take it easy." I kissed his cheek. "I promise," I said.
"Is it settled?" Andy asked. "'Cause I think they want us back on stage for something ..."
The 'something' turned out to be an impromptu performance with some of the other artists who'd received awards. Tracey, Gia, and I watched our husbands play with some of their heroes-David Bowie sang with Simon on "Fame"-and with some of the young musicians who counted Duran Duran among their influences.
By the time the show finished, I was more than ready for my bed. The limo returned us to our hotel, and I gratefully sought my pillow.
~*~
The next morning, I rose, showered, and sat down to a room-service breakfast long before Nick emerged from the suite's bedroom, tying the belt of the burgundy silk robe I'd given him for Christmas. "Good morning, darling," I greeted him cheerily. He mumbled something and sat down at the small table with me. I poured him a cup of coffee; he took a long drink of it. "God, that's so much better," he sighed. "Ta, love." He eyed me as he split open one of the warm croissants and spread it with butter and strawberry preserves. "You look great."
"Oh, now you take Roger's advice," I teased, finishing my fruit bowl and reaching for my second croissant of the morning. I kissed him and tasted strawberries and coffee. "Thank you." I buttered the croissant. "What time are you and Warren meeting again?"
"Eleven," Nick replied, accepting the yoghurt I passed him. "It shouldn't take long. When d'you think you'll be done with Sarah and Elspeth?"
"I should be back here by one," I said. "We can have lunch and catch the two-fifteen train home. That sound good?"
"Perfect," he said.
I rose from my chair and leant down to kiss him again. "See you then." I picked up my purse and my coat on my way out the door.
Tracey and Andy awaited me in the lobby. "You two are such loves to do this," I said, hugging Tracey.
"We know," Andy replied, yawning, before he gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. He held the door for us. "Trace already rang for a cab."
"Really," I said, stepping out onto the pavement, "you guys don't have to come. Nick would never know."
"Oh, he'd know," Andy said.
"How?"
"He's got his ways. Trust me, Cat. I've known him a lot longer than you. He'd find out."
When we arrived at Macmillan Publishing, Tracey came in with me, while Andy stayed with the taxi. He'd already struck up a conversation with the cabbie, who was also from the northeast. We left them discussing Newcastle United's chances at league glory.
We rode the lift to the tenth floor. "Wow," Tracey said when the doors opened on the reception area. A circular mahogany desk dominated the cream-and-beige room; framed paintings, some of them depicting the cover art from recent best sellers, hung on the walls at intervals. "Hi, Jen," I greeted the receptionist. "Sarah emailed me yesterday."
"She'll be ready for you in a few minutes, Ms. McDonough," Jennifer replied. "Have a seat." She indicated a pair of leather sofas positioned around a coffee table. "If I sit down on that, I'll never get back up," I said to Tracey. "C'mon, I'll show you the cover for my next Emma Chastain mystery."
We wandered around the room, chatting about last night, until Sarah Redmond came out of her office. "Hullo, Cat," she said, embracing me. "Glad you could come by." I introduced her to Tracey. "This won't take long, will it, Sarah?" I asked. "We left Tracey's husband in the taxi."
"It shouldn't do," replied Sarah. "Come on back with me, Cat." She led the way to her office, a cosy, cluttered room. Once inside, she settled me in a chair and offered me a drink. I declined. "So what's the problem, Sarah?" I asked. "Is something wrong with the galleys?"
Sarah sat behind her desk. "I almost wish there were," she said. She started rummaging through drawers. "Do you know a man by the name of Peter Clements?"
I felt as if someone had knocked the breath from my lungs. "Yes," I said after a long pause. "I mean, I did, once." Sarah looked at me, her expression a mixture of concern and curiosity, as I struggled for the words. "I-I was ... engaged to him," I managed at last. "A long time ago. Six-no, seven years ago." I gave her a weak smile. "Long before I knew Nick. Well, before I met him, anyway."
