Chapter 20
TWENTY
The next morning I wake up alone in my bed, which is not that unusual an occurrence as Guy often spends the night in his tent. This time, though, I actually feel alone, because the way we left things between us did not sit well with me.
I’d been tortured by dreams all night, some starting innocuously but eventually always riddled with anxiety.
Those dreams where you’re trying to fit a key in a door to escape a serial killer, but the key keeps snapping.
Or you’re trying to get money out of the cash machine so you can pay a ransom, but you constantly put the wrong PIN in and your card gets swallowed.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why I’m stressed, and in some ways it’s a relief when it’s actually time to get up.
My dad is already awake, pottering around the kitchen, as smartly dressed as ever in a plaid shirt and a woollen tie.
Bear spent the night with us as Zack is away in London and Connie was up early opening the café, and the chunky black Lab ambles over for a stroke.
I do it automatically, enjoying the sensation of his velvety ears despite my exhaustion.
‘Goedemorgen!’ my father says brightly, putting the kettle on. ‘That’s Dutch for good morning, in case you hadn’t figured it out!’
His smile never fades, but he takes in my messy hair and tired eyes. ‘Or is not such a goedemorgen after all? Are you feeling all right, dear? Is the baby okay?’
I take the tea that he offers and blow away the steam. It’s much colder in the mornings now, well and truly autumn. It seemed to happen all at once, the sudden change in the season.
‘We’re both fine, Dad,’ I tell him. ‘Thanks for asking. Just a rough night.’
I can’t tell him why I had such a rough night, because that is Guy and Miranda’s business, not my father’s.
He would keep it to himself, I know, but it would still feel like betraying Guy’s trust. Assuming that Dan didn’t go back into the pub and announce it on the karaoke microphone after a few more drinks.
‘Are you sure? You know you can talk to me, don’t you, Suzie?’
He loves me, and he is worried about me, and he wants me to know he cares.
I know that, but I still feel a touch of impatience.
The decades drop away, and I’m ready to roll my eyes, slam a door, maybe run off to climb a tree and sulk.
Except my tree climbing days are very much on hold for the time being, and I need to fight this silly annoyance.
I am lucky to have my father, and I am lucky that he is such a good man.
I am lucky that my DNA matches were pinging all over that app last night, instead of showing up as solitary and alone.
‘I do, Dad,’ I say calmly. ‘I really do and thank you. I’m just tired after a bad night’s sleep, that’s all. I’ll feel better as the day wears on, I’m sure.’
He doesn’t look a hundred per cent convinced, but he gives in graciously. I guess we’ve both learned to fight our urges in our quest to keep things on an even keel. ‘Any plans for today?’ he asks instead.
Fear, fatigue, worrying myself sick about my unofficial Viking warrior fiancé. Worrying myself sick about him and how he feels, and worrying myself sick about how being apart from him makes me feel. Predictably enough, I say none of this.
‘Not much, Dad. I think I’ll take it easy. You?’
‘A trip to Shaftesbury with Ella for my annual check-up.’
I smile and nod. He’s told me about this – his regular pilgrimage to the pretty Dorset town made famous by the old Hovis advert, the one from the seventies where a boy on a bike delivers bread, then freewheels down the cobbles of Golden Hill.
It’s a pretty steep incline, and my dad tackles it every year to prove he’s still fit and well.
I’m glad he’ll be busy today, because I’m not sure how much fun I’m going to be, that’s for sure.
I’m physically okay, but I’m definitely noticing the rigours of pregnancy more with every day.
My body feels so much bigger and more unwieldy, and I have a touch of sciatica that no amount of yoga seems to be shifting.
My boobs feel enormous, I have intermittent heartburn, and my ribs are sore.
The baby is apparently now the size of a mango, assuming it is a mango that has grown arms and legs and likes kicking.
I don’t care about any of that. That is all normal and healthy and temporary, it will all pass and none of it is especially troubling. My emotional state, though, is something else entirely. I just have such a sense of dread hanging over my head, a grey mental cloud that I simply can’t chase away.
‘That’s fantastic, Dad. Will you go to the tea shop at the top of the hill?’
‘Absolutely. You’re more than welcome to join us for a scone or six, if you like?’
