Her New Year Baby Secret Read online

  ‘Sure you know how,’ Ashleigh said with a soft smile. ‘You know how to be an awesome friend. You’re over halfway there.’

  ‘Besides...’ Emma jumped to her feet and stepped over to give her a hug. Sophie leaned gratefully on her shoulder, glad of the support. ‘You have us. We’re going to be the best team of aunties-stroke-fairy-godmothers any child ever had. You’re not alone, Soph. Don’t ever think it.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t worry about your future. I predict amazing things,’ Grace said, wrestling the laptop away from Ashleigh. ‘Not only is the whole of Italy wild about the alterations you made to Bianca’s dress, but they love the going-away outfit you made her too. I’ve seen dozens of blogs and articles raving about it. Now your website is finally going live...’ she shot a mock stern look at Sophie ‘...and people can actually order your clothes, success can’t be far away.’

  ‘Long-deserved success,’ Ashleigh chimed in, holding up her cup of tea in a toast.

  Sophie blinked back tears. Not only had her friends collected her from the airport, smothered her with affection, tea and cake, waited patiently until she had been able to find the words to tell them about the baby—and about Marco and her feelings for him—but they had also gently encouraged her to capitalise on her new-found design fame, helping her put the finishing touches to her website and testing it for her so when it went live—any second now—she could be confident it worked. Ashleigh had also helped her organise her space in the tiny flat so that finished designs could be photographed in a clutter-free space and her material was neatly stacked, giving her more room to work. Potential customers could either choose from her small collection of existing stock or order by design, choosing the material they liked best from her assortment of vintage prints or sending their own for her to make up.

  One day she would like to have a larger collection of ready-to-buy stock—but for that she would need a studio and storage, possibly a couple of seamstresses. No, tiny steps were best. If she could just make enough to keep herself and the baby afloat, then she would have options; she didn’t want to need Marco’s money. She would like his emotional support though.

  Which was ironic—he had money to spare but support, real support, was much harder for him. Maybe too hard.

  ‘Right, we have to get off.’ Ashleigh hauled herself to her feet. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come, Sophie?’ Grace’s fiancé was hosting a glamorous fundraising event at his hotel and all three of her friends were attending. Funny to think that just a few months ago they would probably have all been waitressing for it.

  Which reminded her, she needed to discuss hours and jobs with Clio. Heavy cleaning and too much standing around were probably out, but Sophie wanted to ensure she had some steady income while the first orders came in. Her waitressing days weren’t behind her yet.

  ‘I’m sure. I’m exhausted by nine at the moment. Besides, I want to stalk my inbox and wait for an order.’

  ‘It won’t be long,’ Grace said loyally, dropping a kiss onto her cheek. ‘If you need a hand, well, I can’t sew. Or cut out. But I am very good at parcels—and making tea.’

  ‘You’ll be my first port of call,’ Sophie promised, kissing her back and then embracing Emma and Ashleigh in turn.

  The flat felt larger without her friends—a little larger—and a lot emptier. Sophie put her laptop on the kitchen counter and refreshed her email. Nothing. Maybe her friends were wrong, maybe the publicity and excitement over Bianca’s wedding dress and the two-piece, sixties-inspired going-away outfit she had gifted the bride were just a storm in a teacup and wouldn’t translate into sales.

  But she couldn’t believe that, wouldn’t believe it. After all, photos of Bianca were everywhere and not just in the Italian press; a few British sites had picked up the chatter about the ‘London-based designer’ and had run short pieces extolling her as one to watch. Every piece used the same photo, taken at the wedding, Sophie in her grey dress smiling up at Marco, handsome in his tuxedo. Her heart turned over at the picture. They looked so happy, so together—to a casual observer as if they were head over heels in love. But she wasn’t a casual observer.

  Impatient to shake her bad mood, Sophie grabbed her pad and pencil. The success of Bianca’s wedding dress made her wonder if there might be more bridal commissions in her future and she wanted to be prepared...