Sarah raised her eyebrows. "Well," she began, "your former fiancé-if indeed it's the same man, and now I don't doubt it-" She broke off with a small exclamation of triumph, producing a thick, brown envelope. She passed it to me. "He's suing."
"What?" I took the envelope and opened it, pulling out a sheaf of paper. I tried to read, but the legalese defeated my stunned mind.
"Among other things, for theft of intellectual property, plagiarism, and breach of promise," Sarah explained. "In short, he claims that Emma Chastain and some other characters are his creations, and that A Cold Wind is his novel. He's asking for three-and-a-half millions."
"Dollars?"
"Sterling."
Alarm crossed Tracey's face when I re-entered the reception area. My friend hurried to my side. "Come here and sit down," she said without preamble, escorting me to one of the couches. I balked. "No," I said. "I still have to see Elspeth." I smiled at her, trying to defuse her concern. "I'm all right, Tracey. I've just had a bit of a shock."
"All the more reason to sit," Tracey said, brow furrowed, but we went downstairs. I explained what Sarah had told me on our way to the taxi. "It can't be true," Tracey shook her head.
"It isn't," I replied, sliding into the back seat of the cab. Andy turned from his conversation with the driver. "What's up?" he asked.
"Cat's being sued by her ex-fiancé," Tracey told him before I could answer.
One eyebrow rose above the frame of his sunglasses. "Who, that Peter character? For what?"
"He claims I stole characters and ideas from him," I said. I leant forward and gave the cabbie the address of the location where Elspeth's crew was filming.
"The hell you say," Andy growled. My mouth twisted into a wry approximation of a smile. "No, the hell he says. Don't look so grim, Andy. The lawyers will handle it," I said. Andy folded his arms with a derisive snort.
The driver had been glancing at me in his rear-view mirror. "You're that writer, innit? Whatsit ..." He snapped his fingers. "Cat McDonough!" I acknowledged that I was. "My wife loved that book o' yours. Kept reading bits out to me. Listen, love, I don't care what this feller thinks, no bloke wrote that book. I've read plenty in my time, and that book was definitely writ by a woman. You can always tell."
I smiled. "Maybe I should have you testify in my behalf."
"Any time, love, any time."
We arrived at the Rotherhithe location within thirty minutes; Joe, our driver, seemed to have a sixth sense about traffic jams. This time, Andy joined Tracey and me. I paid the fare and sent Joe on his way. "There's Elspeth," I said, catching sight of the dark-haired producer/director. I waved when she looked my way. She grinned and hurried over to us. "Cat!" exclaimed Elspeth Cameron, throwing her arms about me in an effusive hug. I introduced her to Andy and Tracey, then she escorted the three of us around the location. I met the actress who was playing the lead and liked her immediately; not only did she look like my idea of Emma Chastain, she was a delightful person as well.
Elspeth then led me to her "office," one of several trailers on the set. Tracey came with us, while Andy strolled around. Elspeth and I spent more than half an hour talking about the production; when we finished, she had one of her assistants find us a car and a driver, while Tracey fetched Andy, who'd been watching the crew set up for a scene.
I walked just outside the production area to wait for the car, glancing back for my companions. When I saw them, I waved for their attention.
"Visiting the scene of the crime, Cat?"
I almost jumped out of my skin; my hand dropped like a bird shot on the wing. I turned as quickly as my condition would allow. "Peter," I said, though no sound came from my throat.
Peter Clements looked almost as he had the last time I'd seen him. His brown hair was a little shorter, and he'd grown one of those fashionable goatees that weren't so fashionable anymore, but other than that, nothing had changed. Hazel eyes appraised me; he smiled. "I see you and your new husband didn't waste any time."
"What're you doing here, Peter?" I said, surprised and grateful that my voice didn't quaver.
"Just enjoying the sights," Peter replied, and he gave me a look that bordered on a leer.
"This isn't exactly a tourist attraction," I snapped. He shrugged. "What're you doing here, in the UK?" I demanded. "You don't have to be here to sue."