I can tell he is worried about me but trying not to show it. I pat his hand, appreciating his concern. ‘That’s very kind of you, Dad, but I think I’ll give it a miss. I wouldn’t mind a day just chilling out, and besides, I’m not sure I’d even keep up with you!’
I put as much sincerity into my voice as I can, and he seems to accept it. It’s a relief when he finally leaves, though, off with Bear to meet Ella for their day out. I can stop pretending as soon as I hear the front door shut behind him.
I’ve already checked my phone this morning and found zero messages from Guy, but I told myself that wasn’t anything to be too upset about. The signal here is temperamental, and even if he had tried to contact me, there’s no guarantee it would have landed.
That, of course, does not apply to the more old-fashioned approach – he could have called by in person, because a knock on the door does not rely on phone masts and technology.
It is after nine, and when he stays in the tent he usually wakes up much earlier than this.
His usual routine is to pop round to see me for toast and tea and a shower, and if my father isn’t in, that often develops into something a lot more fun.
Today, there is none of that. No knock on the door, and certainly no amazing post-shower sexy shenanigans either.
I try calling his number, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I send him a text, but it shows as undelivered.
I’m so worried about him. I keep remembering the look on his face last night, the bitter tone of his voice.
He sounded broken, devastated. He asked me to let him go, and I didn’t feel like I had any choice in the matter – but now, I am wondering if I did the right thing.
If maybe I should have insisted on staying with him, or even stalked him down to the beach to keep an eye on him?
What if his conversation with Miranda didn’t go well?
They’ve only so recently built this fragile but fierce relationship, both of them carving out space in their hearts for each other.
He’s worked so hard to prove himself to her, to gain her trust, to convince her that he deserves a place in her and Evan’s life.
It seems so cruel to discover that it was all built on a lie, and it’s understandable that he reacted like he did.
What if it was all too much for him? We’ve joked about us both being flight risks, about our tendency to run.
What if this has pushed him over the edge?
I feel panic rising inside me, and I am not proud of it. The panic is for my own sake as much as his, because imagining my life without Guy is terror-inducing.
‘No,’ I tell myself out loud. ‘Stop right there! Find out what the hell is going on before you freak out.’
This is very sensible advice, and I decide to follow it.
I finish my tea and head out into the village, forcing myself to have the inevitable conversations, say the necessary good mornings, return the obligatory waves.
I am exchanging pleasantries with Trevor outside the Emporium when Miranda herself emerges.
She looks as tired as I feel, and Evan is showing her no mercy.
He spots me and runs over, colliding with my legs like a small blonde bowling ball.
I catch hold of him, lean down and blow raspberries on his chubby cheeks.
This makes him laugh, an infectious sound that does lift my spirits a little.
At least it does until I see the miserable look on Miranda’s face.
Trevor luckily heads back inside the shop, and Evan toddles after him. He gets lifted onto the counter to ‘help’ while Trevor serves a customer, in what is obviously a pretty rehearsed move. Miranda gazes after him, checking he’s settled, then turns back to me.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask her. I’m guessing that she’s seen the DNA results, and talked to Guy about them, but I can’t be totally sure. She might just look like crap because she has a lively two-year-old who likes to smash things.
‘Not really,’ she says quietly, folding her arms over her chest. Miranda is short and plumpish, with brown hair and eyes.
I’d always just assumed that she must take after her mother in the looks department, but now I realise that there is a much more obvious reason why she doesn’t resemble Guy at all.
‘I saw the thing on the app. I was connected to nobody, and neither was he. He called round last night and we talked it over. I’m sure you know that already. ’
I didn’t, but I’m not surprised. ‘How did that go for you?’ I ask gently. She looks exhausted, and so sad.
‘Not brilliant. We were both upset I suppose. I’d…
I’d just got used to having him here. I’d just got used to having a dad around, and started to think he’d always be around, for me, and for Evan.
And now I feel like the rug’s been pulled from beneath my feet.
I probably need to talk to my mum, but I haven’t done that for years.
I don’t especially want to invite her chaos back into my life, but I do have questions. ’
‘Of course you do,’ I tell her, patting her arm. She’s not an especially tactile person, but she smiles gratefully at the contact.