Loe raamatut: «Having His Babies»

CHAPTER ONE

‘I BEG your pardon?’

‘Well, we could do a blood test but I don’t think it’s necessary—from what you’ve told me and from this sample there seems to be no doubt. Congratulations, Clare!’

Clare Montrose stared at her doctor, a woman in her late thirties whose bright, cheerful expression faded somewhat as she took in her patient’s stunned eyes.

‘You ... didn’t expect or plan this?’ Valerie Martin queried.

‘No. That is to say, no.’ Clare swallowed. ‘Are you sure? I’m on the pill, as you know, and I’ve never forgotten to take it.’

‘Ah. Yes, I did prescribe a low dose, so-called mini-pill but I also explained the circumstances that can sometimes interfere with its effectiveness if you remember, Clare.’

Clare opened her mouth, closed it and said shakily, ‘But ... but nothing like that, well, not really—Oh, no,’ she said hollowly. ‘I didn’t even stop to think!’

‘Tell me,’ Valerie said gently.

‘I had a twenty-four-hour virus a while back,’ Clare said helplessly. ‘Nausea, gastric upset, but two days later I was as right as rain and I didn’t give it a second thought I was run off my feet at the time, too so—you mean that could have done it?’

‘It could. It’s not common but it could if it was a severe enough bout. Have you had no other symptoms? This—’ Valerie smiled a little ruefully ‘—seems to have come like a bolt from the blue.’

‘No. Well, I came to see you because my cycle seemed to have gone haywire but I’ve had that problem before—before I went on the pill, anyway,’ she amended, and sat back dazedly. ‘How much pregnant?’

‘We need to discuss a few dates but I would estimate six to eight weeks.’

Clare pulled her diary from her purse and did some rapid mental arithmetic. ‘Yes,’ she said hollowly at last, ‘I imagine that would be about right—eight weeks. But why haven’t I had any morning sickness or—anything?’

‘We don’t all get it and we don’t all get it at the same time; you may be one of the lucky ones but I’d be surprised if you didn’t very shortly see some changes. Like a loss of appetite or suddenly being starving all the time. Such as feeling sleepy a lot of the time...’

‘Craving jam on pickles, that kind of thing,’ Clare said gloomily. ‘How could this happen to me?’

‘Clare.’ Valerie Martin stopped and watched her intently for a moment. And marvelled inwardly because she knew Clare Montrose quite well. They had their practices in the same building in the seaside town of Lennox Head although Clare practised law. And over the past few years this tall, quietly spoken though assured and obviously very intelligent girl had expanded the sleepy practice she’d bought to keep pace with the town’s growth and turned it into a profitable one with a growing reputation that was spreading throughout the district.

And yet, Valerie mused, over the matter of getting herself pregnant, there seems to be a certain naiveté. Not quite what I would have expected from someone who can be as coolly competent as she undoubtedly can.

‘Clare ...I don’t like to pry, but...is it not Lachlan?’

Clare blinked her eyes that were the colour of the sea at certain times, a greeny blue that could best be described as aquamarine, and her face, beneath shining dark hair parted on the side and falling in a curly bob, reddened.

Valerie looked fleetingly amused. ‘You can’t keep anything a secret in this village, my dear, but particularly not Lachlan Hewitt. His family has been in the area for generations; they’ve been shire councillors and the biggest landowners around Alstonville, Ballina and Lennox Head ever since I can remember. Besides, I didn’t think you were trying to keep it a secret.’

‘We weren’t,’ Clare said, gloomily again. ‘That is to say, once his divorce came through, it didn’t seem to be anyone’s business but our own, but...we weren’t exactly trying to flaunt it.’

‘I’m sure you weren’t. These things get noticed, though. Lachlan is the kind of man who gets noticed—as you’re the kind of woman who does, my dear. So...this wasn’t on the agenda?’

‘No,’ Clare said baldly after a moment.

‘Circumstances change cases, as I’m sure I don’t have to point out to a lawyer, but...’ Dr Martin paused ‘... I’m also sure I don’t have to point out to you that there are other—options.’