He smiled. "No, but it's easier to sell my story to the tabloids in person." He moved closer; I took a step back. "Just think of all the intimacies I can share with the Daily Mirror."
"You wouldn't," I breathed, horrified by the thought. Nick abhorred anyone prying into our private lives, as did I. My voice rose. "Get away from me!"
No sooner had I spoken than Tracey and Andy were at my side. "Cat, love, are you okay?" Tracey asked. I saw her give Peter a suspicious look.
"She's fine," he replied. "I think I startled her a bit. I'm an old ... friend."
I shook off Tracey's comforting hand. "This is Peter Clements," I said. Tracey glared at him. "You bastard," she said. Peter raised his eyebrows and looked at me. "I should've known."
"What? That your reputation would precede you?" I snapped. The baby chose that moment to become active; my hand went to my belly. Tracey put an arm around me. "Cat?"
"I'm okay," I assured, then attempted a laugh. "The little one's just doing gymnastics."
Andy glanced at me, then took a couple of steps towards Peter. "If you know what's good for you, old son, you'll let the lady alone," he said, his tone deadly. Peter, who towered over him by a good six inches, started to grin. "'Lady'?" he mocked. I saw Andy's fists clench; so, apparently, did Tracey. "Andy, no!" she cried. Andy took a deep breath. "You watch yourself, mate," he growled. "Cat's a friend of mine, and I don't let folk mess with my friends."
Peter opened his mouth to retort, but just then, the car arrived, along with a pair of burly security guards. "Is there a problem, Ms. McDonough?" asked one, eyeing Peter.
"This man-" Andy began.
"Was just leaving," Peter interjected. "I'll see you later, Cat." He turned on his heel.
"See you in hell," Andy muttered.
In light of what had happened, Tracey called off the shopping trip, and we returned to the hotel. Nick and Warren were still in the middle of their business when we arrived. My husband all but leapt to his feet when he saw me. "Cat, what's the matter?" Warren rose from his seat, a concerned expression on his face. I opened my mouth to reply, but Tracey steered me towards the bedroom with a firm arm at my waist. "You need a lie-down, love," she said. I glanced over my shoulder to see Andy draw the other two into a huddle before his wife shut the door.
A quarter of an hour later, someone knocked. Tracey opened the door to let Nick into the room. He hurried to the bed, where I lay propped up with pillows. "Darling," he murmured, sitting down and kissing me. "Andy told me what happened. Are you all right?" He smoothed the hair back from my face. I managed a smile for him. "I'm fine," I replied. "And before you ask, the baby's fine, too." Nick smiled a little, too, resting a hand lightly on my abdomen. Glancing at Tracey, he became serious. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"I don't think she should, Nick," Tracey said. I waved a hand at her. "It's all right, Tracey," I replied.
"You've had a dreadful shock."
"And I'll get over it faster if I can put it into words. I'm a writer, Trace, it's what I do, how I deal with stuff. Look, if you feel I'm getting too stressed or whatever, you can send Nick out, and I won't say no. Deal?"
Tracey agreed. I struggled to sit up; she tutted. "Lie down, Cat, or I'll send Nick out right now." I gave up and let her fuss. When she had finished, Nick took my hand. "All right, but slowly," he cautioned.
With his words, I began my tale, describing my meeting with Sarah and ending with the confrontation at the film set. When I'd finished, Nick squeezed my hand. "I knew I shouldn't have let you go," he said. "I should've gone with you."
"Darling, what would you have done?" I countered. "You're hardly a menacing-looking guy. Peter's huge-he played hockey in university."
"Andy-" he began.
"Andy knows a trick or three that'll bring a yobbo like that to his knees," said a voice from the doorway. I looked up to see Andy leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded; his sunglasses peeked out of the pocket of his leather jacket. He gave us all a half-smile. "Sorry, Nick, but you didn't grow up where I did." He took a step into the room. "I rang the cops," he continued, flashing his mobile phone at us. "They can't do fuck-all unless they catch Clements in the act."
