Can't Live Without (23 page)

He retreated back to his cubbyhole and tried to think about something other than Stella.

Meanwhile the office chatter turned to the subject of property prices. Paul loved to listen from behind his screen; his staff seemed to forget he was there if they couldn’t see him right under their noses. Joe was harking on about all the new houses being built out in the west of the city, and how he thought they were lowering the value of Milton Keynes’ housing stock.

‘There’s just more supply than demand,’ he said ominously. ‘And we all know what that means.’

‘What?’ asked Susan. Paul figured he might have to send her on a few courses if she still wasn’t getting to grips with the whole housing market thing, even after six months on the job.

‘It means,’ Joe explained patiently, ‘that it’s the wrong way around for prices to go up.’

It wasn’t surprising the girl was confused if that was the extent of the explanation. Joe carried on talking about population explosion, and then Paul heard Loretta butt in.

‘It’s always been that way here, it’s just how it is. We live in a new city. It’s expanding all the time. There’s no need to feel threatened by it.’

‘What do you think, Stella?’ Joe asked. Good on you, mate, thought Paul. Joe was pretty sensitive to people’s moods, and clearly wanted to bring her into the conversation again. But before she could answer the conversation took a wrong turn.

‘Don’t ask her!’ Loretta exclaimed. ‘What she knows about property prices you could write on the back of a postage stamp. I mean, she lives in
Crownhill
, for goodness sake. Where all the roads are named after dead people.’ The others laughed. It was a harmless enough jibe, but Paul was already on his feet again.

‘Why don’t you come here and say that?’ Stella was on her feet too, squaring up to Loretta in a very threatening way. He stepped neatly between them.

‘Lunchtime,’ he told Stella. Picking up her holdall he guided her towards the door. Do not pass Go, do not collect £200. Straight out of the door and into the relative peace and quiet of Midsummer Boulevard.

‘I’m not hungry,’ she said, sulkily.

‘Well I am and I’m not eating my sandwiches while you two are at each other’s throats. Come on,’ he placed his arm around her shoulders. ‘My treat.’

Stella allowed him to lead her up the hill to the shopping centre and into an upmarket sandwich place with seating outside. She shrugged her choices and refused to speak to him until nothing was left of lunch except a few wrappers and some strips of soggy lettuce.

Paul sipped his coffee and smiled ruefully at Stella. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, you seem a bit tense.’

‘You’ve noticed.’ Her own smile was not as bright as his but it was a start.

At least it wasn’t him she was annoyed at. Her eyes were sad. Big and beautiful and sad. He decided to delve a little deeper. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’

‘Not really,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Let’s talk about you. How are things going with Hannah?’ She smiled, her eyes lighting up. ‘I really enjoyed our day out together. She’s a great kid.’

‘Yeah, she is, isn’t she?’ Paul felt his own face moulding itself into a dopey grin.

Stella’s smile drooped a little. ‘I feel just terrible about the things I said when you first told me about her. Making you doubt she was yours and all. It was unforgivable.’

‘No,’ Paul said, emphatically. ‘You were just watching out for me, that was all. And besides, there was never any doubt about it. I know she’s mine. Sharon proved that pretty conclusively.’

‘You are going to make a great dad,’ Stella told him, placing her hand over his and stroking his fingers with her thumb. ‘She’s a very lucky girl.’

Paul held his breath. There was something about the way she was touching him, about the way she was looking at him, that told him something had changed. What, he didn’t know. But something was definitely different than it had been the last time they were together. Something subtle and small – and possibly very tenuous indeed. But it was there. And this time Paul wasn’t going to blow it.

‘It’s very nice of you to say so,’ he replied, his voice low and husky.

Stella raised her eyes to his and he held them, trying to convey a heart full of feeling with just a look. She smiled again, her lips wide and full. Paul leaned forward, across the table, holding her hand so she couldn’t pull away. He lowered his eyes to her mouth, imagining his lips on hers, remembering how good it had felt that day when she had kissed him, how incredibly exciting.