  Stretching, she realised she’d lost track of time. Over two hours had passed while she’d sketched her first attempts at twenties-, fifties-and sixties-inspired bridal gowns. Not too bad, she decided, standing back and taking a fresh look. She’d like to get some samples started soon, a heavy silk for the twenties dress, lace and chiffon for the fifties dress and embroidered velvet for the sixties-inspired design.

  As she moved the pad further away her hand knocked the keyboard and her laptop screen blared into life, opening onto her brand-new inbox. Only, it wasn’t empty as it had been when she last looked; no, there were four unopened emails sitting there and they didn’t look like spam... With a trembling hand she clicked on one and scanned the message; would she be able to design a wedding dress and what were her fees?

  Sophie took a deep breath; she’d been right to turn her attentions to bridal. The second was from a boutique here in Chelsea asking if they could discuss stocking some of her designs, the third another enquiry, this time for an evening gown. So far so good. No actual money but the possibility of work. The fourth, however, came from the automated payment system she had set up. She took a deep breath and clicked. ‘Yes!’ she shouted. ‘Yes!’ An order, a real order for two of her dresses, a shift dress in a polka-dot pink and a copy of the dress she’d worn to Bianca’s wedding in a gorgeous green flowered cotton. She had done it! She was a real designer with real sales to people she didn’t know.

  She looked round, wanting to jump up and down, to babble her excitement into someone else’s ear, to have someone else to confirm that, yes, the emails said exactly what she thought they said. But there was nobody there; her shoebox had never felt so spacious, never felt so lonely. She could text her friends, of course. They would be delighted. But, she realised, sinking back onto her stool, the euphoria draining away, she didn’t want to impress them. She didn’t need to witness their reactions.

  She wanted Marco there, celebrating alongside her. She wanted to see him look impressed, to tell her how proud he was. But he was a long, long way away. Emotionally, physically, in every way that mattered. She’d thought she’d been lonely in the past, but it didn’t compare to how she felt now. Completely and utterly alone. She couldn’t let that stop her. She’d pulled herself back from the brink before, she could do it again. Besides, it wasn’t all about her, not any more. She had to be strong for the baby—she simply had no other option.

  * * *

  Marco took another look at the address. He hadn’t thought too much about where Sophie lived, but he’d assumed it would be in a flat in one of Chelsea’s leafy streets, possibly sharing with a couple of friends. Not on this noisy, busy road, cars honking horns impatiently as they queued three abreast, fumes acrid in the damp air.

  ‘Number one eight one,’ he muttered, coming to a stop outside the right building. There was a takeaway on the ground floor and Marco grimaced as the scent of greasy fried chicken assailed him. The door to the flats was a dingy green, the doorstop covered in thrown-away boxes and discarded chicken bones. No way was any child of his growing up here, he vowed.

  He scanned the names, almost illegible against the long list of buzzers, but before he found Sophie’s name, the door opened and a young woman barged out, leaving the door ajar. Marco added security to the list of undesirables and shouldered it open. He needed Flat Ten. He looked at the door at the end of the ground floor—number one. It looked like he was going up...and up and up. Another item for his list: too many stairs. How on earth did she think she would cart a baby up here?

 
It was easier to list all the reasons for Sophie to move than it was to face the other list, the list that had brought him to the door. The list that started with how big, how lonely his bed felt every night, the list that included how much he missed her. The list that concluded that he didn’t want to live in the Chelsea house or Venice on his own. The list that told him he had reacted badly to the news of her pregnancy, that he might be a little too convinced of his own eligibility, possibly bordering on arrogant where his marriage prospects were concerned. He patted Nonna’s ring, secure in his top pocket. He would do better this time. He had to.

  Finally he made his way to the top floor. Sophie’s door was the same dull navy as all the other flat doors, but the handle was polished and two terracotta pots filled with lush greenery brightened the narrow landing. Marco shifted, nervous for the first time since he had boarded the plane this morning fired up with purpose. Before he could start listing why this was a bad idea he raised his hand and knocked firmly at the door.