Nick looked at me again. "Don't worry," I said. "We'll soon be home. He can't touch us there." I spoke with more confidence than I felt, still shaken by an encounter that might have been chance, but perhaps not.
Nick seemed almost to read my mind. "You hope," he murmured.
We had lunch in our suite with Andy and Tracey, then the four of us piled into a cab for the train station. Roger and Gia had gone earlier, so it was just our little group sharing a compartment. Tracey and I pored over a catalogue of baby things; she kept the conversation light. Andy and Nick remained quiet for the most part; once, they discussed how the new album was going, but the talk lagged and they soon fell silent. At one point, I looked up from the catalogue to see the pair of them regarding me with nearly identical expressions of concern. "Would you two stop?" I said, exasperated. "It's not as if Peter tried to hurt me-he's just suing me. Not even really me-he's suing my publisher."
At that, Andy flushed a little and looked away; Nick, however, didn't flinch. We locked eyes and would have engaged in a staring match if Tracey hadn't called my attention back to the catalogue.
Andy drove us home in the Range Rover. "I'll give you a bell in the morning," Tracey promised as we parted at the gate.
"Thanks, hon," I replied, giving her a farewell hug while Nick got our bags from the car. As they drove off, I followed my husband into the house at an ungainly waddle. "God," I sighed, sinking into the nearest comfortable chair, "I will be so glad when this baby's born."
"So will I," said Nick, pausing to drop a kiss on the top of my head. "Your pregnancy has put rather a crimp in some of our more intimate activities."
"An infant wailing at two in the morning has a similar effect, or did you forget that?" I pointed out. He ignored that, letting his fingers caress my breast through my blouse. I felt the familiar thrill his touch always gave me. "Mm," I sighed, reluctantly removing his hand. "Not now, love. Tati's due home soon." He, too, sighed, but in disappointment. "I'll make you a cup of tea, then." He disappeared into the kitchen.
I was still sipping my decaffeinated tea when Tatjana blew through the front door like a whirlwind. I heard her welcoming, "Daddy!" from where I relaxed in the sunroom, then the murmur of father-daughter conversation. I smiled to myself and rested a hand on my belly, imagining such chats between Nick and this child.
Tati put her head around the door. "Hi, Cat," she said, a forced brightness in her tone; I could tell that she was obeying a request from her father. "Did you have a nice time in London?"
"Yes, thank you, Tati," I replied, feeling the baby move. "How was your day?" She shrugged. "All right, I guess."
I longed to be able to speak as easily with Tatjana as her father did, but I doubted that would ever happen. I stroked my swollen abdomen absently. "Maybe next time," I ventured, "you'll be able to come with us." Tatjana shrugged again. "We'd have been home sooner, but your dad had some business to talk over with Warren, and I had to go to the location shoot."
Any other girl would have become interested at that, but Tatjana had practically grown up on video sets and photo shoots. She examined her nail polish-metallic green today, I noted. I caught her glancing sidelong at me. "Is something the matter, Tati?"
She shook her head with a mumbled, "No."
The baby kicked, and I made a startled noise. Tatjana looked up. "What is it?"
"The baby," I replied with a smile. "He or she knows your voice."
I finally had her attention. She turned wide eyes on me. "Really?" I nodded. "The same thing happens when your father talks to me," I explained.
Tatjana shuffled her feet. "Could-may I-?" She gestured towards my belly. I nodded, and she came over to where I sat. "Put your hand here," I said, guiding her hand with my own. "Now say something."
"What?" she whispered. I smiled. "Anything you like. Your name, a tongue twister, it doesn't matter as long as the baby hears your voice." Tatjana licked her lips. "She sells seashells by the seashore," she said. "Ooh!" She looked at me, and I grinned. "What does that feel like? Inside, I mean."
"It's hard to describe," I said. "I just know it's a wonderful feeling."
Tatjana looked at the mound of my abdomen. "Hello, baby," she said. "I'm your big sister, Tati."
I felt warmth flood through me. Until now, Tatjana had shown no interest in her sibling-to-be. I wanted to hug her, but I resisted, smiling at her instead. For once, Tatjana smiled back.
