Cathy Kelly 6-Book Collection: Someone Like You, What She Wants, Just Between Us, Best of Friends, Always and Forever, Past Secrets

She obviously felt that there was much more to it than that. Emma sighed. Anybody who thought talking about your innermost fears was enjoyable must be off their trolley.

She told Pete about her therapy sessions the following Sunday morning when they were in the car on the way to her parents for lunch.

‘I don’t want you to think I’m cracking up or anything,’ Emma said, staring straight ahead at the red traffic lights.

Pete’s hand found its way from the gearshift on to Emma’s lap and round her tightly clenched hand. She clung to his fingers.

‘I don’t think you’re cracking up, Emma,’ he said gently. ‘I know you’re under a lot of strain with your mother and…everything.’

Even now, it was unspoken between them, her hunger for their child. She didn’t know which of them was worse: her for becoming obsessed with it, or Pete for being so scared of upsetting her that he never mentioned children at all.

‘I just want you to be happy, love, and if talking to someone helps, then that’s great. I’d just hate to think you couldn’t talk to me. You’re the most important person in the world to me and I love you.’

He had to take his hand away to shift into second gear. Emma nodded, too emotional to say anything for a moment.

‘I can talk to you, Pete,’ she managed finally. ‘It’s just that there are some things I’ve got to sort out in my head and it’s easier to talk to someone who doesn’t know me or isn’t involved in any way. I don’t want you to be angry with me for doing it in the first place. It’s not about you and me, Pete. I love you to bits, you know that.’

He put his hand back on hers. ‘I know, you big dope. If I thought for a minute we were having problems, I’d be the one dragging you off to marriage guidance counselling. I’m not going to lose you, Em. I know you’re finding it hard to cope with your mum and dad, and,’ he paused, ‘the whole baby thing.’

‘How did you know?’ she asked in a low voice.

‘I’d want to be blind not to notice you’re dying to get pregnant, Emma. I know you love children, it just takes time, that’s all.’

She nodded, not sure if she was relieved or not. Pete knew she wanted a baby but hadn’t a clue of the desperate, agonized longing she had for one. Or of her conviction that she couldn’t have one because it was all her fault, that the worst-case scenario was just waiting to happen. She wasn’t simply slow getting pregnant: she was infertile, barren, hopeless and useless as a woman. She knew one thing: she didn’t want to talk to him about this deep-seated fear, not yet.

‘Pete,’ she interrupted, ‘we have to talk about it, but I don’t think I can do it yet, please? Soon, hopefully, but not now.’

‘If that’s what you want, OK. But we’ve got to talk about it soon, Em. We’re young, we’ve got loads of time. I promise.’

Emma couldn’t speak. She sat with her lips pressed tightly together, almost not believing they were having this conversation. Pete thought he knew how she felt, but he didn’t. He was trying his best, but nobody could understand this except another woman. That was the tragedy. It would pull them apart if she let it.

She reached over and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thank you. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you, Pete.’

Her mother was polishing the brass knocker on the front door when they arrived. ‘Hello, dears,’ she said vaguely. ‘I’m polishing.’ She went back to her task, ignoring them.

Pete and Emma exchanged glances.

Inside, Emma was surprised to see Kirsten there, although not surprised to see her sprawled on the couch reading the beauty supplement to one of the Sunday papers. Her sister was not the sort of person to help out with cooking lunch if she could possibly get away with it. The roast could ignite in the oven before Kirsten would stir from her prone position.

‘Oh, hi, guys,’ she said, looking up briefly.

‘Have you seen what Mum is doing?’ Emma asked.

‘Polishing something, isn’t she?’ Kirsten said, focused on her magazine again.

‘Polishing the front-door knocker, Kirsten, which is strange behaviour for her on a Sunday morning. Mum never does housework on Sundays, apart from cooking. Don’t you think she’s behaving oddly?’

Kirsten sighed heavily and laid down her magazine, as if to say it was obvious she wasn’t going to be left in peace to read it. ‘Not really, Emma. She’s ridiculously houseproud, you know that. I wouldn’t be surprised to see her doing any housework.’

Emma began to lose her temper. ‘Kirsten, do you ever notice anything except what’s going on in your own private little world?’

Her sister sniffed. ‘I don’t know what your problem is, Emma. I’m the one in the middle of a nightmare.’

‘What do you mean?’ Emma perched on the edge of the couch.

‘Patrick and I are fighting. He’s such a bastard. You don’t know how lucky you are, Emma.’ Kirsten looked meaningfully at Pete, who had taken up one of the papers and was pretending to be immersed in the sports section so he wouldn’t get roped into any argument.

‘What happened?’ Emma said flatly. She wasn’t interested in Kirsten’s histrionics today. As a result of the usual skyscraping Visa bill, Patrick had probably made a mild comment about her shopping addiction and how she’d have to cut back. He never lost his temper, amazingly for someone who lived with Kirsten. ‘I suppose you’ve been shopping like there’s no tomorrow as usual? You should have shares in Gucci by now.’

‘You can mock, but it’s serious this time,’ Kirsten retorted. ‘Very serious.’

Emma couldn’t believe this. ‘Describe “serious” to me,’ she said acidly.

‘He’s talking about going to stay in his brother’s house for a few weeks.’

‘Bloody hell!’ Emma was shocked out of her coolness.

‘You can say that again,’ Kirsten said moodily, getting up and leaving the room.

Emma followed her. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asked, seeing no sign of him anywhere.

‘Some emergency at Aunt Petra’s, apparently. She’s probably just found the remains of the gas man she locked in the garage when he went to read the meter ten years ago. I hope Dad hurries back soon, I’m ravenous.’

She gazed into the oven with the helpless expression of a time-travelling Victorian faced with the space-shuttle controls.

‘You are so useless around the house, Kirsten.’ Emma checked out the roast and, seeing as it was nearly done, turned the temperature down and started preparing the vegetables.

‘I better learn, then. Patrick says he has no intention of keeping me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed and that I can get a job. Sorry, the exact words were “bloody job”.’

‘What did you do, Kirsten?’

Kirsten blinked a couple of times. ‘Slept with someone else.’

‘Oh. Do you love him?’ Emma asked tentatively.

‘No. I was pissed, it was a mistake really. Well, not totally because he was very good,’ she added reflectively.

‘You stupid cow!’ Emma was furious with her sister. Talk about reckless behaviour. Imagine doing that to poor, trusting Patrick.

‘What people don’t know about doesn’t hurt them,’ Kirsten retorted, ‘and what do you know about it anyway?’ she added sarcastically. ‘Miss Bloody Perfect! Just because you’ve never had the urge to have a fling doesn’t mean the rest of the world feels the same.’

‘I’m not Miss Perfect,’ shouted Emma. ‘I’m upset because I care about Patrick and because you don’t give a shit about this guy. If you loved him, then I’d stand by you every step of the way, but you don’t. He was nothing more than a quick drunken shag. You just don’t give a shit about other people, do you, Kirsten?’

It was all coming out now. Emma couldn’t stop herself. Her mouth was running away with her, saying all the bitter, resentful things she’d been thinking ever since Kirsten had blankly refused to even discuss their mother’s condition. Together, they could face whatever was wrong with Anne-Marie and tell their father what they feared. But without Kirsten’s help, Emma was afraid to take that first step. ‘Self-absorbed doesn’t come close with you – you’re self-obsessed!’ she hissed.

They glared at each other across the kitchen, Kirsten’s eyes blazing.

‘You think you’re the sensible, dutiful one, don’t you?’ spat Kirsten. ‘For sensible, read “walked on”!’