Whether that precise memory occurred to Stella at the same time, Paul didn’t know, but something made her pause, stop her own slow movement towards him, and lean back quickly, back to safety. Maybe she feared another rejection. Paul sighed with frustration, wishing he could think of a way to tell her that he was sorry for how he’d reacted before, and that he wanted her more now than she could ever know. But the words – the right words – wouldn’t come.

She cleared her throat and smiled at him a little sheepishly. ‘I guess we should get back to work. They’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.’

‘Let them,’ Paul said quickly. Too quickly. Stella looked at him quizzically.

‘Are you in the mood for playing hooky, Mr Smart?’ she asked, a mischievous smile replacing the sheepish one.

‘I might be,’ he answered, back on safe ground now. This kind of flirting he knew how to do – in fact, he realised, he and Stella had been doing it with each other for years. He’d always assumed it meant nothing. Now he knew otherwise. ‘But only if I had a beautiful woman to play with,’ he added.

Stella’s eyes widened. ‘Really? And where would you find one of those at short notice?’

‘Oh, I don’t think I’d have to look very far.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ Paul leaned back and regarded Stella with hungry eyes. ‘No, I don’t think I’d need to look very far at all.’

Chapter 20

Friday 27
th
July

Today I am eight weeks pregnant. I’ve worked it out in my diary and it seems that the baby was conceived the weekend of the fire. I wonder if my mum has come to the same conclusion. I wonder if she blames me for bringing my dad back into her life because of all this.

Things don’t seem to have got any better between them. I heard them arguing again the other night. She’s like one of those moths you see at night, attracted to the light and then burned by it. I think she still has feelings for him but she’s angry and scared and doesn’t know what to do. I wish I could help her but I can’t even sort out my own feelings right now.

Rob and me argued as well tonight. All I did was tell him that I was worried about the future – a normal reaction you might think in a sixteen-year-old pregnant person. Maybe my mum was right, maybe he is too old for me. Not in actual years but in the head. He can’t seem to get into my world at all these days. Sometimes I wonder what we used to talk about before this happened. I look back at my diary and can’t believe I am the same person who thought that one day she’d be famous and have it published. What a joke!

He asked me if I love him. I do, but for some reason I wouldn’t tell him. I wanted to make him see that it’s about more than just love. I mean, he’s being brilliant about everything, he’s trying to sort out a flat for us and he’s been for promotion at work. He’s doing all the right things but I feel as though he’s living in a dream world. Personally I can’t see how it’s going to work. How are we going to afford to live together and bring up a baby? I’ve finished school officially now but I can’t get a job, can I? What would be the point when I’d be leaving in a few months to have a baby? ‘We’ll manage’ he says. Will we? I’m not so sure.

Lipsy stopped writing and rubbed her wrist. Those last few words were written with such force she’d nearly gone through the paper. She had read somewhere that it didn’t do the baby any good to get stressed or worked up. Lipsy had laughed at this – how was she supposed to not get worked up? Her boyfriend was driving her crazy, her mother was still mental however much she loved her, and her home was a half-decorated shell with hardly any furniture. She had a baby inside her that she felt no connection with at all and absolutely no future ahead of her other than one filled with nappies and baby sick and poverty.

A car drew up outside and Lipsy went to the window to look. She recognised the car as Paul’s and she could see him and her mum inside. Not like her mum to work so late, she thought. It was half eight. She hadn’t been worried or anything. She had told her mum she’d be out all night with Rob anyway – they were supposed to be flat hunting, an activity cut short by the argument that had sprung up out of nowhere. But she was glad to have her mum home now. They could curl up together in bed and eat toast like in the old days. The good old days.

She was taking a bloody long time to come in though. Lipsy went back to the window to see what the hold-up was. She couldn’t see inside the car but she could see that her mum was still there. They were probably just talking. Or maybe not.

She smiled to herself and closed the curtains. Sat back down on her bed. See, she thought, I was right about Paul. She hoped this would make her mum happy; she’d hated seeing her so sad. But then a thought struck her, unexpected and frightening. What if her mum got pregnant too? She was probably too old but Lipsy wasn’t sure. Paul had a child with someone else and so did her mum. What if they decided they wanted one together? What would that mean for her?

