Page 1 of Love Is: Two Bodies One Soul

Prologue

London– March 2010

“Be careful what you wish for, lest it come true!”

The receptionist lookedup at Owen, smart in his immaculate charcoal grey suit and pale blue pure linen shirt.

‘Good evening, Mr Kingsley.’ She smiled at him, her expression worldly, even a little speculative, as she added, ‘Ms Morris is in her office waiting for you. Go on up.’

‘Thanks, Tracy.’

Owen diverted to the lift – the red leather soles on his Louboutin Oxfords clacking on the marble foyer floor. He wondered (not for the first time) how much the staff at Beka Morris Associates knew about his relationship with Margaret.

Inside the empty lift, he shifted restlessly from one foot to the other and waited for the doors to close. He raised and rotated one shoulder, then the other, trying to ease the tension in his neck, thinking of the decision he’d made earlier in the day. The lift doors slid shut. Too late now to turn back, he thought … and anyway; it was the right decision.

Eager to get through the next ten minutes, Owen watched the number for each level glow amber as the lift moved slowly upward and reassured himself it didn’t matter what the Beka staff knew or thought of this thing he had with Margaret. Soon it would be finished, and he could move on.

Maybe he’d find something (someone) normal – perhaps he should try to find Bethan? The tension in his shoulder muscles spiked at the memory of her. He’d not seen Bethan since university, and the way they’d parted … she wouldn’t want to see him again.

So, no. There was no going back for him.

But perhaps once he was free, he might dare to try for something more than his usual thing, something meaningful, like George’s relationship with Millie. A familiar spike of jealousy cut through him and he scowled, remembering the previous weekend spent with George and Millie and their baby daughter. It had aroused old yearnings, and no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t suppress the desire to have a family of his own. He didn’t want to be alone anymore. It wasn’t too late, was it? He wasn’t too old.

* * *

Margaret’s officedoor was open. He paused in the entrance, watching her bent over her work, light from the desk lamp picking up the gleam of her sleek, white-blonde hair.

‘You’re late, Owen,’ she said, not looking up.

Irritated by her greeting, he sucked in air, holding back from saying he’d been delayed at the studio. He wouldn’t make excuses or remind her that it was his work that paid for all the luxuries she’d enjoyed these last two months. Even so, he churned with suppressed irritation — why on earth did she have this fixation with time? Did it matter that he should have been here at five fifteen and it was now, according to the clock on her wall, twenty-five past the hour? What difference do ten paltry minutes make?

He leaned against the door frame, fighting his temper, gathering his thoughts, forming the opening line he’d use. This wasn’t a strange situation for him – he’d lost count of the number of women he’d finished with over the years – so he should find it easy, but even with Margaret, it seemed he required some mental preparation. Perhaps he should start with, ‘I don’t want to be hurtful but ….’ Or maybe, ‘Do you think what we have is going anywhere?’ Even, ‘Margaret, do you think we’re compatible?’ It was hard not to laugh at that last one. He and Margaret couldn’t be less compatible if she had been a giraffe and he a frog.

‘Come in and shut the door,’ she said, her tone brusque as she shuffled her paperwork into a neat pile.

Owen did as he was told. Privacy was required for what was coming next. So yes, he’d shut the door and ignore the fact she had spoken to him like he was an office junior. He wouldn’t have to tolerate her ways for much longer.

‘Margaret …,’ he began, turning to her, still uncertain which opening line to use.

Unsmiling, she looked up. Ice-blue eyes landed on him, her blonde bob bouncing into place as she tilted her head and said, ‘I’m pregnant, Owen.’

He stopped by the chair in front of her desk and looking into Margaret’s cold eyes, he thought somewhat ruefully, be careful what you wish for.

His mind sprinted on, trying to fill in the detail of a future with Margaret. It was hard to think of her as a mother – it was even harder to think of himself as her husband. But a child … was it true? His heart skipped a beat at the thought. Less than two minutes before, he’d been rehearsing how best to say goodbye. Now he had to do a one-eighty degree turn and start planning which bedroom in his house should be turned into a nursery.

‘You’re sure?’ he asked, his voice cracking. He left unsaid – is it mine? Whatever else Margaret was, she wasn’t a woman who played the field. She was definitely a serial monogamist, determined to get every last drop of blood out of the man of the moment. Almost literally.

‘I am,’ she said, and in a tone that left no room for argument, she added, ‘Six weeks gone.’ And returned her attention to her work.

Typical, that she would be so precise, he thought, and calculated she’d placed the moment of conception in Cornwall. He’d been down in the clay country, filming a programme on the most marginal constituencies to be contested in the next general election, and she’d arrived unexpectedly, demanding his time and more. She’d complained because he and the crew were staying in a local pub and the accommodation was not up to her usual high standards. She’d complained about other things as well … typical Margaret. He’d used a condom, there’d been no mishaps. Except …. A smile was fighting to break free at the thought of a baby.

Margaret flourished her signature at the bottom of the document she had been working on and rested the pen carefully on top, before looking again at Owen. ‘I’ve booked myself into the clinic for next week,’ she said

‘Clinic?’ His voice sounded small – far away – not his.

‘Yes, Owen. Clinic,’ Margaret replied slowly, as if he were feeble minded. Resting her elbows on the desk, she steepled her fingers, the tips hiding her perfectly made-up lips, and pinned her eyes on him again. ‘Of course, I’ll expect you to drive me there and collect me afterwards. The invoice will be sent to you.’

‘What invoice?’ In a sudden rush of blood to the head, Owen caught up and the full horror of what she was saying hit him. ‘You can’t!’

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