Double Trouble: Pregnancy Surprise: Two Little Miracles / Expecting Royal Twins! / Miracle: Twin Babies

And then she looked at him, and saw him watching her with something very familiar and deeply disturbing in his eyes, and she coloured and turned away quickly. ‘Oh look—there’s a ship coming in,’ she said, which was ridiculous because there had been lots, but she caught his smile out of the corner of her eye and the breath stuck in her throat.

He had no right doing that to her—bringing back so many memories with just one slow, lazy smile. They might not have walked on the beach, but they’d made love many, many times on their roof terrace overlooking the Thames, with the smell of the river drifting up to them and the salty tang in the air. And she could tell, just from that one glance, that he was remembering it as well.

‘I’ll just make sure the babies are all right,’ she said hastily, and, going round to the other side of the buggy, she tucked them up and then followed behind, staring at his shoulders as he towed the babies and strolled along with the air of a man who did it every day of the week.

Just like a real father, with a wife and two beautiful children, not a pressed man who’d been forced to submit to some bonding time with his newly discovered infants.

Oh, what a mess.

Would they ever get out of it?

‘Jules?’

She realised she’d stopped, and he’d stopped, too, and had turned to look at her, his eyes troubled.

He let go of the buggy and came round to her side. ‘What’s wrong?’

She shrugged, unable to speak, and with a little sigh he put his arms round her and eased her against his chest.

‘Hey, it’ll be all right,’ he murmured, but she wasn’t so sure. It was less than two days, and he’d already broken the rules by stealing her phone and trying to find his. Goodness knows what else he’d do while her back was turned. He was up half the night—could he be using her phone?

Did she care? So long as he was there in the day and trying, did it matter if he cheated?

Yes!

Or—no, not really, so long as he learned the work-life balance lesson?

‘Come on, let’s go and get a coffee. There’s a little café I noticed near the car. I’ve brought drinks for the girls, and maybe they can warm up their jars.’

‘Gloop?’ he said, looking wary, and she thought of his new jumper and smiled.

‘It’s OK, I’ll feed them, if you like,’ she promised. ‘I’ll just let you pay.’

‘It’ll be a pleasure,’ he said with a sigh of relief, and, going back to the other side of the buggy, he towed it the rest of the way to the car without a murmur.

The babies were ready for bed early that night.

‘It must be the sea air,’ Jules said as she heated their supper—pots of home-made food this time, he noticed, and wondered if it was better for them.

‘Does that have all the right nutrients in it?’ he asked, and she stared at him as if he was mad.

‘It’s food—not a chemical formula. Roast chicken, broccoli, carrots, roast potatoes, gravy made with stock—of course it’s got all the right nutrients.’

‘And you cooked it?’

‘Well, of course I cooked it!’ she said with an exasperated sigh. ‘Who else?’

He shrugged. ‘Sorry. It’s just—I hardly ever saw you cook, and I don’t think you ever did a roast.’

‘No, of course not. We never had that long to do something so unimportant—’

‘Jules, stop it! I was just—’

‘What? Criticising the way I’m looking after my children?’

‘They’re my children, too!’

‘So learn how to cook for them,’ she said crossly, and threw a cookery book at him. ‘Here you go. There’s chicken breast, mince, salmon steaks, prawns and pork chops in the freezer. Take your pick. You can do supper for us while I get the girls in bed.’

And, stalking off with one of them in each arm, she left him sitting there staring blankly at the book.

Jeez. He could make coffee and toast and scrambled eggs, at a push. And he could unwrap stuff and shove it in the microwave, or pick up the phone and order.

But—cook? Real ingredients? Hell’s teeth, he hadn’t done that for years. Fifteen years? Not since…

He opened the book and flicked through the pages. What was it they’d had in the pub? Chicken breast stuffed with brie and wrapped in bacon, or something like that. She’d given him cheese last night—not brie, but cheddar. Would that do? Maybe. And how about bacon?

He stepped over the dog and investigated the fridge.

No bacon. No brie, either, come to that, and very little cheddar.

But there was pesto, and he thought he’d seen some pasta in the store cupboard in the kitchen when she’d been rummaging for biscuits.

So—pasta with chicken and pesto? A few toasted pine-nuts and a bag of salad…

No salad. Probably no pine nuts.

Peppers?

He hauled out a few things he’d seen served with similar dishes, set them all on the kitchen table and settled down with them to try and find a recipe that tied at least some of them in. Then, having found one, he had to work out how to use the microwave and, worse, how to use the Aga. Or even find the tools to reach that point.

Starting with a sharp knife, and a chopping board, and a deep, heavy pan. That was what the instructions said.

He found them, thawed and sliced the chicken, fried it in the pan with olive oil, onion and peppers, opened the pesto—and discovered mould.

Damn!

But there was rice, too, and prawns, so—how about paella? How the hell did you make paella?

He turned back to the book, wondering how long, exactly, Jules could remove herself from the kitchen. Long enough for him to ruin every single ingredient!

Simple. He’d order something in. Even she couldn’t object to him doing that on the house phone.

Except he was supposed to be doing this himself, and rising to a challenge wasn’t something that normally held him back. So—paella. How hard could it be?

‘Oh! Risotto?’ she said hesitantly, poking it and sniffing.

‘Paella,’ he corrected. ‘The pesto was off.’