By the time Celia’s name was called four hours later and she went off to see the doctor Marcus was practically climbing walls.
She’d been quiet while they’d been waiting. Monosyllabic in her answers to his occasional question about how she was feeling, but that was hardly surprising since he must have put the fear of God into her with talk of burnout, breakdown and heart attacks. Not to mention the way he’d practically bullied her into coming, even though he’d had no choice because, God, he’d never met a more stubborn woman.
But she hadn’t commented on his methods or his motivation, which was actually something of a relief because he wasn’t sure he could explain the reason for the sky-high level of concern that had gripped him when he’d laid eyes on her earlier. He could tell himself as much as he liked that it was Lily, or Dan, or his conscience, but he had the vague suspicion it was something else. Something he didn’t want to investigate too closely.
Instead she’d just sat there, calmly flicking through leaflets and then absorbing herself in her e-reader. She’d drunk the coffees he’d bought, and worked her way through half a sandwich, an apple and a chocolate bar that he’d picked up from the canteen. She’d even had a nap, stretching across four of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and point-blank refusing the offer of his lap as a pillow.
In short, she couldn’t have been more composed.
He, on the other hand, had been going increasingly nuts. When not occupied with the job of going for food and drink, he’d spent practically all of the past four hours pacing, shoving his hands through his hair in frustration and wishing he could just barge in and insist she be seen then and there. But this was a Saturday night in London, and a woman with a headache and the odd palpitation—as she’d insisted on describing herself when asked about her symptoms—came pretty low down on the list when it came to emergencies.
He didn’t like hospitals; the smells, the lighting, the sounds made him shudder. He’d spent quite enough time in them when his father had been ill. He didn’t like the memories they stirred up much either. Memories of his mother’s grief following his father’s death and the way she’d shut him out. The way he hadn’t understood that and so had reciprocated by shutting her—and everyone else—out.
As an only child with an emotionally absent mother he’d been alone with his grief, and, unable to handle it, he’d gone off the rails, partying too hard, drinking too much and sleeping with too many girls. He hadn’t noticed that his mother wasn’t coping either. She hadn’t displayed any sign that she wasn’t and he hadn’t realised she’d been caught in the claws of deep depression until the day he learned she’d locked herself in the garage with the engine of his father’s car running and had had to identify her body in yet another hospital.
But where else could he have taken Celia at this time on a Saturday night? It was the only option he’d had because maybe she was right and he was overreacting but the symptoms she had worried him, and if it came to it he was not going to have another woman’s death on his conscience.
Given that they’d been waiting so long, the fact that Celia emerged a mere fifteen minutes after she went in was unexpected. He didn’t know if the speed of her appointment was a good thing or a bad one. He scoured her face but her expression gave nothing away. She didn’t look happy. Or sad. She just looked blank.
As she went and sat down, Marcus strode over to her, his heart pounding and his blood draining to his feet as something like dread began to sweep through him. God, if there was something really wrong with her he didn’t know what the hell he’d do.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She looked up at him. Blinked as if whatever the doctor had told her hadn’t sunk in yet, and he got the impression that she wasn’t really looking at him. That she was miles away.
‘Celia? Tell me. What is it?’
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Frowned. ‘Stress, mainly,’ she said finally.
Marcus sank into the chair next to her, almost sagging with relief. Not a breakdown. Not burnout. Not a heart attack. ‘Thank God for that,’ he said roughly.
‘I wouldn’t go thanking God just yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s not just stress.’
‘Then what else is it?’
‘I’m pregnant.’
* * *
Celia watched as the news she’d barely registered herself hit Marcus’ brain. Watched him reel as she was still reeling. Watched the shock cross his face and thought that it couldn’t be anywhere near as great as the shock she was feeling. The shock that had made her throw up i
n the doctor’s wastepaper basket, not that she’d be sharing that delightful detail with him.
‘Pregnant?’ he echoed faintly.
She nodded. ‘Six weeks, they think.’
‘Mine?’
‘Couldn’t be anyone else’s.’
Marcus swore brutally and shoved his hands through his hair.
‘I know,’ she muttered.