37. Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Seven
I wake up the next morning, cold, alone, and with a familiar dull ache in my stomach. The bubble has well and truly burst. I yank off the bed covers and walk over to the windows, drawing back the curtains to let the overcast light in. I long to be back beneath the Ibizan sunshine, lying on a beach in Art’s arms. Speaking of which, I cast a glance over my shoulder to an empty bed. My eyes land on his running trainers neatly sat on the bedroom floor. He’s not gone for a run. Goodness knows where he’s gotten to.
The cold, hard ceramic tiles of the en suite floor chill the soles of my bare feet as I sit on the toilet for a wee while my brain ticks over at what’s to come next. I suppose I should look at wedding venues and places to honeymoon and, more importantly, break the news to Mum and Martin.
The red streak on the toilet paper confirms the cause of my stomach ache. My period. I’m not pregnant.
My eyes lift to the bathroom mirror in front of me. I should be relieved. Then, why does the woman staring back at me look so disappointed?
It’s too soon.
I’m too young.
I’m not ready to be a mum.
I wash my face and brush my teeth, piling my hair into a messy bun on top of my head, busying myself to distract from the pang in my chest as the ache in my stomach grows, reminding me that there’s no baby in there.
It’s a good thing , I tell myself, pulling on my denim cutoffs and slipping an off-the-shoulder pale pink jumper over my head.
The rumble of a low male voice echoes down the hallway as I approach the living area. Art leans forward across the kitchen counter, his mobile glued to his ear. He looks up when I enter.
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” he says, swiftly ending the call.
My curiosity is piqued by his abrupt manner. “Who was that?”
He chucks his phone down onto the marble and drags a hand across his jaw. There’s a deep crease across his forehead, and he looks uncharacteristically stressed. “Work.”
The tiny, nagging voice starts up in the back of my head, and I find myself wanting to know more. “The club?” I press, walking round the counter and switching on the kettle.
“Mmhmm.”
Do I really want the details? I’ve just about gotten used to the fact that he owns a strip club, but I’m still not crazy about the idea, and if it’s about the drug dealers, I’ll just worry about him having to sort it out.
I open an overhead cupboard and pull out two mugs. “Would you like a coffee?” I ask, popping the top off the metal storage canister with one hand while rifling around in the drawer for a spoon with the other.
When he doesn’t reply, I glance across to see him still leaning against the counter, tapping his fingers against the top, looking totally distracted and deep in thought.
“Is everything okay?”
He snaps out of it and straightens. “Yes. Sorry, I was miles away.”
“Would you like a coffee?” I repeat.
“No, thanks. Something’s cropped up that I need to go and sort.” He rubs a hand through his hair, and that distracted look is back.
I frown. “Now? But it’s only just gone lunchtime.”
“I know. I won’t be long.”
Tension appears in his shoulders as he shoves his phone into the back pocket of his jeans and goes to leave the kitchen. He’s certainly wound up about something. Either way, I feel I should tell him the news before he goes.
“I’m not pregnant.”
He stops, and his gaze softens as he looks at me for a long moment, letting the news sink in. “Are you okay?”
I’m not sure how I feel. I give a despondent shrug and shake my head as he links his hands in mine and gently pulls me towards him.
“Talk to me, Sophie.”
“It’s too soon, and I’m totally not ready …”
“But?” he says, clearly sensing I’m not completely okay.
“I think I convinced myself I was, and now, it’s ridiculous that I’m sad over something I didn’t even want.”
“It’s not ridiculous.”
He wraps his arms around me, and I close my eyes, relaxing against his soft black cashmere jumper. This is what I need. Him. I breathe in his fresh scent and calm. Everything’s better when I’m in his arms.
“When the time’s right, we’ll have lots of babies.”
I twist my face upwards and shoot him a hesitant look. “Lots?”
He smiles at my apprehensiveness. “Lots. I want a house full of little Arts and Sophies running round, and I can’t wait to start making them.”
I smile at the mental image. He’s made it all better, and suddenly, I don’t want him to leave, especially to go to that bloody club.
“Do you have to go now?”
His smile dissolves, and he kisses me. “I’m sorry. I won’t be long.”