Her Pregnancy Bombshell. Liz Fielding

      It was, undoubtedly, the sensible thing to do and, maybe, if he’d been there on Monday, a shared look would have been enough to get them past that first awkward moment, but on Sunday night the call had come from Cyprus. His local partner had been hurt in a car crash and he’d had to fly out to take control.

      He’d told himself that he would call her; he’d picked up the phone a dozen times and then put it down again. Unable to see her face, read her body language, have a clue what she was thinking, he had no idea what to say. Men were from Mars...

      His father relied on flowers to cover the word gap and he’d got as far as logging onto an online florist but stalled at the first hurdle when he was invited to choose an occasion. Birthday, anniversary, every cause for celebration you could imagine. Unsurprisingly, there wasn’t an option that would cover this particular scenario.

      And what flowers?

      His father had been lucky—all it took was a tired bunch of chrysanthemums from the garage forecourt to provoke an eye roll, a shake of the head and a smile from his mother.

      His own experience of married life suggested that nothing less than long-stemmed red roses would do if you were grovelling. No power on earth would induce him to send them to Miranda.

      She deserved more. Much more. She deserved to hear him say the words. If only he could work out what they were.

      He’d arrived back from Cyprus determined to clear the air but she was in the Gulf picking up a couple of mares that were booked for a visit to stud. Then he was in France and so it had gone on. Maybe it was coincidence, but if someone had arranged their schedules to keep them apart they couldn’t have done a better job.

      Miranda couldn’t change his schedule, but she could swap her own around. Clearly she needed space and he’d had to allow her that.

      Until today.

      He’d flown back from Ireland determined that, no matter what, he’d talk to her. He still could.

      ‘I’ll stop by on the way home and take her some grapes,’ he said. It was okay to be concerned about someone you’d known, worked with for years. And grapes didn’t have the dangerously emotive subtext of flowers. Red, black, white—they were just grapes.

      ‘You’ll have a wasted journey. She checked the times of the trains to London before she left and then called her sister to let her know what time she’d be arriving.’

      ‘Which sister?’

      ‘Portia was on the box covering the post-awards parties, she’d have flown home if it was Immi, so it must be the one with the Royal Ballet.’

      ‘Posy. Did she say how long she’d be away?’

      ‘She asked me to take her off the schedule for a month.’

      ‘A month!’

      ‘She’s worked a lot of extra days covering for other people, including you. She’s owed six weeks.’ She gestured in the direction of his office. ‘Maybe she said more in the note she left on your desk.’

      A cold, sick feeling hit the pit of his stomach as he saw the sealed envelope with his name written neatly in Miranda’s handwriting.

      He didn’t have to open it to know that she wasn’t coming back.

      He sat down, read the brief note saying that she was taking leave owed in lieu of notice. She didn’t give a reason; she didn’t have to. Determined not to let this happen, he reached for the phone.

      ‘Imogen, it’s Cleve Finch.’

      ‘Hi, Cleve. What can I do for you? There isn’t a problem with the new aircraft?’

      ‘No... No, it’s fine. I just need Posy’s address.’

      ‘Posy?’ She sounded surprised, but there was nothing guarded in her response. Evidently Miranda hadn’t shared what had happened with her twin.

      ‘I’m going to be in London this evening and I wanted to drop something off for Miranda,’ he said, trotting out the excuse he’d rehearsed. ‘Obviously I’d have asked her for the address but her phone appears to be switched off. She is staying with Posy?’

      ‘You’re kidding. Posy has a room you couldn’t swing a cat in. Andie was just dropping in to pick up the keys before catching her flight.’

      ‘Flight?’ So much for his plan to take her out to dinner somewhere, talk things through. ‘Where’s she gone?’

      ‘To L’Isola dei Fiori. Didn’t she tell you?’

      ‘I’ve been in Ireland all week.’

      ‘Oh, I see. Well, Posy inherited an amazing old house from her godmother. It’s got a fabulous conservatory and the most glorious gardens...’ Her voice trailed off. ‘I imagine they’re all overgrown.’ There was a little sigh. ‘We used to stay there in the school holidays. It was magic.’

      ‘I’m sure it was wonderful, but—’

      ‘Sorry, I was having a moment... Posy can’t get away until late summer and she’s been worried about leaving it empty so Andie’s using her leave to give it an airing. It’s a bit off the beaten track,’ she added. ‘She might not get a signal. Is it important or will it wait until she comes back?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Whatever you were going to drop off at Posy’s?’

      ‘Yes... No...’

      She laughed. ‘Okay...’

      ‘Yes, it’s important. No, it won’t wait,’ he said, quickly.

      ‘In that case you’ll want her address.’