Page 68 of Let’s Make a Scene

“We could try something new,” I suggest softly. “We could try being friends.”

She treats me to another long look, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “Fine, a truce,” she says in the end.

“And friends?”

“Let’s take it one step at a time.”

“I think I’ll win you over. I can be very charming, you know.”

“So you’re always telling me.”

When I offer my hand to shake on it, she goes to take it, but in doing so she accidentally knocks her coffee cup, sending the remains of her lukewarm drink spreading across the table.

“Shit!” she exclaims, jumping up. “Let’s hope that’s not an omen for our truce.”

She hurries to grab a dish towel and I start picking stuff up off the tabletop to move it out of the path of the spill. When Cynthie returns, I’m holding a book in my hand, staring down at it. My heart is beating very fast.

“Um, Cyn,” I say and my voice is a bit high. “Is there anything you want to tell me?”

“What?” she asks, looking up from the mess she’s busy mopping up. The book that I am holding is What to Expect When You’re Expecting, with a woman craddling her very pregnant belly on the front cover.

Her eyes widen as they dart from the book to me and back again. “Oh god, Jack,” she manages. “I didn’t want to break it to you like this, but it’s… it’s true…”

“What’s true?” I ask slowly.

Her hand flies to her flat stomach. “I’m pregnant,” she whispers. “And we want to pretend you’re the father.”

I feel all the blood drain from my face. My hand goes to the back of my chair, to stop me from falling straight over. “Cynthie,” I manage. “Shit, that’s…”

There’s a long, terrible beat as I wrestle with all the emotions that are flying through me. Then, Cynthie’s shoulders start shaking, and for a second I think she’s crying, her head bowed, before she lifts her face and there’s nothing but glee in her expression. She’s laughing.

No, she’s cackling.

“Oh my god,” I say, my heart starting up again. I drop into the chair. “Oh my god, you little monster!”

Cynthie is still laughing too hard to talk, and I reach for my coffee with a shaking hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says finally, wiping tears from her eyes. “It was just too easy.”

“So, to be clear… you’re not pregnant?” I ask.

“No.” Cynthie tries to look solemn but mostly fails. “It was research for a part I was considering.”

“Right, that makes sense,” I say, and my voice is under control as I treat Cynthie to a stern look. “But that was not a promising start to our friendship. You almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I only wish I’d had a camera. Your face was priceless.” Cynthie’s own face is lit up, and it’s impossible not to grin back at her. All the tension falls away from her, all that caution gone as she laughs, and I wish I could bottle the sound.

“How about—” she starts to say, but she’s interrupted by the rattle of the front door opening.

A woman’s voice calls, “Hello! I am here!”

It’s Cynthie’s turn to pale. “Oh no,” she whispers. “I forgot she was coming.”

“Who?” I ask, pushing back up to my feet. “How did anyone get past the gate?”

Cynthie is busy shoving the box of doughnuts into a cupboard. “She has a code.” Cynthie runs her eyes over me in obvious distress. “Listen, I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry…”

Before I can ask her what she’s sorry for, a tiny blond woman dressed in hot-pink Lycra comes barreling through the kitchen door. She’s slurping on a disgustingly green smoothie, and when she sees me, she stops in her tracks.