'So this is what you do.' She'd said she wanted to be a designer, he'd seen her work first-hand, but he hadn't appreciated just how talented-just how motivated-she was, not until he stood in the tiny flat, more workspace than home. He'd met so many Chelsea girls over the last few years, women with family money who pottered around playing at being designers or artists or jewellers. He'd assumed Sophie belonged to their tribe, although looking back the signs were there: how careful she was with money, how little she spoke about her family. It was painfully clear how much he'd misjudged her, how little he knew about her.
'This is what I do. It's taken me a long time to get even this far. I don't make a living from it yet. In fact...' she took a deep breath '...I owe you an apology. I didn't mean to mislead you...'
'About what?'
'When we met, that first night. I was at the party but not as a guest. You didn't see me because I was invisible-I was waitressing there. I was supposed to be waitressing at the Snowflake Ball as well. Only, my friends played fairy godmother and bought me a ticket. That's how I make ends meet, have done since I moved to London. I work for Maids in Chelsea, cleaning, shopping, bar work-whatever is needed.'
Her blue eyes were defiant, her chin tilted, hands bunched on her hips. 'You worked and produced all this? When did you find time to sleep? To eat?'
The defiance dimmed, replaced with relief. 'Sleep's overrated.'
'You didn't lie. You told me you were a designer. Looking at all this, I'd say that's exactly what you are. These are incredible.'
'Thank you.' She twisted her hands together. 'But you didn't come here to pay me compliments. I know we need to talk, but it's late and I'm really tired. Could we meet tomorrow and do this then?'
She did look exhausted, he realised with a pang of guilt. Purple shadows darkened her eyes, her hair, twisted up into a loose ponytail was duller than usual, her lips pale. She looked more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her and he ached for the right to take care of her. She was carrying his child. His. It was almost impossible to imagine, her body still slender, seemingly unchanged, and yet his blood thrilled at the realisation. He'd been running from this commitment for so long yet now he was confronted with the actuality he was filled with a primal joy. A determination to do better, be a better father than he had been a son, to not make the same mistakes his own father had made but to love his child no matter what their aspirations, who they wanted to be.
'We can, but I just need to say one thing. I'm sorry for how I reacted, when you told me about the pregnancy. It was such a shock, so unexpected. I needed to fix it, solve it. That's what I do.'
'I understand.'
'I made assumptions about you, about us. That was wrong. But I've missed you, Sophie. All this week I keep turning to speak to you, to see your reaction, and you're not there. That's my fault, I know, and it's up to me to make things right.' It was his turn to take a deep breath. He had never thought he would ever reach this point, but now he was here it made sense as nothing had ever made sense before. Maybe this was destined, the meeting in the snow, the baby, bringing him to this point.
Reaching into his top pocket, he pulled out the small black box. Sophie's eyes widened and she retreated back a step, but he took her hand in his, sinking to one knee like an actor playing his part. 'Sophie, it would make me very happy if you would do me the very great honour of becoming my wife.'
He smiled up at her, waiting for her agreement.
'No. I'm sorry, Marco, but I can't.'
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SOPHIE STEPPED BACK one more step, pulling her hand free of his. A chill of loneliness shivered through her and she had to fight the urge to tell him she'd changed her mind, of course she would marry him. But he wasn't here for her, not for Sophie Bradshaw, he was here for the mother of his child. Here because it was the right thing to do. And she appreciated that, she really did. But she couldn't stake the rest of her life on it. 'I'm sorry,' she repeated.
Marco slowly straightened, regret mingled with anger and embarrassment clear on his face. 'I see.'
Ten minutes ago all Sophie had wanted was the coolness of her newly washed sheets, to burrow under her duvet and fall into the kind of heavy, dreamless, all-encompassing sleep her body demanded. She'd asked him to wait until tomorrow, told him she was tired and yet he'd still overridden her wishes. The only difference from last week's conversation was that this time Marco had couched his demand for marriage as a request.
A request he clearly expected her to acquiesce to.
No, nothing had changed. 'I appreciate that you think getting married is the right thing to do, especially knowing how you feel about marriage, but I can't.'
Eyes grim, mouth narrowed, he nodded once. 'Then there's nothing else to say.' Marco turned, clearly heading for the door, out of her flat and potentially out of her life. Out of their child's life.
Sophie wavered, torn. She wanted him involved, but he expected so much, too much. But, dammit, she knew she owed him an explanation; after all, it wasn't his fault it wasn't enough for her. At least a dozen women at the wedding would have leapt at his first decisive statement; they'd have swooned at a ring and a bended knee-after saying yes, of course. 'Would you like a drink? I think I have a beer in the fridge.'
He stilled, stopped. 'That would be nice, but you're tired.'
'I am, but you're here now. Sit down.' She nodded at the sofa. 'I'll bring you a beer.'
Sophie busied herself for a few minutes, opening the beer, making herself a peppermint tea and pouring some crisps into a bowl and setting it on the tiny portable all-purpose table, before sinking into the sofa next to him. Next to him but not touching. She pulled her legs up before her, propping her chin on her knees, her arms hugging her legs, wanting the warmth, the support. Neither spoke, the silence neither hostile nor comfortable, more a cautious truce.
'I owe you an honest explanation, at the very least,' she said after a while. 'It's not easy for me to talk about, even to think about. I'm not very proud of my past.'
His eyes flickered at that, but he didn't say anything. Instead he took a long drink from the bottle of beer and settled back against the sofa, his gaze steady as he watched her. Sophie stared past him, her eyes fixed on the wall behind him, tracing the colours in the material hanging there, following the pattern round and round.
'For most of my life I thought my only value was in how happy I made others. My parents weren't cruel, not at all. I had everything. Private school, lovely clothes, everything I needed except for freedom, except for autonomy. My mother liked a project, you see. She's very determined, very focussed.' She smiled. 'I often wonder what will happen when she meets your mother. They'll be the definition of the unstoppable force versus the immoveable object. Scientists should study them under test conditions.'
She sipped her tea, her gaze still fixed on the material. It was hard to untangle her feelings about her mother; they were so complicated. She'd been so loved, Sophie knew that. But the burden of expectation had been crushing and Sophie wasn't sure she'd ever stop being resentful, stop wishing for a more carefree childhood. A childhood that had prepared her for adulthood instead of leaving her wide open and vulnerable.
'I think I mentioned before that I was born quite a long time after my brothers. It was like being an only child in many ways and I was quite isolated. My mum liked to pick out my friends, my clothes, my activities, and I soon learned that my role in the family was to make her happy-and she was happy when I did exactly what she wanted. It's dangerous, linking love to approval, making a child feel that it's conditional. And that was very much how I felt. I didn't dare complain, I didn't dare disagree because when I had her approval I knew I was loved. But I wasn't happy. My school was quite a long way away from my home and I was dancing most evenings from a young age, so I didn't have many friends. Ashleigh was my closest friend, but I only knew her for a short while and then her family moved back to Australia. By the time I hit my mid-teens I was a bit of a loner and really naïve.
'My mother had planned for me to apply for professional training when I was sixteen-but I think I told you in Venice that my heart wasn't in it. It was the first time I had said no, first time I'd let her down and she didn't hide her disappointment in me. But I felt free for the first time. I started to go out, to gigs to see local bands, to make my own clothes and find my own look. The more I started to work out who I wanted to be, the harder she tried to hold on. We had such terrible, horrible rows, said nasty, vicious things.'