I heard a quiet "ahem" behind me, and I turned to see Nick standing in the doorway. "Sorry to interrupt," he said with a smile of his own, " but someone has homework to do."
"Daddy," Tatjana protested.
"Not you," he said, then pointed at me. "You." He handed me a manuscript box. "This just arrived. Galleys of the new novel, I presume."
He presumed correctly. I spent the rest of the evening reading my own prose. As we lay in bed that night, Nick held me and stroked my hair. "You're pushing yourself too hard," he murmured when I yawned.
"I've deadlines," I replied. "Besides, look who's talking, Mr. Dozen-things-on-the-go." He gave a wry chuckle. "I gave up one of those things," he said. "Let TV Mania go."
"Warren's taking over?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid it's dead. No use trying to resuscitate."
"Poor Warren-he rather had his heart set on making a go of it, didn't he?"
Nick shrugged. "He'll manage." He sighed, always a prelude to a change in subject. "About Peter Clements-"
"Stop right there," I said. "The lawyers are handling it. I'm not involved. Besides, chances are I'll win. He can't prove Emma Chastain is his creation."
"I wasn't talking about the lawsuit."
"I know." I reached up and pulled him down until his mouth met mine. "Now go to sleep."
"Tease," he mumbled; I could hear his smile in the dark. I turned onto my side, the only reasonably comfortable position any longer, and felt him fit himself against me. One arm drew me closer to him; he kissed my hair once more before we both fell asleep.
~*~
The next several days were uneventful. I worked on the galleys, correcting typos, rewriting sections Sarah and I agreed weren't working, and otherwise frustrating myself and my husband, who insisted on peering over my shoulder. "Nicholas James Bates!" I snapped after the umpteenth time he "casually" leant in to see what I was doing; I swatted his arm with part of the manuscript for good measure. "I don't hang over you while you're working. Do me the same courtesy, please."
"Cat," Nick protested.
I shook the galley-proofs at him. "Don't 'Cat' me," I responded, but before I could say more, Nick kissed me. When we broke apart, he grinned. "I was just going to ask if I could get you anything before I went into the studio," he said. I felt my cheeks flame.
"Sounds like someone could use a break." Tracey put her head around the sunroom door. "Put that down, and we'll go watch the lads in the studio."
"Like hell," Andy grumbled, following his wife. "Nick, man, let's go. Roger's waiting for us."
Nick turned back to me. "Are you sure you don't want anything, love?"
I shook my head, having composed myself. "I'm fine, darling," I said, patting the hand he'd laid on my shoulder. "Go, make beautiful music." He smiled and kissed my hair. "See you in a bit, then." He edged past Tracey and joined Andy outside the sunroom.
Tracey sat down on the divan opposite my chair. "You don't want to go with them?"
"Are you kidding? Nick's worse about that sort of thing than I am," I said. "Besides, from the sound of things, I doubt Andy would welcome us." Tracey made a "pish" sound and waved a dismissive hand. "He's just acting grumpy. Really, he'd like to be able to keep an eye on you." She gave me a significant look.
I rolled my eyes. "He's not still worried about Peter, is he?"
"Well ..." Tracey spread her hands, then clasped them again. "Cat, you're like family to us, and Andy takes family very seriously. Of course he's worried."
"So's Nick," I admitted. "So am I, come to that. But Peter would never hurt me, just my reputation."
"Sometimes that's worse," Tracey spoke like someone who'd been there. "But, come on. I'm sure you can put that stuff away for a bit."
I slipped the pages back into the manuscript box. "All right," I said, "but let's stay here and have some proper girl-talk."
We had a lovely chat until our husbands rejoined us, bringing Roger along. The studio was attached to the house, but it also had a separate entrance, so any of the band could use the recording facilities without having to come through the house. I playfully accused Roger of trying to avoid me by using the outside entrance. He laughed, giving me a kiss on the cheek. "Avoiding you? Never!" he denied. "Trying not to disturb you, definitely."
