So, what would news of a pregnancy do to him?
It would prove we’d had an affair, that he lied, not only to ‘his wife’ but also to the country. And that I lied for him, too.
That stupid statement. Pretending it was all an innocent flirtation. I bloody knew it was a mistake. Honesty is always the best policy because lies have a way of catching up with you. Women don’t get pregnant from an innocent infatuation. The press are going to have so much fun with them, now:
WHO KNEW HOLDING HANDS COULD LEAVE YOU HOLDING THE BABY.
GIRLS BEWARE AN INNOCENT WALK ON THE BEACH WILL SEND YOU UP THE DUFF.
IMMACULATE CONCEPTION FOR MARRIAGE WRECKER ALICE.
All I have to do is tell him my news, and his political career will be over just he’s about to achieve what he wants.
My finger hovers over the unread message, then I press until the box of options pops up.
Delete message.
DELETE FOR EVERYONE?The app wants to know.
YES.
There will be no falling into his arms any time soon. We can’t build a happily ever after on the wreckage of his political dreams.
Clive has to know, but not today. Later, when I feel stronger and can think how to handle this.
In the meantime, I’ll figure out what to do and where to live, because – and I swallow away the pain when I think this – I’ll hide until after the elections, here on this little floating rock that likes to call itself an island.
“Apparently,” Brandon says from across the table as the waitress walks away. “George Du Montfort is already at the festival, helping with arrangements before it officially starts. As soon as you finish your breakfast,” he nods at the uneaten waffles on my plate, “we can go find him.”
“I’m finished. Let’s go.” I push my chair back and stand up.
Chapter Ten
Alice/Lessa
The festival is held somewhere in the middle of a field – of course – so we leave the village and walk across grass and under apple trees. Brandon seems to sense my mood. Apart from occasionally holding my elbow when climbing over a stile between farms or stepping round a hedge heavy with autumn berries, he walks in a comfortable silence. Thank God! It saves me from having to find something to say and instead can just let my thoughts drift. Not about the preg…A shiver runs through me.
“Are you cold?”
I shake my head but can’t speak. That word which seems impossible to say: pr…preg…p…p…p. My mind stutters.
It’s probably shock. Earlier this morning, all my thoughts were focused on reaching Clive, on waiting for him to swoop in and take care of me. Now, it’s just me, at least for a while, and the hugeness of the situation is starting to really hit me. Even saying the word preg…no, no, no.
Drawing a long deep breath, the way they tell you to do in Tai Chi “to calm the mind,”I will just have to find a codename … theThing?TheCatastrophe?Market crash? Words have power and I don’t need any more negativity just now.
So, an innocuous name like…like…
Brandon helps me step wider to avoid fallen apples.
We must be close to the fair because we can see tents and flying banners in the distance. A scattering of people are also walking across this field like us. A couple wave to Brandon.
Name. I need a name.
Two men push a trolly full of large bottles, and we step aside to let them follow the path ahead of us.
“Pomegranate Juice,” one of them says.
Pomegranate.
