‘You’re banned,’ I said, holding up my hand. ‘Give me back the book. I’m booking a caesarean.’
So while I’d talked myself into it and then talked myself out of telling Dylan about the baby, I’d told those closest to me before the rest of the village seemed to have found out by themselves. It’s not like I put an advert in the window—I’d even been careful of my doctor’s appointments and stuff. Silly, I know, because it’s not something I’m able to hide indefinitely. But as June likes to say, if they’re gossiping about me, they’re leaving some other poor soul alone. I suppose I’m keeping the gossips well entertained even if no one ever asks me about mybaby daddybecause the news was just too shocking for delicate ears.
I’d kept my explanation simple; a one-night stand while I was in LA. Beyond the fact I didn’t know anything about him besides his name, what else was there to say? Nothing. No questions to ask, but I caught their glances. Pity from some, distaste from others. From my friends, I got none of that. Just acceptance and, lately, excitement on my behalf.
Mac insists on taking me to my appointments, which means I regularly get to explain he’s notDaddy,which is special. Really special. Natasha and June hold down the fort whenever I’m gone, and I’ve also taken on a first-year apprentice, which has lightened my load. Stacey’s not the brightest button in the box, but at least I don’t have to bend over the basin to wash hair anymore. I still see my clients while Ted takes care of his and any walk-ins. And despite their near-constant bickering, I know Nat and he are becoming firm friends.
Sort of like Mac and I; bickering buddies.
And Fin’s doing fine, too. Her job isn’t exactly rocket science, but it’s keeping her busy, and busy, as I know myself, leads totoo tired to think. And that, my friends, is a blessing. I miss having her tucked up in the wee room next to mine. I miss tripping over her million pairs of designer shoes and her quick wit. I miss her teasing, though not her tears. After years of living in different countries, being around her again was like slipping on an old pair of fluffy slippers or a dressing gown.Just comfortable, you know?She says she’s fine, and we talk often, sometimes late at night. We both have those evenings when, no matter how busy the day has been, we can’t get our brain to switch off. We talk about work, the salon, and the crazy stuff Natasha says. And she’ll tell me about her bitch of a boss, but we don’t discuss the important stuff. And we certainly don’t mention husbands. We don’t talk men. When she says she’s fine, I stay quiet because I’m not sure she’s being honest. In fact, I know she’s not. Fine is a title that fits neither of us.
And in the meantime, with each day that passes, it gets more difficult to tell Dylan the truth. I mean how can I? Really? Georgia may not be my favourite person, but if he wasn’t with her, he’d be with someone else.Because he’s moved on.But their relationship is still new, and I can’t help think that, in telling him about our baby, I’d cause him more harm than good. Every time I catch a glimpse of them—pap shots, online, and in magazines—I can’t help but look at his smile. If she couldn’t handle the inclusion of our baby, I might be taking away the good from his life again. I worry that he might spiral into destructive ways again.
Drunk and falling out of nightclubs.
Snatching cameras from hands only to smash them.
Destroying hotel rooms.
That he wasn’t kicked out of the industry when we broke up is probably a testament to his talent. His transgressions were noted as the effects of being faced with sudden fame. That excuse wouldn’t work a second time. My news could ruin him, and I’m so conflicted. I know I must tell him—know it’s only right. But when should I tell him and how?
Do I obsess?
Are they getting married? Aren’t they? Is it just a publicity stunt?
Our marriage may be over—well, it will be in a few more months—but it’s hard to know what the future will bring. I’d passed our divorce over to the hands of the lawyer, Mr. Mackenzie the younger, who tells me I must wait until we’ve been apart a full year. I like to think that in the delay, Dylan may avoid making a second marital mistake. Georgia’s young and flighty, and her name is always linked to some actor or another, or maybe I’m just being unfair.
Or maybe I’m just beginning to think like a mother now.
Neither he nor his legal team have been in touch, which is strange. And while I’ve complained plenty about small village mentality and nosy people burrowing into my private business, it seems the notion is a double-edged sword because word on the high street is that the elder Mr. McKenzie has given out some not so sane legal advice lately on account of advancing dementia. It would explain the rubbish legal counsel he gave me. I’m not surprised his nephew didn’t share that news.
So Dylan is stuck with me for a while longer. At least, on paper. What choice do I have? I can’t file under the original grounds—my adultery—and I refuse to allow Dylan to shoulder the blame. I won’t do it to him. I won’t let him martyr himself. What if, in the future, the news got out? What would an admission of adultery do to his career? Then add to it the appearance of abandoning a pregnant wife? His fans might forgive a secret marriage and a divorce. But a child? He worked so hard to get where he is; I won’t be responsible for damaging his career with the industry or his fans.
If I’d thought ignoring him and not pressing on with the divorce would force him to contact me, I’d be wrong. I know he never wants to see me again, but I guess that must extend to his legal team. I am, however, relieved that I don’t have to deal with it anymore because most days, I’m too exhausted to even think straight. I’m so tired. Tired from the hair on my head to the paint on my toenails.
But I work because of money. I read a little. Sometimes, I socialise. I stalk the pair on the internet.Sad but true.I buy all the magazines. They’re still being snapped—or pap’d—together, but there’s no sign of engagement rings or wedding dress shopping. There are just smiles—coy from her and bland from him—when the topic of their wedding comes up.
The celeb magazines are for the salon and are tax deductible, I tell myself... even as I buy armfuls of the ones that feature the pair. Occasionally, one or two images of them together might be used as targets in a game of darts. And sometimes, Imightgive Georgia a drawn-on beard or moustache. Sometimes hillbilly teeth and eyeglasses. It depends on what kind of mood I’m in.
No, I don’t think I obsess. It’s just a form of art therapy...
One thing’s for sure; I’ll be the first to buy the magazine carrying news on their breakup. Not that I’m willing that to happen. Okay, maybe I am. Just a smidge. I am only human, after all. And she’s so gorgeous, as is he. And sadly, I’m still in love with him. My feelings haven’t changed one bit for that man. Iconic, really. No, that’s not right... I’m sure this pregnancy is draining me of brain cells.
I don’t wish him ill, and I do want him to be happy.
No—really.
I do!
But maybe just alone. And celibate.
For him to take religious office on a tiny island somewhere.
An island of men.
What’s ironic—yes; that’s the one!—is that just an hour before I’d discovered he’d moved on, I’d convinced myself I had to see him—to tell him I love him. To apologise. To tell him about our baby. I was so sure the only path to take was the honest one. The thing is I still do... I just don’t know if I can.
Chapter Twenty-Six