Clare breathed raggedly and her eyes widened. ‘Oh. No, that’s not an option—the thought of it just—’ She shivered then shrugged. ‘I don’t think I could do it.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear you say so but that’s only a personal preference of mine. However, you’re—’ she glanced down at the card in front of her ‘—twenty-seven, which is by no means too old to be having a baby. But we don’t get any younger and, while it may not have been on your conscious agenda, perhaps you should take into account that it may have been on your unconscious one...’

When Clare was back in her office, she grimaced because the thought of her biological clock ticking away unbeknownst to her was disturbing.

She looked around, at her framed degree on the wall, at the cool eggshell-blue walls and sapphire carpet, the vast mahogany desk she was inordinately proud of—an antique she’d unearthed and had restored—at the silver-framed paintings on the wall, and she sat down with a deep sigh.

She’d instructed her receptionist to hold all calls for half an hour and knew they’d be piling up like a tidal wave. Business was booming, and although she had an articled clerk and a legal secretary, what she really needed was a qualified solicitor to take some of the pressure off her—more than ever now, she mused, and gazed at one particular picture on the wall.

It wasn’t a painting but an aerial photo of a suburban housing estate across the Pacific Highway from Lennox Head, and it was where so much had started.

The land, originally a dairy farm, had been owned by the Hewitt family. Just before she’d bought out the practice, it had been subdivided and developed—and the unexpected plum of handling the conveyancing for the developers, the Hewitt family again, had fallen into her lap.

She’d been unable to believe her good luck then briefly disturbed when her father, with whom she’d always had a turbulent relationship, had hinted that he’d been instrumental in getting her this coup. He had, frustratingly, refused ever to elaborate.

But the fact of the matter was that she’d never looked back. Other estates had sprung up as well as strata title unit developments, some litigation work had started to come her way and she’d soon had more work than she knew what to do with.

As a direct result, she now owned her own apartment in a lovely position close to the beach, she drove a magenta-coloured flashy little sports car and, when she could take the time for a holiday, she could afford the exotic and unusual.

But it wasn’t until about six months after the plum had fallen that she’d met Lachlan Hewitt himself. She’d always dealt with his project manager although by then she’d known a lot about him and the family history: about his grandfather who had bought up so much of the country for a song. About the macadamia and avocado plantations they also owned; about the wonderful old house they lived in.

Then, one day, when she hadn’t even had time to read through her appointments for the morning, Lucy, her receptionist, had buzzed her and announced in hushed tones that Mr Lachlan Hewitt had arrived for his appointment.

Clare had gasped, gazed around at her littered desk then down at her person, and, in a voice unlike her own, had asked Lucy if she could stall him for a minute or two.

‘If you say so, Ms Montrose,’ Lucy had replied disapprovingly.

Coming back to the present, Clare smiled faintly as she recalled her receptionist’s exact tone. And recalled how she had tidied her desk frantically, smoothed the skirt of her straight taupe linen dress with its white revere collar, reached into a drawer and studied her face in the small mirror of her gilt compact. And she’d had no more time than to run her fingers through her hair, apply a dash of lipstick and smooth her eyebrows before a discreet knock had sounded on the door.

She remembered it as if it were yesterday, she thought, and closed her eyes as the images of that first meeting seeped into her mind...

‘Ms Montrose, Mr Hewitt,’ Lucy said as she ushered a tall man into the office.

‘How do you do, Mr Hewitt?’ Clare came round the desk and offered her hand.

‘How do you do, Ms Montrose?’ Lachlan Hewitt replied, with the faintest emphasis on the Ms and a slight narrowing of his eyes as he took her hand and allowed his grey gaze to inspect her from top to toe.

Clare blinked once. She was five feet ten and not used to being towered over, but Lachlan Hewitt was at least six feet four. And those penetrating, smoky grey eyes were set in a tanned, interesting face beneath thick tawny hair with a tendency to flop on his forehead. The rest of him was well-proportioned: wide shoulders, narrow waist and more than a hint of whipcord strength beneath his casual checked shirt and khaki trousers worn with short brown boots.

But what surprised her most was that he was younger than she’d expected—in his middle-thirties, she guessed.

The other thing that surprised her was the hiatus that developed as they stared at each other. So that even Lucy appeared to be rooted to the spot.

