I wasn’t criticising. I just thought—if you wanted something pretty—’ He broke off. ‘It doesn’t matter. Forget it. I’m sorry.’
And, without waiting for her response, he walked away.
Damn.
Had she misread him? Because she’d love to buy some new clothes, something pretty that fitted her new, different body and made her feel like a woman again instead of a milk machine.
Underwear. Pretty, sexy underwear.
For Max?
Maybe. God knows he wasn’t seeing her in her nursing bras.
And a pretty top, and some nice, well-cut trousers that didn’t cling to her lumpy thighs like glue. None of her old trousers fitted her any more. They were all too tight, but she’d been stick-thin when they’d been jetting all over the place, because there had quite simply never been time to eat.
But she had time now, and the inclination, to keep herself well, and so she had curves where she’d never had curves before.
She grabbed the hands of the baby buggy and ran after him. ‘Max? Max, stop! Please!’
He stopped, and she caught up with him and tried a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I misunderstood—and you’re right. I’d love to get some new things. I actually need to get some new things. Can you bear it?’
‘Only if I get to see them as you try them on.’
‘Oh. I was talking about underwear, really.’
His eyes flared, then darkened. ‘Even better,’ he murmured, and she felt a soft tide of colour sweep over her cheeks.
‘You can’t—’
‘Maybe not in the shop,’ he agreed. ‘But later.’
She swallowed. ‘OK, forget the underwear,’ she said hastily, and he pulled a face, but he laughed anyway.
‘So, what else?’
‘Just—tops, trousers. It won’t take long.’
He snorted. ‘I’m not that naïve. Why don’t I take the kids with me and leave you to it for an hour or so? You can ring me when you’re ready, and I’ll come and pay.’
‘You don’t have to pay!’ she protested, but he just raised an eyebrow.
‘Jules, you’re my wife,’ he said firmly. ‘And I will quite happily pay for your clothes. I’ve just paid several hundred thousand pounds for the sake of spending a little time with you. I don’t think the odd top or pair of trousers is going to make a whole lot of difference.’
Oh, lord. She’d thought the Yashimoto deal was a bit hasty. Now she was beginning to realise just how much he’d invested in their relationship, and she looked at him with new eyes.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to do that.’
‘Jules, it’s fine. I’m happy with it. It was a good decision. And we’re talking about a cut in profits, more than a deficit, so forget it. Now, my phone?’
‘Oh. Yes.’ She rummaged in her bag and found his phone, but, as she handed it over, there was a bit of her that wondered if he’d suggested this as a way of getting the phone off her.
‘No. Trust me.’
Had she said it out loud? ‘Sorry. Right, I’ll be as quick as I can. Don’t leave them.’
He gave her a look, then turned away and headed off into the crowd, leaving her feeling suddenly empty-handed and at a loss.
Come on, Julia, she told herself. Organisation. Underwear first, then a top, then trousers. And she headed into a large top-end department store, found the lingerie and started shopping.
‘How long can she take, girls?’ he asked, crouching down in front of the now-restless babies and trying to entertain them. ‘She said she wouldn’t be long.’
He gave a rueful little laugh, and Ava reached out her hand and gurgled at him. ‘Da-da,’ she said, and he felt his eyes fill.
‘Oh, you clever little girl,’ he said, struggling not to embarrass himself in public, but then she said, ‘Mama,’ and He realised she was just babbling.
Idiot him. Of course she was.
He straightened up and looked around. What could he do to entertain them? There was a book shop, so he headed in there, all ready to find books for them to suck and chew and hurl on the floor, but then he saw cookery books.
Books for idiots. Books for people who’d never lifted a spatula in their lives. People like him.
He’d cook for her. He’d find a book that seemed straightforward and comprehensive, he’d find a recipe, and they’d drop into the supermarket on the way home and he’d cook for her.
Fish. She loved fish. Fresh tuna? He thumbed through the recipe books, found one that looked promising, checked out tuna and discovered that it took seconds. Whap-whap on a hot griddle and it was done. Excellent. And he could serve it with salad and new potatoes. Even he couldn’t screw those up.
He bought the book, hung the bag on the back of the buggy and then reached for his phone.
She was engaged. Damn. Oh, well, he’d give her a minute. She might be trying to call him. He was about to slip it back into his pocket when it rang, and he answered it instantly.
‘You were on the phone!’ she said accusingly, and he sighed.
‘So were you. I was trying to call you. The babies are getting restless.’
‘Oh. Sorry. I’m done.’
She told him where she was, and he looked at the map, worked out where he was and then made his way there through the teaming throng of happy shoppers.
Well, he was happy, too—or he had been, till she’d bitten his head off for nothing. Oh, well. He supposed she had some justification for thinking he was using the phone for work purposes, because he had made one quick call to Andrea. But only the one, and it had lasted three minutes tops, and it had been important.
So he couldn’t get on his self-righteous high horse and rip her head off right back, because she’d been right. He had cheated, and she was probably right not to trust him.
He found her, standing near a till with an armful of clothes, waiting for him.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, her first words, and he felt a little prickle of guilt.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said. ‘So—what did you buy?’
She didn’t know what to wear.
He’d called into the supermarket on the way home, left her and the babies in the car, and run in to do a shop. He’d been less than five minutes, so she had no idea what he’d bought, but he had a small carrier with him.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, and he grinned.
‘Supper. I’m cooking for you.’
‘Really?’ Oh, lord, that sounded dreadful, but she could still smell the garlic on her skin after the paella, and she had no idea what he would go for this time.
‘Don’t worry, there’s no garlic,’ he promised with a wry grin, and she laughed self-consciously.
‘Sorry. So what are we having?’
‘Aha,’ he said, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I’m cooking. All you have to do is put on something pretty and be entertained.’
So here she was, washed and spruced, wearing a light touch of make-up for the first time in months, and standing naked in her bedroom contemplating her purchases.
A jumper, she thought, being chicken, but she’d heard him light the fire in the sitting room, and when she’d