The Paternity Claim. Sharon Kendrick
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of pairs of trousers with huge, elasticated waists which she was currently stretching to just about as far as they could go.
She had been forced to buy new underwear, too—and had felt like an outcast in the shop. As if everyone knew she was all alone with her pregnancy. And that no man would ever feast his eyes with love and pride on the huge, pendulous breasts which strained against the functional bra she’d been forced to purchase.
She swept the clothes and her few toiletries into the suitcase and located her passport. On the windowsill stood a wedding-day photo of her parents and, with a heavy heart, she added it to the rest of her possessions.
And then, with a final glance round at the box-room which had been her home for the last five months, she quietly shut the door behind her.
At the foot of the stairs, a deputation was awaiting her. Towering over the small group was Paulo, his hair as black as ebony, when viewed from above. Next to him stood Rosemary Stafford, her fury almost palpable as she attempted to control the two boys.
‘Will you keep still?’ she was yelling, but they were taking no notice of her.
Charlie and Richie were buzzing around the hallway like demented flies—whipped up by the unexpected excitement of what was happening, and yet looking vaguely uncertain. As if they could anticipate that changes would shortly be made to their young lives. And correctly guessing that they would not like those changes at all.
Isabella reached the bottom of the stairs and Paulo took the suitcase from her hand. ‘I’ll put this in the car for you.’
She felt like calling after him, Please don’t leave me! but that would be weak and cowardly. Instead, she turned to Rosemary Stafford and forced herself to remember just how many times she had helped the older woman out. All the occasions when she had agreed to babysit with little more than a moment’s notice. And never complained. Not once. ‘I’m sorry to have to leave so suddenly—’
‘Oh, spare me your lies!’ hissed Rosemary Stafford venomously.
‘But they’re not lies!’ Isabella protested. ‘It isn’t practical to carry on like this. Honestly. The truth is that I have been getting awfully tired—’
‘Oh? And what about other, earlier so-called “truths”?’ Rosemary Stafford’s glossy pink lips gaped uglily. ‘Like your assurance that the father of your baby wasn’t going to turn up out of the blue and start creating havoc with my routine?’
Isabella was about to explain that Paulo was not the father of her baby—but what was the point? What could she say? The boys were standing there, wide-eyed and listening to every word. Trying to make two seven-year-old boys understand the reality of the whole bizarre situation was more than she felt prepared to take on right then.
Instead, she reached out an unsteady hand and ruffled Richie’s blond hair. Of the two boys, he’d been the one who had crept the furthest into her heart, and she didn’t want to hurt him. ‘I’ll write,’ she began uncertainly.
‘Take your hands away from him, and don’t be so stupid!’ spat out Mrs Stafford. ‘What will you write to a seven-year-old boy about? The birth? Or the conception?’
Isabella shuddered, wondering how Mrs Stafford could possibly say things like that in front of her children.
‘It’s time to leave, Isabella,’ came a low voice from behind them, and Isabella turned to see Paulo framed in the neo-Georgian doorway. His face was shadowed, the features so still that they might have been carved from some rare, pitch-dark marble. Only the eyes glittered—hard and black and icy-cold.
She wondered how long he had been standing there, listening, whether he had heard Mrs Stafford’s assumption that he was the father of her baby.
And her own refusal to deny it.
‘Isabella,’ prompted Paulo softly. ‘Come.’
Impulsively she bent and briefly put her arms round both boys. Richie was crying, and it took every bit of Isabella’s willpower not to join in with his tears, knowing that it would be self-indulgent to break down and confuse them even more. Instead, she contented herself with a swift and fierce kiss on the top of each sweet, blond head.
‘I will write!’ she reaffirmed in an urgent whisper, as Paulo took her elbow like an invalid, and guided her out to the car.
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