Clare decided to break it with a tinge of annoyance running through her. She did not appreciate being so thoroughly inspected even by the head of the Hewitt clan, she decided, and said smoothly as she took her hand back, ‘Do sit down, Mr Hewitt. May we offer you coffee or tea? It’s about that time.’ She smiled perfunctorily and moved back around her desk.

‘Something cool if you have it,’ he murmured.

‘By all means but I’ll have coffee, thank you, Lucy.’ Clare sat down and clasped her hands on the desk as Lucy left. ‘I presume you’ve come to discuss the housing estate with me, Mr Hewitt?’

‘No,’ Lachlan Hewitt replied idly.

Clare blinked as a pause of his making developed. And felt herself grow restive and awkward as she was once again the subject of his scrutiny. But one of the things she’d taught herself over the years was the value of not rushing in, although, she thought, with some self-directed irony, she had rushed in initially.

All the same, she managed to make herself wait with no more than a polite look of enquiry.

‘No,’ he said again, and smiled briefly. ‘From all reports you’ve been most competent and professional, Ms Montrose. As your father assured me you would be.’

Clare felt her hackles rise as so often happened in the context of her father, but all she did was smile meaninglessly.

Lucy intervened at this point with a long frosted glass of fruit-flavoured mineral water and a steaming cup of coffee. There was also a plate of biscuits and she fussed a little as she disposed of these. Then she left them alone, but her whole bearing was pregnant with curiosity.

Clare stirred her coffee with a ruefully raised eyebrow. And decided to be honest. ‘You’ve caused a bit of a stir, Mr Hewitt. Amongst my staff and myself.’

He looked fleetingly amused. ‘My apologies, Ms Montrose—’

‘The Ms is Lucy’s invention, Mr Hewitt,’ Clare broke in swiftly, annoyed again by the odd little emphasis he seemed to place on it. ‘She thinks it gives me some kind of mysterious status but I myself prefer to be known as Clare Montrose, unmarried—never married for that matter—and I don’t mind who knows it.’

‘I see,’ he said, and grimaced. ‘To be honest, Ms as a title always makes me think of women in limbo and I’d much rather call you Clare. I’m Lachlan, by the way, married but soon to become unmarried—and that’s why I’ve come to see you.’

Clare’s eyes widened incredulously.

‘Have you ever handled a divorce settlement, Clare?’ he asked.

‘Yes. A few. But—’ She couldn’t go on.

‘You’re amazed?’ he suggested. ‘Because I’m divorcing my wife or because I’ve come to see you about it?’

‘Both, to be honest,’ she said a touch feebly, and swallowed.

‘Do you know my wife, Clare?’

‘No, I’ve never met her, but...well, she—that is to say, I’ve seen photos of her in the local paper and—heard mention of her.’

She stopped abruptly as images of Serena Hewitt, stunningly beautiful even in black and white, swam through her mind, and then remembered seeing Serena in the flesh one day, in the village, and realizing that her photos hadn’t done her justice.

‘And you can’t imagine anyone wanting to divorce her, no doubt,’ he said dryly.

‘I didn’t say that but—yes, I guess I’m surprised. Sorry. Uh—why me, though? I would imagine you have a family solicitor who... might be more appropriate.’

‘I do. I’d rather have fresh blood in this case, however.’

Clare looked at him narrowly. ‘If I took this on,’ she said slowly, ‘I would act in your very best interests, Mr Hewitt, but if you’re looking for someone you could hide some of your assets from with a view to cheating your wife, then I have to tell you you’ve come to the wrong person.’

‘On the contrary, Ms Montrose,’ he returned coolly, ‘I’ve come to you because you appear to have a remarkably clear brain and excellent legal skills, whereas my family solicitor is getting old and doddery, although we hold him in great affection. He also happens to hold my wife in great affection.’

‘Oh.’ It was all Clare could think of to say.

‘Furthermore,’ Lachlan Hewitt said, ‘while I’m prepared to hand over to my wife everything she’s entitled to by law, I am not prepared to be taken to the cleaners, which is exactly what she has in mind,’ he finished gently but with unmistakable satire.

