the ex-NICU families did, he said: It boosted the nurses’ morale to see the babies they’d saved doing well. Unfortunately, it clashed with a commercial I was producing with a famous footballer in Barcelona—the agency wasn’t given any say over the schedule; the footballer’s agent simply told us we had four hours on a certain day and expected us to make it work. Give my love to your Irish groupie, I texted Pete from the shoot, but whereas once I would have felt bitter and angry about the way he and the nurses got on so well, now I just felt amused.
And that’s when I had my first slipup.
After filming we all went out for beers and tapas, then back to the hotel bar. At some point the attractive-but-wicked camera assistant started flirting with me, which felt exhilarating and fun after so long being a milk machine and a launderer of babygrows. One nightcap led to another, and then he leaned in close and whispered his room number in my ear. “If you dare, that is,” he added, sitting back again.
And somehow, stupidly, I did.
Afterward, I felt wretched. But strangely, not guilty. It was more as if I was…detached, the way I’d been in the NICU.
The brutal truth was, the spark just hadn’t been there with Pete since Theo’s birth. Nice Pete, Saint Pete, the Pete who changed nappies and warmed baby food and raised funds for charity, just wasn’t a turn-on. I loved him, I loved my family, but it wasn’t that sort of love anymore. Walking down the silent, dim-lit hotel corridor toward the camera assistant’s door had felt like I was seventeen again, galloping Peach at full speed toward a fence I wasn’t sure we could clear.
But it was a one-off, I told myself. A stupid mistake. A reaction to everything that had happened, from the shock of getting pregnant to the NICU and then my illness. It was over and in the past and there was absolutely no reason to confess it to Pete because it would only hurt him.
So I didn’t.
20
PETE
I MET UP WITH Miles in a sports bar close to Marylebone Station. It was next to the headquarters of a French merchant bank, and the place was full of loud young men in well-cut suits, talking in French as they watched football on the big screens. Miles paid them no attention, but he was clearly at ease in their company.
“Here,” he said, handing me a pint and raising his own. “To parenthood and friendship.”
I chinked my glass against his. “Parenthood and friendship.”
“And I got you this.” He handed me a shopping bag. “Well, not strictly you, I suppose.”
Inside was a miniature rugby ball—not a toy, a real one. I took it out. The maker’s name was Gilbert, which even I knew was the official supplier to the England team, and it was covered with signatures.
“The 2003 England squad,” Miles explained. “Best side we ever had.”
“That’s really kind of you,” I said, touched.
Miles waved away my gratitude. “You can’t start too early. And maybe…”
“What?”
“Maybe I could teach him how to throw it sometime? If that would be all right with you and Maddie, I mean.”
“Of course. I spend most of the day with Theo. It’ll do him good to see someone else once in a while.”
“What about Saturday? We could take him to Gladstone Park.”
“Sounds good, but I’d better check with Maddie.”
“She handles your diary, does she?” Miles’s grin robbed the words of any offense.
“It’s just that she doesn’t get to spend much time with Theo during the week,” I explained.
Miles patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry—I know what it’s like. Lucy and I are the same. I just turn up where and when I’m told. Speaking of which…” He pulled out his phone. “You know we talked about spending Easter together? I thought maybe we could go to Cornwall. There are these fantastic houses right by the beach on Trevose Head—you literally step out onto the dunes and the sea’s just there in front of you.” He was flicking through photos with his thumb as he spoke. “Sand, rock pools—it’ll be cold, but you can get little wet suits, and something tells me Theo’s the kind of kid who’d love to build a sandcastle and watch the waves come and knock it down. Here, take a look.”
The house he showed me was massive, with vast windows framing a view of picture-perfect Cornish beach. “It looks amazing,” I said enviously.