‘I could get used to this,’ said Kate, lying full-length on one of the chocolate-brown leather sofas, her head propped up with one arm, clutching a full glass.
‘It is rather lovely.’ I gazed around looking appreciatively at the gorgeous glass coffee table between us, just one of the many artefacts decorating the room. It was a squat hippo, his small ears, eyes and broad snout rising above a sheet of glass as if it was surfacing in water. Like everything else in the room, it was beautiful.
‘I never thought I’d be grateful to Miranda for anything. Here, drink up. I’m a glass ahead.’
To my surprise Kate’s glass was still virtually full and then she put it down on the polished table.
‘No more, thanks.’
I stared at her flat stomach, her hand hovering protectively above it. Suddenly everything clicked into place. Mood swings. Tiredness. Tummy trouble and Boots. I knew immediately.
‘Yes,’ she said bitterly. ‘I’m pregnant.’
‘Really?’ My eyes widened. Kate never made mistakes. Still gaping at her, I asked what I thought was the obvious question. ‘Have you told Greg?’
It was her turn to look startled.
‘You know, the father?’ My sarcasm was wasted.
Kate’s lips twisted. ‘He’s not the father.’
There was a gaping silence. I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. I was astounded. How could she know with such certainty?
‘How do you know?’ I asked puzzled.
She looked pityingly at me. I was obviously missing something.
‘Because,’ she paused. ‘There is no Greg.’
‘What? No Greg. I don’t understand.’
‘There never was.’
I still looked blank.
‘I made him up,’ she snapped.
Why? Kate! Of all people. She was the last person who needed to invent boyfriends. Since the age of fifteen she’d been bringing the opposite sex to their knees.
‘So,’ I asked casually, as casually as I could when I was practically bouncing with agog-ness. ‘Who is the father?’
There was a long silence. Kate looked away and picked at a speck of fluff on her trousers. She swallowed a few times but she still didn’t say anything. I waited. Now she turned her attention to the button on the cuff of her jacket.
Then in a very small voice she said, ‘Bill,’ before bursting into tears.
What! No way. I shook my head, I must have misheard her. Unable to think of a single thing to say, I stared for a moment. How? More to the point, when? And what was she going to do about it? There were so many questions I wanted to ask, I didn’t know where to start. Instead, I put my glass down, moved over to sit next to her and held her tight as she rocked back and forth sobbing silently.
‘Why didn’t you say anything before?’ I said, when her sobs finally slowed, smoothing her hair back from her face.
Wiping the tears with the back of her hand, she pulled a face and put her head on my shoulder. ‘I thought if I didn’t say anything to anyone it would make it less real. Stupid, huh?’
I stared at her waiting for her to go on but not wanting to rush her.
‘I suppose you want to know what happened?’ Her ribcage lifted and fell with the heavy sigh.
‘Only if you want to tell me,’ I lied, scooting to sit opposite her, our knees touching.
It turned out that, despite her earlier denial, she had seen Bill when in he was in Australia. Being a rugby player in Australia was next best to royalty, so he’d been put up in one of the best hotels.
