By Request Collection April-June 2016. Оливия Гейтс

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ to Luc by a friend in the medical profession. It was the finest in Paris, the friend had assured Luc; reputed to be the most cutting edge in Europe.

      The clinic was in the sixteenth arrondissement, across the river from Tante Laraine’s, though not far as the crow flew. In fact, after their big appointment, as Luc casually informed Shari over his breakfast croissant, his mother had suggested they join her for lunch.

      ‘Oh, have you told her?’ Shari said quickly.

      ‘Only that you’re still in Paris,’ he said soothingly, the shimmer in his eyes informing her he was perfectly alive to her alarm on the mother front.

      The consultation alone was enough for Shari to worry about, without mothers—and such mothers—thrown in.

      She put her anxieties aside and focused all her energies on preparing her questions for the doctor. Luc seemed as eager and excited as she was herself, an energy in his stride and a gleam in his eyes that melted her heart whenever he glanced at her.

      Finally they were ushered into the consulting room and spent an arduous and exciting hour with the obstetrician, who was a pleasant and efficient Frenchwoman.

      There was an endless list of questions for each of them to answer in regard to their family health histories, forms to fill out and government stuff to take care of.

      Her official status in France was one of the items at issue.

      ‘My visa is good for another two months,’ Shari explained. ‘It will have to be extended, of course.’ She glanced at Luc. ‘Will that be a problem, do you think?’

      He looked thoughtful, then shrugged. ‘Somehow we will deal with it.’

      Then it was time for her examination. Luc didn’t appear to enjoy the pelvic part. Not that he was able to see much from where he was standing, wearing an expression of extreme pain.

      His face lightened with relief when the doctor finally peeled off her gloves and pronounced her healthy, and, as far as she could ascertain, l’enfant progessing normally.

      L’enfant. Shari’s heart skipped a beat.

      And that was just the beginning. By the time the doctor had informed them of the sort of changes to expect along the way, the routine tests and ultrasounds Shari would undergo and her dietary requirements, her head was spinning.

      ‘We will book your ultrasound for twelve weeks. Then we can measure your baby, check for certain of the possible abnormalities, the heart, et cetera. If we have any concerns at that point there’s a remote possibility we might schedule you for an amniocentesis test.’

      ‘I’ve read about that.’ Shari couldn’t help wincing. ‘Is that where they insert a needle into your womb?’

      For Luc’s benefit, the doctor explained the procedure and its purposes fully.

      ‘It is not routine these days to take this test. Only if there are particular concerns, and of course even then it is your own choice whether or not you have it,’ the doctor continued. She produced a booklet that described the whole thing in detail.

      Luc looked worried. ‘But it sounds … How safe could it be?’ He glanced from Shari to the doctor.

      ‘Bien sûr, any intervention carries a risk, monsieur,’ the doctor replied. She indicated the booklet with all the different tests profiled. ‘The risk is there, but it is quite small. The statistics are tabled in here. I advise you to study everything carefully.’ While encouraging, her cool professional smile revealed no clue of her own feelings on any matter.

      Out in the street, floating, dancing, pirouetting the few blocks to where they’d left the car, while Luc was absorbed in some deep Gallic thinking, Shari was infected with an Australian need to babble.

      ‘It’s beginning to feel very real.’ She fanned herself with pamphlets. ‘I’m actually creating a new person. I’m turning into a mother before your very eyes. Me. Who would’ve thought?’

      Luc roused himself from his reverie and slipped his arm around her. ‘It isn’t so impossible to imagine.’

      ‘You think? Have you imagined it? What about you? Do you see yourself as a papa?’

      He shrugged nonchalantly, straightened his shoulders and flexed a thousand or so muscles, but his gorgeous eyes glowed. ‘Maybe.’

      ‘I can imagine it. You’ll be stern and thoughtful and très très vraiment strict.’

      He grinned at her mimicry. ‘Me— Zut, I am thinking of that ultrasound. It will be—amazing.’

      ‘I know,’ she breathed. ‘To hear the little heartbeat.’

      He grabbed her hand. ‘Come. I’m not ready to be with other people. Let’s go where we can talk.’

      The Ritz wasn’t to hand, but luckily there was a patisserie on the next corner, Le Brioche d’Or. As they approached the crowded café Shari heard some jazz being played within. As if her heart wasn’t high enough.

      All the aromas made her mouth water. Though ravenous after her scant breakfast, she was mindful of the upcoming lunch. It would be a serious social solecism not to eat at Laraine’s on this occasion. So she confined herself to selecting only tea and a miniature tarte aux pommes from the pastry counter. Luc ordered coffee.

      Sliding into a booth in the upper room at a window overlooking the street, Shari spread out the information pamphlets and selected one, only raising her head when the food was delivered.

      The tea was weak and watery, but these days that was how she liked it. She cut the pastry into two pieces and shoved one across to Luc. While perusing a screed about suggested dietary modifications for pregnancy, she bit into her scrumptious flaky pastry. Luckily there was nothing on the forbidden list about butter, apple a squidgin on the tart side, or rich heavenly custard.

      The entire tarte was the sheerest bliss. She felt so sorry for all the people in the world who weren’t in Paris with Luc. She eyed his untouched piece.

      ‘Are you sure you want that?’

      Without looking up the gorgeous man passed it back to her.

      ‘Thank you. This one’s in French only,’ she murmured, applying her paper napkin to the corner of her mouth. ‘Though I can manage most of it. You know, if I’m going to have this baby here I’ll have to enrol in some French lessons.’

      Luc glanced up from the booklet he’d been perusing. ‘If? What is this if?’

      ‘Oh.’ Jolted, she met his sharp gaze. ‘Well … It’s just a figure of speech. I’ve booked into the clinic now so—I guess I’m—having the baby here.’ She grinned reassuringly. ‘If I can fix my visa.’

      He glanced away from her. When he looked back again his eyes were veiled. ‘And you’re content—with that?’

      ‘You mean—am I content with tu?’ She smiled at his searching gaze. ‘I am. I’m quite content.’

      He returned to his reading. СКАЧАТЬ