It Would Be Wrong to Steal My Sister's Boyfriend by Sophie Ranald

Author:Sophie Ranald [Ranald, Sophie]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub, azw3
Tags: Humorous, Romantic Comedy, Contemporary, Romance, General Humor, Humor & Satire, Literature & Fiction
ISBN: 1491298014
Amazon: B00EPGATWY
Published: 2013-11-23T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As soon as Alex’s call ended, my phone rang again. I didn’t want to give my new colleagues the impression that I was the sort of slacker who spends their Friday afternoon gossiping with their mates, so I almost didn’t answer. Then I saw that the caller was Dad, and remembered his missed, unreturned call from the other day, and hastily pressed accept.

“Serena’s in hospital,” Dad said without preamble.

“In… is she okay?” I asked. “Are the babies okay?”

“She’s okay for now,” Dad said. “But they don’t know how things are going to turn out over the next few days.”

With a frightening, shaky note in his voice, Dad told me that Serena had been up on a ladder painting a mural on the wall of Rose’s old bedroom, which was going to become the nursery (apparently she and Dad had had words about her doing DIY in her condition, but Serena had told him not to be such a silly old fart, and that she was pregnant, not ill, and a happy mum means a healthy baby), when she’d suddenly felt faint and overbalanced and ended up in a heap on the floor, surrounded by brushes and pots of Farrow & Ball and her stencil of smiling, chubby dragons and unicorns and wizards. This had been three days earlier, when Dad first rang me. I felt absolutely wretched with guilt.

“She said she felt okay, just shaken up,” Dad said, “but then yesterday she started having pains and bleeding, so we thought she’d better go in and get checked out. We told each other we were probably over-reacting but we were both worried as hell.”

“What did they say?” I asked.

“They say it’s placental abruption,” said Dad.

“Placental what?” I pressed the phone against my ear and started typing the phrase into Google, the way you do when you hear about medical stuff, even though no good ever comes of it.

“The placenta’s threatening to detach,” Dad said. “Normally they’d deliver the babies but twenty weeks is way too early and because they’re twins they’re small anyway. So they’re keeping her in hospital, flat on her back, basically.”

I quickly scrolled down my screen, and horrible words like haemorrhage and still birth jumped out at me.

“Shall I come?” I said. “I can get the train tonight and stay for the weekend? I won’t be able to do anything much but I could keep you company.”

Dad said, yes, please, and then he said, “Please will you let Rose know? I left her a message too but she hasn’t come back to me yet.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll be there about eight, okay? I’ll text you when I’m on the train.”

Dad said thanks and rang off, and I shut down my computer, glad to switch off the horrible words on the screen, exchanged the usual Friday formalities with my colleagues and headed for home.

How monstrously unfair it was, I thought, that poor Serena should be going through this, at risk of losing her precious, longed-for babies, while bloody Nina had not even rated the birth of her child as important enough to let his father know.

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