“It’ll be quicker on the tube,” I say quietly amid the roaring crowds. I turn to face him.
“But I want to take you.”
I can’t tell him where I’m going. He’ll have a seizure. I quickly wrack my tired brain and come up with only one option. I’ll ask him to drop me off around the corner from the doctor. There are some residential properties close by. He won’t know any different.
I sigh. “Where’s your car?”
The relief that washes over his face is obvious, and it emphasizes my guilt. Why I’m feeling guilty is beyond me, though. He lifts his arm and takes my hand gently, then slowly leads me back toward a hotel car park. The valet produces the keys from his cabin and hands them to Jesse, and he releases me only when we get to the car so I can get in.
Pulling out onto Piccadilly, he drives with consideration for the other road users and shifts gears gently, too. His driving style is matching his mood, subdued.
“Where am I going?” he asks as he turns the music system on and The XX “Islands” filters through the speakers. Even the music is passive and soft.
I scan my brain for a road name around the surgery, and only one comes to mind. “Luxemburg Gardens. Hammersmith,” I say, looking out of the window.
“Okay,” he answers quietly. I know he’s looking at me. I should turn and challenge him, prompt him to explain himself better, but my despondency is getting the better of me. He’d better not mistake it for submission. I’m not surrendering on this. I just need to get myself to the doctor, minus one Jesse, and get my awful situation remedied.
He pulls into Luxemburg Gardens and drives slowly down the tree-lined street. “Here will do.” I indicate to the left, and he pulls over. “Thank you.” I open the door.
“You’re welcome,” he murmurs. I know if I turn and look at him, I’ll see cogs whirling and a concerned frown set in place on his handsome head, so I don’t. I step out of the car. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asks urgently, like he knows his chance is slipping.
I take a deep breath. “You just asked for ten minutes, and I gave them to you. You said nothing.” I leave a despairing face of hurt and make my way across the road, but suddenly come to an abrupt halt when it occurs to me that I have no client’s house in which to disappear. I need to backtrack at least half a mile, and I can’t do that with Jesse sitting at the curb in his car, so I pull my bag open and feign searching for something while mentally praying for him to leave. I listen for the roar, or possible purr, of the DBS and after what seems like forever, it finally reaches my ears. It’s a purr. I look over my shoulder and watch his car disappear down the street before I head back the way we came. I feel nauseous. I’m not sure how I’m going to approach this. After my numerous visits to our family doctor, seeking replacement pills and the lectures I received from her each time, I’m facing a grilling and an even sterner talk on carelessness. She’ll think I’m a glutton for punishment. I think I probably am.
I check myself in and pick up a magazine from the waiting room table, then spend twenty minutes pretending to read it. I’m fidgeting and pulling at my clothes to try and cool myself down. I really do feel sick, and my nauseous state only worsens when, like an omen, I come across an article expressing the arguments for and against termination. A despairing laugh falls from my lips.
“Something funny?”
I freeze as Jesse’s familiar brogue washes over me, and then I snap the magazine shut. “You followed me?” I ask, completely stunned as I turn to face him.
“You’re a rubbish liar, baby,” he states factually, but softly. He’s right; I’m shit at it. “Are you going to tell me why you’re at the doctor’s and why you lied to me about it?” He rests his hand on my bare knee and circles it slowly as he watches me intently.
I throw the magazine back on the table. There is no escaping this man. “Just a check-up,” I mutter to my knee, trying to shift it from his grasp.
“A checkup?” His tone has altered significantly. He’s not soft and soothing anymore. There’s an edge of anger to it.
He cannot dictate this. “Yes,”
“Don’t you think we should be doing this together?”
Together? My shock makes my angry eyes swing straight to his, finding curious greens greeting me. His hand eases up on my knee and I yank my leg away. “Like the decision you made to try and get me knocked up? Did we do that together?”
“No,” he answers quietly, turning away from me.
I stare at his perfect profile, unwilling to relent and turn away. He has some nerve and my despondency has been thoroughly chased away and replaced with my earlier anger, only now it’s amplified. “You can’t even look at me, can you?” I ask tightly. “I pray to God I’m not pregnant, Jesse, because I wouldn’t inflict the shit you put me through on my worst enemy, let alone my baby.”