Babyville Page 0,24

standing there, unsure what to say, to do. He feels constantly as if he is treading on eggshells around her. One false move and his whole world will come crashing down. He does feel her pain, does have a sense of her loss, and he wants to reach out to her more than anything. He just doesn't know how to do it. He doesn't know where to start.

And he worries that it might be too late.

“Julia.” He reaches out a hand, pleading. “Let's not do this. Not tonight. I want to hear about what happened, not have an argument over nothing—”

“It's not nothing,” Julia snaps, but he knows he's winning, and her heart wasn't really in the snap.

“I know, I know,” he soothes. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. Why don't you finish drying your hair and I'll pour you a glass of wine? How does that sound? And do you want a curry tonight? I could order in? Yes? Julia?”

Julia scuffs the carpet on the stair with her big toe, then shrugs. “Okay,” she mutters, sounding astonishingly like a truculent sixteen-year-old. “But I don't want Chicken Korma. I want Chicken Tikka.”

“Okay.” Mark smiles to himself as he watches her walk back upstairs. It may only be temporary, but his peacekeeping skills have actually worked. In the kitchen he uncorks the wine, pours himself a glass and drinks it down immediately, quickly refilling it in case Julia walks in.

Grabbing the bottle and an extra glass, he takes it through to the living room to build a fire. Not that you're supposed to have log fires in Hampstead, only gas imitations, but everyone Mark knows has a real one. It's not uncommon to bump into the occasional local mate on forays to the Heath late at night in search of logs.

The second glass of wine is gone in seconds. He's not a big drinker, but God knows he needs something to help him through at the moment, something to ease the pain.

If I were a religious man, he thinks, setting the glass down on the table and picking up the phone to place the order, I'd start praying to God right about now.

6

“Oh God, I think I might seriously love him.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Bella's looking at Sam aghast, mostly because Sam looks incredible. Yes, she's six months pregnant. Yes, she's the size of a small whale. But she looks stunning. Sam is—usually—the laziest of all of them when it comes to superficial appearance. The most makeup she'll wear is tinted moisturizer, mascara, and pale-pink lipgloss.

But today Sam wears nearly as much makeup as Bella. Her skin is smooth and slightly tanned, her lips a full glossy pout, and her hair has been blow-dried straight so it bounces gently as she moves. Gone are the dungarees and smock-type dresses she has favored since the beginning of the pregnancy (“I know they're revolting, but they're just so bloody comfortable. You're only allowed to intervene when you find me glancing lovingly at Birkenstocks”). Sam is wearing black bootleg trousers, high-heeled black boots, and a tight orange sweater. She looks amazing.

“You look amazing.” Julia's mouth is open.

Sam maneuvers herself into the chair and places a hand over her heart. “I'm serious, girls. I think I'm in love with Mr. Brennan.”

“The diabetes bloke?” The midwife had been concerned about the amount of weight Sam had put on, and one of the causes, she explained, could have been gestational diabetes. Sam had now done the glucose tolerance test, and she's fine, but just to be on the safe side she is now seeing the consultant at her checkups. Mr. Brennan.

Mr. Brennan, according to Sam, is not her usual type. He's not very tall, he doesn't have very much hair (“But at least,” she justified, “he doesn't plaster it over his scalp''), he is what Sam has described as “definitely cuddly,” and has a bedside manner that could charm your socks off.

Sam has taken to waxing her legs and wearing good underwear before every checkup. Evidently that is no longer enough.

“I seriously, seriously have a huge crush on him,” she confides, before blushing like a schoolgirl.

“Darling, that's natural,” Bella says breezily, beckoning over a waiter for another bottle of sparkling water and a large glass of milk for Sam. “All my friends in New York have huge crushes on their OB/GYNs. Don't worry, you'll get over it.”

Sam sits forward urgently. “I think this might be different.”

Julia laughs. “Are you trying to say that Chris