"We'll see you and Gia here for dinner tomorrow night?" I reminded.
Roger sighed. "Cat, love, you shouldn't be having dinner-parties right now. Too much stress."
"It's not a party, Roger, it's you and Gia, and Tracey and Andy."
"Sounds like a party to me," Andy joked.
Roger gave him a look, then turned back to me. "We'll be here," he assured, kissing me again. "And speaking of my lovely lady-wife, I'm off." Nick walked out with him so they could talk over the day's session.
Tracey rose from her seat. "We'll see you tomorrow, lovey," she said, giving me a quick hug. She paused. "Andy?"
"In a minute, love. I wanna talk to Cat for a sec'."
Tracey heaved a sigh. "Right, I'll be in the car." I listened to her footsteps fade, then turned to Andy. He assumed the seat his wife had just vacated and looked at me for several seconds. "How're you doing?" he asked then, his voice soft.
I kept my gaze steady. "I'm fine. He hasn't tried to contact me. Hell, the lawyers haven't contacted me. Quit worrying, Andy, everything's-"
"Someone's been asking around the village for you."
My mouth hung open for a moment. "Wha-what d'you mean?" I asked when I found my voice.
"Junior mentioned it," Andy said. "He went down to the shops for Trace the other day. He overheard a couple of pensioners talking about a young man looking for a writer living in the area."
"That-that could be anyone," I tried to deny what he was telling me. Andy shook his head, not taking his eyes off me. "Who else would be looking for you?" he pointed out. "Somehow Clements found out where you live."
"But we're very private," I protested. "Not only for our sakes, but yours and Roger's."
"Macmillan have a website, right?" he said. I nodded. "And they've got bios of their authors online, don't they?" I nodded again, seeing where he was going with this. "The village is mentioned in my bio," I admitted. "Not by name, but by location. Yeah, I can see how he could've tracked me down. Oh, God, Andy, what're we going to do?"
Andy gave me a sharp look. "I thought you weren't worried about Clements?"
"I wasn't-I mean, I'm not," I said. "But ... it's just ..."
"Frightening," Andy supplied.
"Ridiculous," I countered. "He's just after money, maybe his fifteen minutes of fame."
"He's going to some extremes to get it. Are you sure he's not stalking you?" I shuddered at the idea. Andy put a hand on my arm. "I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean to scare you."
I looked at him. "Did you tell Nick?"
"No," he said. "I was waiting 'til I'd talked to you."
"Don't," I said. "He'll only worry."
"Too late." Nick walked into the room, green eyes smouldering. He looked at Andy. "I was wondering what was keeping you."
I closed my eyes a moment. "How much did you hear?"
"Enough," my husband replied. "Enough to know that Peter Clements is after you."
"He's not after me," I protested.
"He's accosted you in the street, he's been in the village-I'd say he's definitely after you."
"So what?" I lost my temper. "What's he gonna do? We've got security, alarms and fences. It's not like he can walk in here and-and kidnap me! Let him ask around the village for me-they're a closed-mouthed lot, he won't get a word out of them."
Andy looked at Nick. "She's right, you know."
"That doesn't make me worry any less."
Andy shrugged. "Me, neither." He gave me a long, considering stare. "What about a bodyguard?"
"Oh, for God's sake, Andy!" I snapped.
He raised his hands in surrender. "All right, okay, it was just a suggestion." He rose from the divan. "She's your wife-you talk to her," he said to Nick. My husband gave me a steady look. "You can bet I will," he responded.
Nick and I spent the next hour or so arguing. I finally agreed not to go anywhere unaccompanied: a small concession, as I rarely went anywhere, at all. Nick agreed to stop worrying, or at least pretend to stop once I put in a request to Macmillan's lawyers, through Sarah, for a restraining order against Peter.
A couple of evenings later, Tatjana called me to the telephone. "Who is it?" I asked. She shrugged and handed me the receiver; she seemed to have returned to sulky form where I was concerned. I sighed as she left the kitchen. "Hello," I said into the telephone.
