Lying for the Camera continued…

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

There’s been a lot of behind the scenes progress, but I’m aware that those of you reading online have been left hanging for far too long. So here we go with the final chapters of the pre-editing version of the story. I almost don’t want to post them because I know a lot of this is going to change in the final version, but I’m going to anyway. Partly so you can finish it, and partly for those who are interested in seeing what difference the editing process makes.

Last time I left you half way through chapter eight. Here’s the rest of that chapter.

She’d bought three tests, because Tom had said so and her brain was too full to make its own choices about something so irrelevant. The chemist had given her a strange look and pointed out that they were very reliable these days, but Hattie merely shrugged and handed over her credit card. It wasn’t going to make any difference how many tests she did. Either she was pregnant or she wasn’t.

She lined up the boxes on her kitchen table, next to a huge mug of strong tea. Three tests meant three lots of weeing and tea was the drink most likely to make that happen. She put three spoons of sugar in and stirred until the tea was cool enough to drink. While she waited for it to have its diuretic effect, she opened the first kit and read the instructions.

Wee. Wait. Blue line for pregnant. Nothing for not pregnant. As easy as the chemist had assured her it would be.

Last time, she hadn’t bothered with the tests. She’d been far enough along to go straight to the doctor with her suspicions. She’d been excited, optimistic. They hadn’t planned it, of course, but she’d had no reason to think he wouldn’t be happy when he found out. This time she already knew what Tom’s response would be. She’d never known someone who ran so hard and so far from anything that might lead to commitment.

How would he cope with a baby if she went ahead with it?

How would she?

It was all there on her kitchen table, the evidence of how badly she’d screwed up this time: three pregnancy tests; one mug of tea, half-drunk; and the portfolio of shots that were supposed to change her life.

Her phone rang, incongruously cheery. She checked the screen and silenced it. Tom’s mobile had to be costing him a fortune to call from Morocco. No point answering until she had some information. She took the plastic wand into the bathroom and executed the manoeuvre without too much ungainly splashing. She laid it on the edge of the bath and washed her hands.

Two mugs of tea later, she had three plastic indicators. She balanced them on top of each other and snapped a picture with her phone. It came out a little blurry but the important parts were clear enough. She pressed the buttons to send it as a text to Tom, adding a brief message: +++

She hadn’t answered. Why wasn’t she speaking to him? What did that mean? He dialled again, furiously, only to be sent straight to voicemail. He cursed loudly and slammed his phone shut. How long did it take, anyway? Weren’t those things supposed to be practically instant? So that you didn’t have to go through this agony any more. He grabbed the phone and tried again. Still no reply.

“Hattie, I swear to you, if you don’t pick up the damn phone now and tell me what’s going on I’ll…”

It buzzed to tell him he’d received a text message.

From Hattie.

He peered at the blurry image. What the hell was that? He turned the phone round and shook his head. The message hadn’t come through properly either. Just +++.

Unless…

Oh, God. He clicked back to the picture and decoded it slowly. Three greyish plastic sticks lined up. Three small screens. Two blue line and one pink one.

+++

He’d told her to take three tests. And now she was telling him she had three positive results.

He threw the phone down on the bed and ran a hand over his face. His knees felt weak and he grabbed the edge of the dressing table to steady himself.

Hattie was pregnant. With his child.

His.

He was going to be sick.

Tom reached the bathroom just in time. Hanging on to the edge of the toilet seat, he was violently ill. His stomach cramped again and again, trying to expel its contents long after it was empty. Eventually, it gave up the struggle and Tom slumped onto the elaborately tiled floor. He closed his eyes and slept.

Three days later, he’d just about recovered from the stomach bug which had brought the entire shoot to a standstill. After that first night of vomiting, and later, diarrhoea, he’d mostly just slept. He’d drunk bottled water and eaten nothing for two days. This morning, he’d finally felt hungry again and managed a small amount of the local dry, crispy flat bread. He’d called the formidable fashion editor who was running the shoot and apologised for his absence. Apparently almost all the crew and half the models had been similarly indisposed, so she’d simply extended the shoot.

“We’ve got two and a half days. You’ll have to work with whoever’s upright.”

“I can’t, Louisa.”

“Nonsense. A good meal and you’ll be perfectly well.”

“No, I mean I have to leave tomorrow morning. My flight’s at ten.”

“Aston’s rearranged it.”

“I told him not to. I need to be on that plane. I’m sorry I won’t be able to complete the shoot.”

There was silence. He wondered what had happened to the last person foolish enough to refuse her.

“I hear Irina Cazelles is looking for more work,” she said softly.

“Excellent. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a replacement, then.”

“No. I daresay no one will have any trouble replacing you.” She hung up.

He sighed and let his head fall back against the pillows. Probably he ought to care more about her threats. She’d be waiting for him to call back, expecting him to apologise and say he’d come to his senses. Beg on bended knees for another chance.

Ten years ago, he’d have crawled across broken glass for a shoot like this. Even a year ago he wouldn’t have dreamed of turning it down. A month ago, he’d have thought it unprofessional to walk out.

Now, all he could think of was Hattie. They had a date and he’d be damned if he didn’t show up for it. He smiled, as he always did when he thought of her. He reached for his phone and scrolled through all the messages he’d missed in the past couple of days, hoping there might be something from her.

Not since Wednesday night. He frowned. She’d be upset he hadn’t replied. He opened the message. It took a minute to decipher the symbols and click on the attached photo, then it all came flooding back. Everything his virus-addled brain had conveniently suppressed. Her late period. The pregnancy tests. The positive result.

He wanted to crawl back under the duvet and hide.

He had to go back to London and face Hattie.