The Only Woman to Defy Him(73)

                There should only be ancient magazines in doctors’ waiting rooms.

                Not glossy up-to-date ones with photos of Demyan and his son, walking along, both smiling, their breath blowing white in the cold Russian winter.

                She flicked the page and stared down the long lens of the paparazzi and into the ritzy restaurant where he sat, chinking glasses with Nadia and Roman.

                But was he happy?

                Her eyes searched his features and Alina truly didn’t know.

                Probably.

                Demyan didn’t exactly laugh easily but in that photo in the restaurant, with Nadia and Roman, he clearly was.

                Would it make it easier if she thought he was acting, that he’d gone back to Nadia rather than lose his family?

                ‘Ms Ritchie?’

                Alina stood as her name was called and followed the doctor into her office.

                There was so much hurt that all Alina felt was numb.

                ‘I’m pregnant.’

                Of course, the doctor wouldn’t take her word for it and Alina handed over the mandatory urine sample and gave dates and things as they waited for the predictor to change.

                ‘You certainly are!’ The doctor hesitated and glanced at her lethargic and rather pale patient. ‘Are congratulations in order?’

                ‘They will be one day.’ Alina said. ‘It’s just a bit tough right now. I was on the Pill but...’ She shrugged. No, she hadn’t set out to trap him, just a little white pill had been so easy to forget when you were preparing to step onto a red carpet and falling in love when you had promised yourself you wouldn’t. All that should have been important and sensible had disappeared, thanks to the most dizzying, complicated man.

                ‘The baby’s father...’ the doctor probed.

                ‘Is back with his ex-wife.’

                Oh, it was a sorry tale and no doubt to the doctor it was a familiar one.

                ‘He still has responsibilities.’

                Alina gave a tired shake of her head.

                ‘Have you told him?’

                ‘He’s moved overseas. He was only visiting Australia for a couple of weeks,’ Alina said.

                Foolish girl.

                And, yes, one day she’d have to tell her child who its father was, but the future felt a terribly long way off when you were having trouble getting your keys out of your handbag.

                There was one good thing about having a broken heart, though, one good thing about insomnia and a heart that was so bruised Alina was aware of each painful beat.

                Her artwork.

                She ran, to herself.

                Alina moved out from Cathy’s and rented a tiny apartment but it was her tiny apartment. It was bliss to have her work left out, to have things untouched and no parties or noise as she lost herself in her work.

                In her paintings she found herself day after day, night after night.