  ‘Mr Kowaski, have you forgotten your keys again? It’s okay, I... Oh.’ The door was fully open and Sophie stood there, shock mingling with something Marco couldn’t define but hoped might be pleasure. ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘A neighbour.’

  ‘They’re not supposed to just let people... Not that it matters. Come on in.’

  She stepped back and Marco entered her flat. There wasn’t much of it, a small attic room, a large dormer window to the right the only natural light. A sofa ran along the wall to his left, opposite him a narrow counter defined the small kitchen, a high table barely big enough for two by the window. He’d been on larger boats.

  The furniture was old and battered, but the room was scrupulously clean, the cream walls covered in bright prints and swathes of material, the sofa heaped with inviting throws and cushions. Along the wall adjoining the window a clothing rail lined up, dresses hanging on it in a neat row and drawings and patterns were pinned up on a huge easel.

  There was no door between the living space and her bedroom, just a narrow archway. Through it he could see a single bed and two more rails bulging with brightly patterned dresses and skirts.

  He walked over to the nearest rail and pulled out the first dress. Just like the outfit she’d worn to Bianca’s wedding—just like everything he’d seen her in—it was deceptively simple. She obviously took her inspiration from the past, each outfit having a vintage vibe, but the detailing and cut gave it a modern twist.

  ‘So this is what you do.’ She’d said she wanted to be a designer, he’d seen her work first-hand, but he hadn’t appreciated just how talented—just how motivated—she was, not until he stood in the tiny flat, more workspace than home. He’d met so many Chelsea girls over the last few years, women with family money who pottered around playing at being designers or artists or jewellers. He’d assumed Sophie belonged to their tribe, although looking back the signs were there: how careful she was with money, how little she spoke about her family. It was painfully clear how much he’d misjudged her, how little he knew about her.

  ‘This is what I do. It’s taken me a long time to get even this far. I don’t make a living from it yet. In fact...’ she took a deep breath ‘...I owe you an apology. I didn’t mean to mislead you...’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘When we met, that first night. I was at the party but not as a guest. You didn’t see me because I was invisible—I was waitressing there. I was supposed to be waitressing at the Snowflake Ball as well. Only, my friends played fairy godmother and bought me a ticket. That’s how I make ends meet, have done since I moved to London. I work for Maids in Chelsea, cleaning, shopping, bar work—whatever is needed.’

  Her blue eyes were defiant, her chin tilted, hands bunched on her hips. ‘You worked and produced all this? When did you find time to sleep? To eat?’

  The defiance dimmed, replaced with relief. ‘Sleep’s overrated.’

  ‘You didn’t lie. You told me you were a designer. Looking at all this, I’d say that’s exactly what you are. These are incredible.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She twisted her hands together. ‘But you didn’t come here to pay me compliments. I know we need to talk, but it’s late and I’m really tired. Could we meet tomorrow and do this then?’

  She did look exhausted, he realised with a pang of guilt. Purple shadows darkened her eyes, her hair, twisted up into a loose ponytail was duller than usual, her lips pale. She looked more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her and he ached for the right to take care of her. She was carrying his child. His. It was almost impossible to imagine, her body still slender, seemingly unchanged, and yet his blood thrilled at the realisation. He’d been running from this commitment for so long yet now he was confronted with the actuality he was filled with a primal joy. A determination to do better, be a better father than he had been a son, to not make the same mistakes his own father had made but to love his child no matter what their aspirations, who they wanted to be.

  ‘We can, but I just need to say one thing. I’m sorry for how I reacted, when you told me about the pregnancy. It was such a shock, so unexpected. I needed to fix it, solve it. That’s what I do.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘I made assumptions about you, about us. That was wrong. But I’ve missed you, Sophie. All this week I keep turning to speak to you, to see your reaction, and you’re not there. That’s my fault, I know, and it’s up to me to make things right.’ It was his turn to take a deep breath. He had never thought he would ever reach this point, but now he was here it made sense as nothing had ever made sense before. Maybe this was destined, the meeting in the snow, the baby, bringing him to this point.

