swallowed. ‘Nearly nine weeks pregnant—if I am.’
Oh, she was. He could see it a mile away, but he had to know. He took a slow, deep breath. ‘Do you have another test with you?’
She nodded numbly. ‘In my bag. Luca, I’m on the Pill,’ she said, her voice a little desperate.
‘And did you take it punctually?’
She nodded her head slowly. ‘Pretty much, but it’s only to regulate my periods, so I’m not religious about it. And that morning, I took it just before we boarded the flight and thenI was airsick in the turbulence and I felt so dreadful I just didn’t think about it until now—’
She broke off, and he stabbed his hand through his hair. ‘And I—’ He’d been so inflamed with passion that he’d forgotten his own name. Damn. He picked up her bag from the floor and held it out to her. ‘Just do the test, cara, please. We need to know this. I need to know it.’
She took it, her fingers shaking, and rummaged for a box—a pregnancy test kit from the ward. He recognised it instantly. She handed the bag back and shut the door, and he waited. And waited. What seemed like hours later, when he was about to tear the door down and go in and find her, she opened it and walked out, her face ashen.
‘Well?’ he asked, his voice tight.
She handed him the little white stick.
‘Congratulations, Luca,’ she said unsteadily. ‘You’re going to be a father.’ And then she burst into tears.
He didn’t even look down. One glance at her face had been enough to tell him the answer, but he’d needed to hear her say it. And his reaction was not at all what he’d expected. In the midst of the shock, somewhere buried down there amongst a whole plethora of emotions and complications and sheer, blind terror, a tiny flicker of joy burst into life.
He was going to be a father. He felt his eyes fill, and blinked hard, scarcely daring to hope, but he knew Isabelle was pregnant. He was an obstetrician. He knew the signs, knew it wasn’t possible to fake the chalk-white skin with the faint sheen of sweat, the nausea and its inevitable result—and sure, she could have produced a positive pregnancy test stick but he’d seen her go into the loo with an unopened packet and break the seal.
He knew.
And now he had to think of the future.
‘We need to talk.’
Talk? She nearly laughed out loud, but it would have been more than a little hysterical, so she just clamped her mouth shut and headed out of the hall, walking into the sitting room and standing there staring unseeing through the window, arms wrapped tight around her waist, while the emotions crashed through her like a tidal wave.
‘Go on, then, talk.’
He laughed, an odd, fractured sound that scraped on her nerves. ‘Cara, we have to talk. This is going to happen, and we have to face it. What alternative is there?’
Shooting myself? Ringing my mother and telling her I’ve been as stupid as she was? Scrolling back through all the drugs and chemicals and foodstuffs I’ve been exposed to in the past few weeks?
‘Going home to bed,’ she said, suddenly feeling incredibly tired and tearful and wishing Luca would go away so she could curl up in the corner and howl.
She got her wish. His pager went off, and muttering something Italian and no doubt rude, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Later. I have to go back to the hospital, but you can stay here,’ he said. ‘Go and rest now, I’ll come home as soon as I can. Use my bed.’
‘I can’t. I have to go home.’
‘No, you can’t do that awful journey in this state—or work the hours you’ve been working. It’s ridiculous when you’re sick.’
‘No, Luca,’ she said, turning to face him and meeting his eyes with defiance. ‘I’m not sick. I’m pregnant. There’s a difference, and I have no intention of being treated like aninvalid—and before you even think about it, don’t you dare go and tell my colleagues to get them to take my workload off me, or I swear to God,
Oh, she was. He could see it a mile away, but he had to know. He took a slow, deep breath. ‘Do you have another test with you?’
She nodded numbly. ‘In my bag. Luca, I’m on the Pill,’ she said, her voice a little desperate.
‘And did you take it punctually?’
She nodded her head slowly. ‘Pretty much, but it’s only to regulate my periods, so I’m not religious about it. And that morning, I took it just before we boarded the flight and thenI was airsick in the turbulence and I felt so dreadful I just didn’t think about it until now—’
She broke off, and he stabbed his hand through his hair. ‘And I—’ He’d been so inflamed with passion that he’d forgotten his own name. Damn. He picked up her bag from the floor and held it out to her. ‘Just do the test, cara, please. We need to know this. I need to know it.’
She took it, her fingers shaking, and rummaged for a box—a pregnancy test kit from the ward. He recognised it instantly. She handed the bag back and shut the door, and he waited. And waited. What seemed like hours later, when he was about to tear the door down and go in and find her, she opened it and walked out, her face ashen.
‘Well?’ he asked, his voice tight.
She handed him the little white stick.
‘Congratulations, Luca,’ she said unsteadily. ‘You’re going to be a father.’ And then she burst into tears.
He didn’t even look down. One glance at her face had been enough to tell him the answer, but he’d needed to hear her say it. And his reaction was not at all what he’d expected. In the midst of the shock, somewhere buried down there amongst a whole plethora of emotions and complications and sheer, blind terror, a tiny flicker of joy burst into life.
He was going to be a father. He felt his eyes fill, and blinked hard, scarcely daring to hope, but he knew Isabelle was pregnant. He was an obstetrician. He knew the signs, knew it wasn’t possible to fake the chalk-white skin with the faint sheen of sweat, the nausea and its inevitable result—and sure, she could have produced a positive pregnancy test stick but he’d seen her go into the loo with an unopened packet and break the seal.
He knew.
And now he had to think of the future.
‘We need to talk.’
Talk? She nearly laughed out loud, but it would have been more than a little hysterical, so she just clamped her mouth shut and headed out of the hall, walking into the sitting room and standing there staring unseeing through the window, arms wrapped tight around her waist, while the emotions crashed through her like a tidal wave.
‘Go on, then, talk.’
He laughed, an odd, fractured sound that scraped on her nerves. ‘Cara, we have to talk. This is going to happen, and we have to face it. What alternative is there?’
Shooting myself? Ringing my mother and telling her I’ve been as stupid as she was? Scrolling back through all the drugs and chemicals and foodstuffs I’ve been exposed to in the past few weeks?
‘Going home to bed,’ she said, suddenly feeling incredibly tired and tearful and wishing Luca would go away so she could curl up in the corner and howl.
She got her wish. His pager went off, and muttering something Italian and no doubt rude, he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. ‘Later. I have to go back to the hospital, but you can stay here,’ he said. ‘Go and rest now, I’ll come home as soon as I can. Use my bed.’
‘I can’t. I have to go home.’
‘No, you can’t do that awful journey in this state—or work the hours you’ve been working. It’s ridiculous when you’re sick.’
‘No, Luca,’ she said, turning to face him and meeting his eyes with defiance. ‘I’m not sick. I’m pregnant. There’s a difference, and I have no intention of being treated like aninvalid—and before you even think about it, don’t you dare go and tell my colleagues to get them to take my workload off me, or I swear to God,
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