The Bridesmaid's Baby by Barbara Hannay

hectic whirl she dashed about the kitchen, throwing rubbish into plastic bags, wiping bench tops and spills on the floor, hurling everything else pell-mell into the dishwasher to be stacked again properly later.
    Later.
    Oh, heavens, she mustn’t think about that.
    The only good thing about being so frantically busy was that it had helped her not to dwell too deeply on the actual reason for this dinner. The merest thought of what was supposed to happen after the meal set off explosions inside her, making her feel like a string of firecrackers at Chinese New Year.
    Hastily Lucy showered, slathering her skin with her favourite jasmine-scented gel and checking that her waxed legs were still silky and smooth.
    Her hair was short so she simply towelled it dry, threw in a little styling product and let it do its own thing.
    She put on a dress. She spent her working life in khaki jeans and she didn’t wear dresses very often, but this one was pretty—a green and white floral slip with shoestring straps and tiny frills around the low V neckline. It suited her. She felt good in it.
    A couple of squirts of scent, a dab of lip gloss, a flourish with the mascara brush…
    A truck rumbled to a growling halt outside.
    Lucy froze.
    Her reflection in the bedroom mirror blushed and her skin flashed hot and cold. Frenzied butterflies beat frantic wings in her stomach.
    Firm footsteps sounded on the front path and her legs became distinctly wobbly. This was crazy.
    It’s only Will, not Jack The Ripper.
    Unfortunately, this thought wasn’t as calming as it should have been.
    Concentrate on the meal. First things first. One step at a time.
    It was no good. She was still shaking as she opened the door.
    Will was dressed casually, in blue jeans and an open-necked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. Behind him, the twilight shadows were the deepest blue. He was smiling. He looked gorgeous—with the kind of masculine fabulousness that smacked a girl between the eyes.
    ‘Nice dress,’ he said, smiling his appreciation.
    ‘Thanks.’
    With a pang Lucy allowed herself a rash moment of fantasy in which Will was her boyfriend and madly in love with her, planning to share a future with her and the baby they hoped to make.
    Just as quickly she wiped the vision from her thoughts. Over the past ten years she’d had plenty of practice at erasing that particular dream.
    Reality, her reality, was a convenient and practical parenting agreement. There was simply no point in hopingfor more. She was incredibly grateful for Will’s offer. It was her best, quite possibly her only prospect for motherhood.
    ‘Something smells fantastic,’ he said.
    ‘Thanks.’ Her voice was two levels above a whisper. ‘I hope it tastes OK. Come on in.’
    She’d planned to eat in the kitchen, hoping that the room’s rustic simplicity and familiar cosiness would help her to stay calm.
    Already, that plan had flown out of the window. She was almost sick with nerves.
    ‘Take any seat, Will.’ She gestured towards chairs gathered around the oval pine table. ‘You can open the wine if you like. I’d better check the dinner.’
    She opened the oven door. Concentrate on the food.
    Her heart sank.
    No, no, no!
    The baked custard, which was supposed to be smooth as silk, was speckled and lumpy. Like badly scrambled eggs.
    The lasagne was worse.
    How could this have happened?
    The lasagne had been a work of art when it went into the oven—a symphony of layers—creamy yellow cheese sauce and pasta, with red tomatoes and herb infused meat.
    Now the cheese sauce had mysteriously disappeared and the beautiful layers were dried out and brown, like shrivelled, knobbly cardboard splattered with dubious blobs of desiccated meat.
    It was a total, unmitigated disaster.
    ‘I can’t believe it,’ she whispered, crestfallen. She’d spent hours and hours preparing these dishes—beating, stirring, spicing, testing, reading and rereading the recipes over