‘I see.’

‘Are you a feminist, Clare?’ he asked lazily then.

‘No more than most women,’ she replied coolly.

‘That’s not quite as your father sees you.’

She bit her lip to stop the crushing retort that rose to mind and said instead, ‘How well do you know my father, Mr Hewitt?’

When he spoke it was gravely but she couldn’t miss the lurking little glint of humour in his grey eyes. ‘Well enough to know that he holds extremely sexist views but, even so, can’t help being very proud of his brilliant, though uncomfortably feminist, daughter—although it’s something he may never have been able to convey to you, Clare: how proud he is.’

She coloured slightly and looked away. ‘I’m afraid my views of feminist and his don’t agree,’ she said. Then she asked, ‘How do you know him, Mr Hewitt?’

‘He and my father were great friends. They served together in the same regiment in Vietnam, didn’t he tell you?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t know he knew you. I believe your father died some months ago?’

‘It was at his funeral that your father mentioned you.’

‘I see. Then you mustn’t have minded the feminist tag he labelled me with.’

‘I didn’t say I was sexist,’ Lachlan Hewitt drawled. ‘And I did happen to know that your father saved my father’s life once.’

Clare breathed deeply with some frustration. ‘Thus the world turns—on the head of a pin. I have to confess I would far rather have earned your conveyancing fair and square but—’ her lips curved into a reluctant smile ‘—I know how petulant and ultra-feminist that would make me.’

Unbeknownst to her, during the short pause that ensued as they traded rather wry glances, Lachlan Hewitt was discovering himself unwittingly intrigued...

Not, on first impressions, drop-dead gorgeous, he thought, apart from those wonderful eyes. A thin, intelligent face, pale, smooth skin and a tall, very slender but elegant figure. Otherwise nothing stood out; well, he amended, there was that shining mass of dark hair and lovely hands—but no, what was intriguing was her air of composure, uncompromising ethics and intelligence even when she was annoyed.

He said, as the pause drew out, ‘You’ve more than earned it with the way you’ve handled it, Clare. No matter how many times your father may have saved my father’s life, you wouldn’t have still been acting for us if you hadn’t proved your worth.’

‘Thank you,’ she said simply.

‘And have I reassured you to the extent that you feel you could handle my divorce?’

‘I...’ Clare hesitated then drew a yellow legal pad towards her. ‘Yes. I presume you know that you have to register a separation which has to stand for twelve months before the divorce can be finalized, although financial settlement can be—’

‘Yes. We have actually been living separate lives for at least that length of time and we have also been through the required marriage counselling.’

Clare absorbed this. ‘Are there children involved, Mr Hewitt?’

‘One son. He’s six—nearly seven.’

‘Will you be contesting custody?’

‘Not unless my wife proves to be unreasonable in the matter of access.’

Clare bit her lip.

‘You have reservations about that?’ he asked coolly.

She put her pen down and clasped her hands on the desk. ‘Only to the extent that legal battles over custody can most harm the person they’re designed to protect—the child, who may become involved in a tug of war between his or her parents. And, whilst it’s no concern of mine, I always feel morally bound to point out that this is one area where both parties should act honourably and preferably between themselves.’

‘I certainly intend to,’ he said dryly.

‘Good. Then if you’re really sure about this, Lachlan, this is where we start trying to carve everything up—to be blunt.’

She said it lightly but watched him narrowly at the same time. Because, in her experience, although in these days of the cause for divorce having to be no more than the simple breakdown of a marriage, the carving-up process could be as painful and complicated as the old way of establishing guilt, and often gave people cause to pause...

But he said wryly, ‘Don’t worry, Clare, my mind is made up and here is what’s involved.’

Half an hour later she had to acknowledge that he had a razor-sharp mind and the considerable Hewitt empire at his fingertips. Also, that the soon-to-be ex-Mrs Lachlan Hewitt would be very handsomely provided for.

‘Well,’ she said at length, ‘on the basis of what you’ve told me this appears to be a generous settlement and I don’t think there should be much for her to contest.’

‘Don’t you believe it.’

She looked at him enquiringly.