"Don't think you can get away with that."
A chill ran down my spine. "How did you get this number?" I demanded, my fingers tightening on the receiver.
"I'll fight you every step, Cat."
"How did you get this number?" I repeated, louder this time.
"You owe me, and I'm here to collect." The phone went dead in my hand. I held it at arm's length, as if it might bite.
A hand touched my shoulder. I gasped and dropped the phone. Nick grabbed it, replacing the handset. "What's the matter, love?" He saw my expression, and his eyes hardened. "Who was it?"
"Peter," I whispered. "It was Peter. How'd he get our number? We're ex-directory." I stared at Nick for a moment. He pulled me close. Only then did I realize I was shaking. I pressed my face against his shoulder and began to cry.
Nick walked me back into the front room and sat with me on the sofa. The phone rang; I let out a cry. Nick wrapped his arms around me. "Don't answer that, Tati!" he called.
"But, Daddy, Sophie's-" Tatjana protested from upstairs.
"Don't answer it!" Nick snapped. Tatjana stopped, no doubt hearing the urgent command in her father's voice. I clung to my husband; he held me tightly, pressing my head to his chest and murmuring soothing words, until the phone stopped ringing. He made me lie down, calling Tatjana in to sit with me, while he left the room. My stepdaughter pulled an ottoman alongside the sofa, staring at me with wide-eyed concern, her face pale. She touched my hand with hesitant fingers. "It'll be okay, Cat," she whispered.
When Nick returned, we were both sitting on the sofa, Tatjana clasping my hand in both of hers. He joined us, taking my other hand. "I phoned the police," he said. "The answerphone's on now, so we can screen calls. He's not going to do this to you again, love, I won't let him." He explained events to Tatjana. I felt her fingers tighten on my hand. "Oh, my God," she whispered.
"Tracey'll be here soon," Nick added. "I rang her after I talked to the police." I made some muted protest, in truth glad that Tracey was on her way.
She arrived with Gia; together, they took me up to our bedroom, where they fussed over me like a pair of mother hens. I was too drained and shaken to argue with them. They spoke to each other in low, anxious tones; at one point, Gia sat beside me. "Cat, would you like me to ring Dr. Morris?" she asked, taking my hand and rubbing it gently.
I shook my head. Gia glanced at Tracey, who began stroking my hair. "Would you like a cup of tea, sweetie?" Again, I shook my head.
The door opened. "How is she?" asked Andy in a quiet voice. Tracey shook her head at him, frowning, and he retreated after a quick, uneasy glance at me. I heard him speaking to someone outside the door, then Nick's voice: "I swear to God, Andy, if I get my hands on that bastard, he'll rue the day he was born!"
"Get in line, mate," was Andy's grim response.
The police came, in the form of a sweet-faced woman police constable and an older, male sergeant, who took our statements. Nick spent the rest of the night on the phone, it seemed. After a time, Tracey and Gia left, though clearly not without some misgivings; Tracey asked again if I was sure I didn't want a doctor. Tatjana brought me some soup and sat by me until I'd eaten at least some of it, watching me the entire time without a word. Nick came to bed very late that night, but I was still awake, unable to get Peter's voice out of my head. He took me in his arms, just holding me, stroking my hair. Gradually, Peter's words faded from my thoughts, and I slept.
In the morning, things seemed completely different. I slept late; when I awoke, I discovered that Nick had already been up for some time. He brought me breakfast on a tray. "The police haven't found him," he said, refusing to name Peter, "but at least they're working on it."
Two more days passed with no word from the police. We had our number changed, but Nick wouldn't stop screening our calls, which irritated Simon when he rang. I finished with the galleys and announced my intentions of taking the package to the village post office. This led to a small but heated argument. "I'll phone Tracey, then," I said when Nick refused to let me go, insisting that he could post the manuscript. "She'll go with me. I'm tired of being cooped up in here. It's not good for me, and it's not good for the baby."
