St Piran’s: Rescuing Pregnant Cinderella. Carol MarinelliЧитать онлайн книгу.
said that babies can pick up on things…’ Izzy swallowed. ‘Do you believe that?’
‘It’s proven,’ Diego said.
‘So if you’re stressed or not happy…’
‘They know.’
‘And if you’re not sure…’ She wanted him to jump in, but he didn’t, he just continued to lean on her car. She should just get in it. Surely she should just drive off rather than admit what she didn’t dare to. ‘I mean, do you think they could know if you don’t…?’ She couldn’t say it, but Diego did.
‘If you don’t want them?’
‘Shh!’ Izzy scolded, appalled at his choice of words.
‘Why?’ There was a lazy smile on his face that was absolutely out of place with the seriousness of her admission. ‘It can’t understand your words—they’re not that clever.’
‘Even so!’ She was annoyed now, but he just carried on smiling. ‘You don’t say things like that.’
‘Not to an over-protective mum!’
Oh!
She’d never thought of it like that, never thought that her refusal to voice her thoughts, her refusal to even let herself properly think them might, in fact, show that she did have feelings for the life inside.
It was her darkest fear.
Of the many things that kept her brain racing through sleepless nights, this was the one that she dreaded exploring most—that her feelings for her baby’s father might somehow translate to her baby.
That love might not grow.
‘You’re not the only woman to be unsure she’s ready,’ Diego said. ‘And lots of mothers-to-be are stressed and unhappy, but I’m sure you’re not stressed and unhappy all the time.’ His smile faded when she didn’t agree and they stood for a quiet moment.
‘What if I am?’
He was silent for a while, unsure why a woman so beautiful, so vibrant, so competent would be so unhappy, but it wasn’t his business and for a dangerous moment Diego wished it was. So instead he smiled. ‘You can fake it.’
‘Fake it?’
‘Fake it!’ Diego nodded, that gorgeous smile in full flood now. ‘As I said, they’re not that clever. Twice a day, fake happiness, say all the things you think you should be saying, dance around the house, go for a walk on the beach, swim. I do each morning, whether I feel like it or not.’
He so didn’t get it, but, then, how could he?
‘Thanks for the suggestions.’ She gave him her best bright smile and pulled out her keys.
‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Where are you parked?’
‘I’m not. I live over there.’ He pointed in the direction of the beach. ‘I walk to work.’
‘You didn’t have to escort me.’
‘I enjoyed it,’ he said. ‘Anyway, you shouldn’t be walking through car parks on your own at night.’
He really didn’t get it, Izzy realised.
He was possibly the only person in the hospital who didn’t know her past, or he’d never have said what he just had.
She turned on the engine and as she slid into reverse he knocked on her car window and, irritated now, she wound it down.
‘Sing in the shower!’ He said. ‘Twice a day.’
‘Sure’ Izzy rolled her eyes. Like that was going to help.
‘And by the way ,’ he said as she was about to close her window, ‘I’m not!’
Izzy pulled on her handbrake and let the engine idle and she looked at those lips and those eyes and that smile and she realised exactly why she was annoyed—was she flirting?
Did twenty-eight weeks pregnant, struggling mentally to just survive, recently widowed women ever even begin to think about flirting?
No.
Because had she thought about it she would never have wound down that window some more.
‘Not what?’ Izzy asked the question she had refused to ask earlier, her cheeks just a little pink.
‘I’m not a frustrated doctor,’ Diego said, ‘as many of your peers seem to think every male nurse is.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Izzy said, and took off the handbrake, the car moving slowly beside him.
‘And I’m not the other cliché either!’ he called, and her cheeks were on fire, yet for the first time in the longest time she was grinning. Not forcing a smile, no, she was, from ear to ear, grinning.
No, there was absolutely no chance that Diego Ramirez was gay!
‘I’d already worked that out!’ Izzy called as she pushed up her window. ‘Night, Diego!’
‘It went well, Mum!’ Izzy buttered some toast as she spoke to her mother and added some ginger marmalade. ‘Though it was strange being back after…’ Izzy stopped, because her mother didn’t like talking about before, so instead she chatted some more, told her mum about Toby, but her mum didn’t take the lead and made no mention of Izzy’s pregnancy.
‘So you had a good day?’ her mother checked as Izzy idly opened the brown paper bag and took out a handful of tiny tomatoes. They tasted fantastic, little squirts of summer popping on her tongue, helping Izzy to inject some enthusiasm into her voice.
‘Marvellous,’ Izzy said, smiling at the choice of word and remembering Diego’s smile.
It was actually a relief to hang up.
She was so damn tired of putting others at ease.
So exhausted wearing the many different Izzy masks…
Doctor Izzy.
To add to Daughter Izzy.
Domestic Abuse Victim Izzy.
Grieving Izzy.
Mother-to-be Izzy.
Coping Izzy.
She juggled each ball, accepted another as it was tossed in, and sometimes, sometimes she’d like to drop the lot, except she knew she wouldn’t.
Couldn’t.
She could remember her mother’s horror when she had for a moment dropped the coping pretence and chopped off her hair. Izzy could still see the pain in her mother’s eyes and simply wouldn’t put her through it any more.
Oh, but she wanted to, Izzy thought, running her bath and undressing, catching sight of herself in the mirror, her blonde hair way-too-short, her figure too thin for such a pregnant woman.
How she’d love to ring her mum back—ask her to come over, to take over.
Except she knew she couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
Since that night, there had been a huge wedge between them and Izzy truly didn’t know how to fix it. She just hoped that one day it would be fixed, that maybe when the baby came things would improve. Except her mother could hardly bring herself to talk about the impending arrival.
Damn Henry Bailey!
Whoosh!
The anger that Jess had told her was completely normal, was a ‘good sign’, in fact, came rushing in then and, yes, she should do as Jess said perhaps, and write pages and pages in her journal, or shout, or cry, or read the passage in her self-help book on anger.
Except she was too tired for