Star looked at herself in the mirror as she put her mascara on. Her face was definitely getting fuller. It suited her. But despite her now accepting her predicament, she still hadn’t found the courage to tell Conor that the baby wasn’t his.
The only person she had confided in was Kara, who had solemnly promised that she would not tell a single soul until her friend had told the handsome Irishman herself. But every time Star had braced herself to say something to him, she just couldn’t – because she knew that as soon as the truth was out, he would be gone, and she would be alone again. And although she wasn’t in love with him, she really cared for him. Really enjoyed her time with him. He had been so careful with her and so loving towards her bump. Even making sure the foods he bought were suitable for pregnancy and that she was in bed early to get enough sleep, so she wasn’t tired for work. She owed it to him to tell him, she knew, and as soon as possible, but it was one of the most difficult things she had ever had to do in her life.
Here, inside her, was Jack Murray’s baby. The baby of a man with whom she had spent a matter of a mere few hours. The baby of a man who had run back to his girlfriend in New York yet again to rekindle his worthless relationship. The first man she had actually felt that she was in love with, but not only was he unobtainable, he also lived thousands of miles away.
Lightning had struck twice. She had had sex with two attached men, Skye’s father being the first, Jack the second, and had fallen pregnant both times. Star knew she had created her own karma and now she would have to pull her big girl’s pants up, take the consequences and bring up yet another child on her own. She did the calculations and worked out that in another eighteen years she would be fifty-one, still young enough to live her life again after that. So yes, she would just have to suck it up and get on with it.
She had gone over and over the quandary in her mind of whether or not to tell Jack that he was the father of her child, and had more or less decided not to. She feared the revelation would be traumatic, and the inevitable rejection of her too much to bear. What’s more, if Riley had pushed Jack so viciously merely by suspecting that she and Jack had had sex together, God knows what might happen if she learned that he’d impregnated an English Rose.
So much deceit was flying around. It was breaking her heart, and it wasn’t good for the baby.
She was conscious that she hadn’t seen her mum for what felt like an age either. Estelle had betrayed her so greatly that Star wasn’t ready to make peace, but was also torn by the knowledge that her mother was not a well woman. The dreadful words she had said – that her mother was dead to her – played constantly over her mind. Alcoholism: an illness that ravaged the body and mind, and which couldn’t be cured until the sufferer accepted that they had a problem. Such a cruel illness, and so difficult for those with it and the people around them who loved them. She put her head in her hands and sighed deeply just as Skye came bounding into the room like an excited child.
‘It’s properly snowing out there now, Mum. Come and have a look! Mum? Shit, Mum, what’s the matter?’
Star sat up on her dressing table stool. ‘Skye, we need to talk. Sit on the bed, darling.’
‘Mum? You’re scaring me.’
‘No, it’s all OK. I should have done this ages ago. Firstly, I want to tell you all about your father …’