Nick heaved a resigned sigh. "By God, Cat, you are the most obstinate woman I have ever known." I grinned at him. "You love me anyway," I replied, kissing him. Somehow, the quick peck I'd intended turned into something rather more intense. "C'mon, let's go," I mumbled against his lips at last. Nick sighed again and picked up the package containing the galleys while I gathered my purse and our overcoats.
A short drive brought us into the village; I'd have preferred to walk, but Nick insisted that it was too far for a woman in her eighth month of pregnancy. I knew he didn't want me out any longer than necessary, so I acquiesced. The post office occupied the centre of the village, and as such, it was a gathering-place, as much as the Hawk and Hound. No sooner had we entered than someone hailed my husband, and when Nick had ascertained that I'd be all right, he joined in the conversation. I had a brief wait at the wicket before I got my package posted, then, seeing that Nick was still busy, I stepped outside. The early March sky was bright and clear, and even though it was still quite chilly, I could tell spring was on the way. I stood on the steps, breathing the fresh air.
"I knew if I waited long enough, you'd come to me."
My heart jumped, banging against my chest. I spun; Peter grabbed my arm. "Let me go!" I snapped. He just grinned and squeezed my arm harder. "What do you want?" I demanded, trying to pull myself out of his grasp.
"You know what I want," Peter said.
"If it's money, you won't get it," I replied, trying to swallow my fear. "Macmillan have a whole firm of solicitors at their disposal-they'll tie you up in court for years."
"Heather walked out on me," he said.
I stared at him. "What's that to do with me?"
"She took my son and left-said she couldn't stay if I didn't give up on you." He snarled an oath and jerked me closer. I felt his hot breath on my cheek. "You've got it all-rich husband, career, fame-you're nothing but a whore," he growled.
"Take your hands off my wife!"
Peter turned, dragging me with him. Nick stood in the doorway, eyes blazing. Peter wrapped his arms around me. "Don't try anything, pal," he said. If I hadn't been so terrified, I might have laughed.
"I said," Nick responded, advancing a step or two, "take your hands off my wife."
Peter retreated down the stairs, holding me in front of him like a shield. "Nick, please," I managed, my voice squeaking from the tight confines of my throat, "don't ..."
"It's all right, Cat," Nick assured me, not taking his eyes off Peter. "The police are on their way." Peter's grip on me tightened; I felt a tearing inside me and feared he'd produced a weapon of some kind. I cried out in pain. Hot liquid gushed down my legs; for a wild moment, I thought it was blood, and I screamed. Peter let go of me; I fell into a flowerbed beside the short, paved walk. I lay there, sobbing, all but oblivious to the sounds of struggle as I realized what was happening. I heard police sirens, then Nick was kneeling beside me in the dirt. "Cat? Are you-did he hurt you?"
I clutched at his arm as a rending pain shot through me. "The baby," I gasped. "It's too soon!"
"Oh, God," he whispered. He pulled me close, then started shouting for help.
An ambulance whisked me off to the nearest hospital. The doctors tried to stop the contractions, but things were too far along. When they took my baby away, I wept, inconsolable, until they sedated me.
I awoke, hours later, in a hospital bed. Nick sat beside me, holding my hand. He looked so upset, I started to cry again. "Shh," he murmured, kissing me; he wiped away my tears with his free hand.
"My baby," I whispered. "Our baby ..."
"He's fine, he's perfect," Nick said. "A little smaller than expected, but-"
"He's okay?"
Nick smiled. "He's beautiful."
"But-I thought-you looked-"
Nick kissed me again. "I was worried about you, my darling."
"When can I see him?"
"They were just waiting for you to wake up."
Very soon, a nurse wheeled in a crib. She placed a blanket-wrapped bundle in my arms, then left, telling us she'd be nearby if we needed her.
I cradled the baby in my arms, superstitiously counted fingers and toes, and found ten of each. Nick pressed his lips gently against my temple. "I told you he was perfect." He sighed, resting his cheek on my hair. "Liam Michael McDonough-Rhodes." He put his arm around me, and I rested my head against his shoulder while we watched our son sleep.
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