  Reaching into his top pocket, he pulled out the small black box. Sophie’s eyes widened and she retreated back a step, but he took her hand in his, sinking to one knee like an actor playing his part. ‘Sophie, it would make me very happy if you would do me the very great honour of becoming my wife.’

  He smiled up at her, waiting for her agreement.

  ‘No. I’m sorry, Marco, but I can’t.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  SOPHIE STEPPED BACK one more step, pulling her hand free of his. A chill of loneliness shivered through her and she had to fight the urge to tell him she’d changed her mind, of course she would marry him. But he wasn’t here for her, not for Sophie Bradshaw, he was here for the mother of his child. Here because it was the right thing to do. And she appreciated that, she really did. But she couldn’t stake the rest of her life on it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated.

  Marco slowly straightened, regret mingled with anger and embarrassment clear on his face. ‘I see.’

  Ten minutes ago all Sophie had wanted was the coolness of her newly washed sheets, to burrow under her duvet and fall into the kind of heavy, dreamless, all-encompassing sleep her body demanded. She’d asked him to wait until tomorrow, told him she was tired and yet he’d still overridden her wishes. The only difference from last week’s conversation was that this time Marco had couched his demand for marriage as a request.

  A request he clearly expected her to acquiesce to.

  No, nothing had changed. ‘I appreciate that you think getting married is the right thing to do, especially knowing how you feel about marriage, but I can’t.’

  Eyes grim, mouth narrowed, he nodded once. ‘Then there’s nothing else to say.’ Marco turned, clearly heading for the door, out of her flat and potentially out of her life. Out of their child’s life.

  Sophie wavered, torn. She wanted him involved, but he expected so much, too much. But, dammit, she knew she owed him an explanation; after all, it wasn’t his fault it wasn’t enough for her. At least a dozen women at the wedding would have leapt at his first decisive statement; they’d have swooned at a ring and a bended knee—after saying yes, of course. ‘Would you like a drink? I think I have a beer in the fridge.’
r />   He stilled, stopped. ‘That would be nice, but you’re tired.’

  ‘I am, but you’re here now. Sit down.’ She nodded at the sofa. ‘I’ll bring you a beer.’

  Sophie busied herself for a few minutes, opening the beer, making herself a peppermint tea and pouring some crisps into a bowl and setting it on the tiny portable all-purpose table, before sinking into the sofa next to him. Next to him but not touching. She pulled her legs up before her, propping her chin on her knees, her arms hugging her legs, wanting the warmth, the support. Neither spoke, the silence neither hostile nor comfortable, more a cautious truce.

  ‘I owe you an honest explanation, at the very least,’ she said after a while. ‘It’s not easy for me to talk about, even to think about. I’m not very proud of my past.’

  His eyes flickered at that, but he didn’t say anything. Instead he took a long drink from the bottle of beer and settled back against the sofa, his gaze steady as he watched her. Sophie stared past him, her eyes fixed on the wall behind him, tracing the colours in the material hanging there, following the pattern round and round.

  ‘For most of my life I thought my only value was in how happy I made others. My parents weren’t cruel, not at all. I had everything. Private school, lovely clothes, everything I needed except for freedom, except for autonomy. My mother liked a project, you see. She’s very determined, very focussed.’ She smiled. ‘I often wonder what will happen when she meets your mother. They’ll be the definition of the unstoppable force versus the immoveable object. Scientists should study them under test conditions.’

  She sipped her tea, her gaze still fixed on the material. It was hard to untangle her feelings about her mother; they were so complicated. She’d been so loved, Sophie knew that. But the burden of expectation had been crushing and Sophie wasn’t sure she’d ever stop being resentful, stop wishing for a more carefree childhood. A childhood that had prepared her for adulthood instead of leaving her wide open and vulnerable.