Page 89 of (Not) The One
‘I knew we should’ve had that talk last night,’ I mutter, pulling the bed linen higher until it’s under my chin. ‘Dirty talk isn’t really talking, is it?’ I ask evenly. Okay, taunt.
‘Don’t be flippant,’ he answers, though he’s smiling. ‘I thought I’d made it clear. I want to take care of you and our—’
I hold up a finger between us. ‘Can we see the doctor first before we have this conversation?’
‘Of course, but I thought you were sure you’re pregnant?’
Ninety-nine percent effective, I almost answer. But then remember those are the same odds as we had with condoms.
‘There’s nothing certain in this world but—’
‘Death and taxes,’ he finishes for me, but I’m already pushing back the bedclothes and clawing my way out of bed, almost as though Mother Nature seeks to contradict both my words and thoughts.
‘Excuse me.’ Was I really that polite, or did I yellmove, bitch, in the kind of voice that would makeDwayne ‘The Rock’Johnsonsound like a schoolgirl? It’s hard to tell what came out of my mouth as something revolts, quite literally, insisting my insides need to become my outsides as I press my hand across my mouth.
‘What is it? Miranda?’
I drag the sheet with me as I begin my race across the expanse of floor to the bathroom, a race I’m running against the contents of my stomach, I think. I don’t have time to shut the door or wrap the sheet around me fully before my knees land on the hard tiles, and I give into nature’s curse.
‘Oh, Gog . . .bleurgh. Mother of Christ! Fucking,bleurgh, fuck!’
Bloody Eve. An apple isn’t even that exciting. If it had been a donut or a piece of—
‘Nooooo!’
I retch and wail, and I retch a bit more until I don’t think I can take it anymore. The noises I make are violent and my sobs beseeching and pathetic. And I’ve always been a little bit of a clean freak. I was the child at school who, without fail, would pull a mini bottle of hand sanitiser out of her lunch box before her sandwiches. Yet here I kneel, basically cuddling the toilet bowl.
At least he has a housekeeper.
As my sobs reduce to hiccups, I become aware of the man holding my hair. Yes, holding it in one hand as he rubs such tender, soothing circles against my back.
‘I’m not sure we need a doctor, sweetheart. For confirmation, at least.’ A wet washcloth is pressed to my sticky forehead. ‘Do you think you can stand?’ I nod and begin to clamber up, reaching to flush the yellow goo when his hand hooks under my arm. ‘Let me help you.’
I catch a glimpse of my reflection as he bends to pick up the sheet that’s pooled around my toes. I look like something out of a horror movie; wild hair, red eyes, and my skin is the colour of putty. In fact, dye my hair black, and I might give that chick from the movieThe Ringa run for her money.
I shuffle dumbly in the direction I’m bid, which happens to be the shower, but before I step in, James leans in, switching on the hot water. The cuff of his shirt is immediately wet as he tests the water. As he pulls back, he shakes his hand, tiny droplets cascade from his fingertips. The motion is as mesmerising as watching a magician perform a trick.
‘The water should be okay now.’ He begins to unbutton his shirt; three buttons loose, then he pulls it over his head. He reaches then for his belt when he seems to realise I haven’t moved, that I’m standing on the wrong side of the glass. ‘Hop in,’ he instructs as he unbuckles his belt next.
I want to tell him I can shower myself. That I’ll be fine. That I don’t need his help, but in actual fact, I feel as weak as a newborn foal. A newborn foal who whimpers a little as a strong pair of arms wraps me in their protection, tightening a touch as though he has no intention of ever letting go.
‘I thought you had a flight to make.’ My words are soft, and I’m not one hundred percent sure I can be heard over the flow of the water as I press my back to his chest.
‘There’ll be another flight later,’ he replies as gently as his hands soap my body. He rubs the tension from my shoulders, making long strokes down my arms. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this about work and making money, but some things are just more important.’ His words are spoken so quietly, I’m not sure they were meant for my ears, but as his hand splays across my stomach, a warm glow spreads through me anyway.
23
James
‘Will, how are you?’
‘Harry, good to see you. And congratulations.’
Will’s grip is just as punishing as it was on my shoulder during a ruck on the rugby pitch a couple of years ago. He and I have known each other for some years, long before his father died and he became the next Lord Travers of his line. I suppose he’d refer to that period as his whoring years. Not that he was a whore, of course, though I’m sure there were plenty of women who would’ve been willing to pay.I imagine there are still.
As he turns his attention to Miranda, who stands suddenly mute at my side, I recall a tale someone once told me about how he met his wife. Something about a miscommunication and Will pretending to be a male escort? After meeting Sadie myself, I can’t see her as the type who’d want or need to pay a stranger for a date.Or more.
And speaking of paying someone to spend time with you, I’m considering getting a dog. If that’s what it takes to pin Miranda down for a conversation, I would. I didn’t make it to Berlin on Tuesday, no surprises there. I couldn’t leave her without making sure she was okay. It’s been three days since I’ve seen her, but she tells me she’s still standing, with the exception of twenty minutes each morning when she prays, as she put it, to the porcelain gods.