‘She’ll contest every valuation down to every stick of furniture and throw in some interesting and highly fanciful claims, I have no doubt. It’ll be your job to see she doesn’t get away with them.’

‘I see.’ Clare glanced at him again and felt an odd little tremor run through her because of the glimpse of something cold and hard his words had revealed. But he said no more on the subject of his wife and they concluded the appointment shortly afterwards.

She watched him drive away from her first-floor window, in a maroon Range Rover with cream leather trim, and, although it was no business of hers, couldn’t help wondering what Serena Hewitt had done to incur the displeasure of her good-looking, clever husband.

Of course, it could be the other way around, she mused as she let the blind drop, but somehow she didn’t think so.

And nothing over the next twelve months caused her to change her mind.

Serena did indeed contest every valuation; she contested the validity of the Hewitt family company and trusts, the ownership of the homestead and all the furniture and objets d’art in it. She even contested the ownership of the two Irish wolfhounds, Paddy and Flynn, that she claimed she had bought as pups. And Clare had to fight each claim every inch of the way.

Curiously, the only thing Serena accepted with dignity and reasonableness was the access Lachlan Hewitt should have to his son, Sean, which was virtually unlimited.

But finally it was all accomplished, a divorce was finalized, and on that day Lachlan Hewitt said to Clare, ‘Well done, Slim. Can I buy you dinner?’

Her eyebrows rose because, apart from nicknaming her Slim quite early on in the piece, their relationship had been strictly professional.

He observed her raised eyebrows with a faint smile twisting his lips. ‘I am a free man now, Ms Montrose, if it’s your conscience you’re worried about—or mine. Besides, I feel you deserve the best meal and best bottle of champagne I can come up with. You’ve certainly earned it, that was quite a fight you put up.’

Her lips quivered in suppressed laughter. ‘If you must know there were days when I found myself wishing you’d at least give her the damn dogs.’

He laughed softly. ‘Paddy and Flynn are as big as small ponies. How she planned to have them in an apartment in Sydney makes the mind boggle.’

‘In that case I accept, Mr Hewitt,’ Clare said after a moment’s thought.

And, having never discussed his ex-wife, Serena, personally, that was the last mention he made of her.

They had dinner that night, then again a month later.

It was on this occasion that he said to her, ‘I’d like to see you again, Clare.’

She looked across the candle at him, her aquamarine eyes slightly wary.

‘But only if that’s what you would like. You see, whilst I thought it was inappropriate at the time to tell you this, you’ve been on my mind in a certain way for many months now.’

And he looked at her with a clear question in his eyes.

Clare found herself breathing a little raggedly as she recalled the many times over the past months when she’d had to admit to herself that she was attracted to this man, and had wished quietly that he was not a client, not a divorcee. Times when she’d lain in bed at night with the sound of the sea rhythmically bathing the shore so close by, and wondering how he saw her.

‘I,’ she said slowly, ‘have had the same problem at times.’

He looked faintly wry. ‘Then you hid it well.’

‘It would have been unprofessional to do otherwise. For that matter, so did you.’

He grimaced but didn’t answer directly. ‘Your career means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Clare?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that why you’re looking a little troubled and wary?’ he said gently, and slid his hand over to cover hers.

‘No. I suppose I’m surprised for one thing.’ Her fingers trembled beneath his. ‘I’m not terribly experienced for another.’

‘You shouldn’t be surprised. In your own quiet way you’re—captivating. And we know each other pretty well now.’

‘In some ways,’ she agreed.

‘Walk with me along the beach?’ he suggested.

The beach was only across the road and she agreed. They took their shoes off and paddled in the shallows, Clare holding the skirt of her long floral dress up. Then they sat on a bench on a grassy promontory and watched the lights of a big ship as it slid up the coast, and the flash of the Byron Bay Lighthouse.

To her surprise, they talked. He told her about his great-grandfather and how he’d come to Australia with only a few pounds in his pocket. He talked about his son, Sean, who was now seven and had a very high IQ and an equally high propensity for getting into trouble, and about how his latest crop of macadamia nuts was progressing.

