I change the subject.

“Nina and I had time to talk. There was no reason for her to hide anything from me. One time that stands out in my mind is an afternoon out—just the two of us—at a nearby well-known garden to see the rhododendrons and azaleas. We both photographed them. We ordered afternoon tea in the café—scones, Earl Grey, cupcakes decorated in sickly icing, the full works. Nina painted me a picture of the flowers and had it framed, which she gave to me as a—well, I wouldn’t call it a goodbye gift—but in essence, that’s what it was. She called it a forget-me-not present. That’s something Nina has robbed me of. Rightful grieving. Was she a true friend or not? I don’t know how to feel.”

I reach for the tissues.

“Stuart is the father of my baby,” I tell him (as if he wouldn’t have guessed) and now that I’m confessing the words pour out. “I mean, what kind of a person does that make me? Here I am, moaning about the secrets Nina kept, yet what I’ve done is worse.”

“Why do you say that? From everything you’ve told me, it seems that Stuart has encouraged your presence, welcomed and requested your help. I don’t see how you could’ve entered a relationship alone.”

“I fell pregnant.”

“Not without his assistance, I imagine.”

My turn to smile. “I guess we can be happy enough. We’re both willing to make a go of the situation.”

Funny how expressing things out loud makes anything seem not quite so...mysterious or as daunting. I relax a little. I fear I’ve not allowed myself to enjoy my pregnancy so far because I don’t deserve happiness.

I take a deep breath as I study the book titles on Christian’s shelf. Divorce, bereavement, sexual problems, illness, debt. The topics of human sadness and frailties are never ending.

“Stuart says that he thought it was Camilla who was writing the notes. He confronted her, but she denied it.”

“Why did he suspect her?”

“I don’t know. They’ve always seemed to have got on, generally. It soured my baby news. He dashed off to speak to her because she’d walked in on us hugging and guessed something was going on. I followed him and he was angry when I turned up. I’ve never seen him angry before. Ever. It was unsettling.”

“Why was he angry?”

I don’t want to tell him that I left the children alone, it makes me sound neglectful. Which I’m not. Obviously.

“He just was. We left together. He told me what he’d accused her of and then proceeded to tell me about the other notes, which he’d kept hidden from me.”

I update Christian on the venomous comments, mostly directed my way, referring to me as wicked.

“Why did he keep them a secret from you?”

“He said he didn’t want to burden me.”

Silence.

“And do you believe that’s the reason?”

The question is left hanging between us.

“I guess so,” I finally say. “It’s the sort of thing Stuart would do. I’m hoping it will all naturally die down once people accept us.”