Page 63 of The Art of Loving You

Owen.

They were deep in conversation. A bunch of pale pink roses on the table between them. He took her hand. Ran his finger across her wrist. The gold wedding band on his finger caught the light. She smiled.

My mind travelled back to the question I had asked Alice when she had first told me that she was pregnant.

‘Have you told him? The dad?’

‘No. He’s in a relationship. I really don’t want to talk about it.’ She had been cagey.

No wonder she hadn’t wanted to talk about it.

Owen.

A waitress pushing between the tables dropped her order. The sound of breaking crockery lifted Alice’s head, her happy expression contorted into one of horror as she caught sight of me.For a second neither of us moved. The coffee shop faded away, the world disappearing until there was only me and my deceitful sister.

She wrenched her hand away from Owen, scraped back her chair. He looked over his shoulder, his eyes burning into mine.

My skin crawled with a thousand unwelcome memories.

I turned and pushed my way back to the front of the coffee shop.

Liam had gone.

My bag was still resting on my chair but it was unzipped, my laptop and purse missing.

I was a fool in so many different ways.

‘Libby, wait. I can explain.’ Alice was close behind me, shielding her bump with one hand as she squeezed through the customers to reach me, stumbling against a table.

I was conflicted, desperate to get away but not wanting her to hurt herself.

Reluctantly I stopped. Turned. She ushered me outside.

‘You know what Owen put me through, so—’

‘He’s changed.’ Alice defended him before she hurriedly added, ‘But it wasn’t what it looked like.’

‘Really? Because it looked very much like you were holding hands with my ex? Like he had bought you flowers? Are you together?’

‘No! He’s married.’

I recognised the treacherous slope I was teetering at the top of but I couldn’t help hurling myself down it. ‘So is the father of your baby, isn’t he?’

The colour from Alice’s face drained away.

‘Is Owen the father of your baby, Alice?’

Neither of us spoke. I was hurtling down that slope, feeling it physically, the dizzying sense of being out of control, bracing myself for the impact.

There was nothing left for me to say, no words. Only me and my duplicitous sister.

Time stretched as I waited for a denial that didn’t come.

Slowly, reluctantly, heartbroken, I turned and walked away.

Chapter Twenty-Two

At home I sat at the kitchen table, open bottle of wine in front of me, drinking too fast to try to blunt the edges, but the memory of Alice and Owen holding hands was still sharp and painful. Like a teenager waiting for a boy to call I checked my phone with frequency, unable to stop myself picking up my handset even though it hadn’t rung, disappointment lurching when I saw she hadn’t tried to call me.

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