Lipsy crept out of her bedroom and into her mother’s. The room still smelt of paint and the bed linen felt crisp and new as she slipped between the covers. Lying on her side, knees drawn up to her chest, Lipsy put her thumb in her mouth and started to cry.

***

As if our family hasn’t been through enough lately, my mum has decided to host a barbeque. This will be the first family event since Dad went into prison, so I suppose it’s quite brave of her really. Maybe she found her confession cathartic and sees this as a chance to have a fresh start. Lipsy says we need to bond again as a family – I just know she’s been reading those baby books again. Whatever the reason, it’s happening today, and I can’t think of a good enough excuse to get out of it.

I spend quite a long time choosing my outfit. This is mainly because Paul will be there – OK, it’s
only
because Paul will be there. After our impromptu lunch date the other day I’ve been feeling a lot more positive about things on that front. Maybe Lipsy was right after all – maybe he does have feelings for me that go beyond friendship. Maybe he just didn’t realise it until after I’d thrown myself at him. Maybe – maybe, maybe, maybe.

All these maybes are getting me nowhere, but I can’t deny that something feels different between us now. And I can’t deny that because of it I feel on top of the world.

It is a hot day, cloudless and still, the perfect opportunity to wear the floaty white dress I picked up from Monsoon in the sale a few weeks ago – it wouldn’t stand up to any kind of breeze, or at least my thighs wouldn’t, but hopefully I’ll be safe enough on a day like today.

I even take more time than usual with my make-up, and I wash and straighten my unruly hair, much to Lipsy’s approval, with the result that when I turn up at my mother’s everyone looks at me as though I’m the surprise guest.

Especially Paul.

I’m gratified to see the look on his face, and waste no time at all sidling up to him and letting him get me a drink. Oh, all that game playing is for you younger girls. I don’t have time for all that.

‘You look amazing,’ he murmurs in my ear as he passes me a very large, very cold glass of white.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘So do you.’

And he does. Dark jeans and a white shirt – such a delicious combination on a man. Especially when that man is Paul Smart. My Paul, as I’m starting to think of him now.

We stand close to each other, not talking, just watching everyone else. I love his smell, spicy and clean. Something that happened at school comes back to me, something I haven’t thought about in years. There was more of an edge to Paul back then. It was probably just him trying to be cool – I certainly fell for it if it was an act. I never knew if he would be smiling or scowling when I caught his eye on the school bus, or later in the dinner hall as I queued for my serving of nameless grey stew. And boy, did I try hard to catch his eye. The lengths I went to on one particular occasion come back to haunt me now.

I was nearing the end of my third year at Leongate High. Every morning I would wake up with the same feeling of dread: when the summer holidays started I wouldn’t see Paul Smart for six whole weeks. Six impossibly painful, lonely weeks during which, I believed, he would meet some incredibly beautiful woman and be lost to me for ever. I absolutely had to make him notice me as more than just a sweet third-former.

And the best way to do this?

To have my hair permed of course.

I had long hair back then, like I have now, but it was cut without layers and with a great big fringe. Basically it was the same hairstyle I’d had since the age of five and I figured the time had come to ring the changes. I was a big fan of the film
Grease
. A big, big fan. And my favourite part – everybody’s favourite part, I’m sure – was the bit at the end where Sandy has a total make-over and Danny – cool, leather-clad bad boy – falls adoringly at her feet.

That was the fantasy. The reality for me was baggy-arsed black jeans (I got a detention for wearing them, Leongate having a crack-down on school uniforms that term), heels borrowed from my mother that I couldn’t stand up in let alone walk in, and frizzy electric-shock hair that looked as though it had been permed on chopsticks, not the extra-large extra-soft rollers I’d asked for. I looked like a cross-dressing Crystal Tips but, with the innocence of the very-young-and-in-love, I didn’t know it.

Until someone told me. That someone was Paul’s best friend, and the rest of the school – or at least everyone who was outside on that very hot, humid summer’s day – agreed with him.