And she responded, gradually relaxing and telling him about her teenage years when her fascination with law had begun to emerge, her years at university and something of her home life. She’d grown up in Armidale, a leafy, pretty town of some substance on the tablelands of New South Wales about three hundred and seventy kilometres south of Lennox Head. Armidale was home to the University of New England and home to her father’s prosperous tractor and farm machine agency.

She told Lachlan that she was an only child, and something about her gentle, retiring mother. Also, how her father dominated her mother and had tried to dominate her.

‘Which fed your ambition, I suppose,’ he commented.

‘Probably,’ she agreed with a little grimace.

‘Helped along by being as bright as a tack, no doubt.’

‘That hasn’t always been an asset,’ she said slowly.

He put an arm around her shoulders. ‘Frightened all guys away, you mean?’

Clare hesitated because she was suddenly acutely conscious of him, but she tested it in her mind, this first physical contact. And came to the conclusion that she felt comfortable against him, that she liked the subtle scent of clean cotton and his faint lemony aftershave, and even wished to draw closer to his warmth and bulk.

‘Perhaps,’ she answered eventually. ‘Not that it’s ever bothered me greatly,’ she added honestly.

‘It hasn’t frightened me away—it’s part of the attraction,’ he said quietly. And he started to kiss her for the first time.

Initially she was aware that the feel of his fingers moving gently on her cheek was pleasant. That his lips were cool and dry and she seemed not to mind parting her own for him. Then her senses took over.

The hunger that she’d battened down for twelve months asserted itself and the intimate act of being kissed by a man became a mutual pleasure.

The difference between her own soft skin and the slight graze she felt as she trailed her fingertips along his jaw, the knowledge that he could probably span her waist in his long, strong hands—all this brought a heady feel of elation and desire.

The feel of his arms around her, the feel of him against her body was rapturous and ignited a steady flame within her that made her forget the beach, the bench, the park. It was as if the only beacon in the night was this man and the mixture of excitement and quivering need he aroused in her...

When they drew apart, Clare was stunned and speechless for a few moments. Then she said, ‘I didn’t expect that...’

He grinned. ‘That we would generate those kind of fireworks? I did.’

Two weeks later they became lovers.

Coming back to the present again, Clare moved restlessly in her office chair and put her hand on her stomach.

It was six months since she’d begun a relationship with Lachlan Hewitt. Six months during which she’d been—well, almost blissfully happy, she conceded to herself. Six months during which the power of their attraction still took her by surprise.

He still called her Slim, but he used it now in moments of great intimacy, when her slender figure with its pale satiny skin fascinated him and together they experienced the kind of passion she’d thought might never exist for her.

Then there was the friendship they enjoyed, the moments of laughter, the things they did together such as climbing to the top of Lennox Head and watching the hang-gliders take off. But there were no ties—she still worked as hard as ever and if she wasn’t available he never made a fuss, and vice versa.

She visited Rosemont, the family home, often, and knew young Sean as well as Lachlan’s aunt May who ran the house, and Paddy and Flynn who were the size of small ponies but otherwise charming and gentle dogs.

By mutual, unspoken consent, she never stayed at Rosemont, however, although Lachlan stayed often at her apartment. But she didn’t feel excluded by this; she wouldn’t have felt right about it anyway.

Yet there had been times, she mused, still with her hand resting gently on her stomach, when an unidentifiable sense of unease had troubled her. How strange that an unplanned pregnancy should crystallize it all, she thought suddenly, and sat up.

She picked up her pen to doodle absently on her blotter and asked herself some things that she should have asked months ago; where had it all been leading, for example?

Had that inexplicable sense of unease grown because she, paradoxically, had wanted more than this undemanding relationship that she’d thought so suited her career? How would she feel if he ended the affair—perhaps she’d been a stopgap while he rebuilt his life after Serena?

And, of course, the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, she mused as she drew a dollar sign on the blotter: what really happened with Serena to make it all go so terribly wrong?

She put her pen down and contemplated the unlikelihood, if she’d been asked to forecast it, of Clare Montrose getting herself into this situation. Because she’d never been able to visualize herself getting deeply, emotionally tangled with anyone. But then again she’d never visualized herself having this kind of relationship with a man, she reflected. Was she mad?