‘I call it worshipping.’
‘So you really do worship the ground she walks on,’ Nan asks on a smile.
‘Oh, I really do.’
I’m dying on the spot, praying for divine intervention to save me. Impossible. Both of them. ‘Please stop,’ I beg.
‘OK,’ they say in unison, grinning like a pair of idiots across the table at each other.
‘Good. I need to go to the supermarket.’
‘But I like doing the shopping,’ Nan whines, an episode of the sulks on the horizon. ‘You’ll get it all wrong.’
‘Then write me a list,’ I counter, solving the problem in an instant. ‘You’re not leaving this house.’
‘I’ll take you, Olivia.’ Miller reaches over and shifts the sugar bowl a fraction to the right, then the milk a tad to the left. ‘And it isn’t up for discussion,’ he adds, flicking me a warning look.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, not backing down. I don’t care what tone he uses or what looks he flashes. ‘You can stay and watch Nan.’
‘I need to go to Ice.’
I look at him, knowing he doesn’t mean to actually do any work.
‘I don’t need watching, for the love of God!’ Nan squawks.
‘I beg to differ!’ I snap. It’s bad enough being rubbed up the wrong way by Miller. Nan can quit while she’s ahead.
‘She’s right, Mrs Taylor. You shouldn’t be alone.’
I’m delighted when I see Miller flash Nan a warning look that matches the one he’s just aimed at me, and even more delighted when she doesn’t kick up a stink. ‘Fine,’ she mutters, ‘but you can’t keep me prisoner forever.’
‘Just until you’re feeling fit,’ I appease her. I show my appreciation for Miller’s support with a quick squeeze of his knee under the table, which he ignores, surprising me.
‘I’ll take you shopping,’ he says again, standing from the table and collecting some breakfast things.
That appreciation vanishes in the blink of an eye. ‘Noooo, you’re staying with Nan.’
‘Noooo, I’m taking you to the supermarket,’ he bats back, unaffected by the warning that was rampant in my order and intended to be. ‘I’ve spoken to Gregory. He’ll be here soon, as will Ted.’
I deflate in my chair. Nan snorts her annoyance but remains quiet, and Miller nods his approval at his own announcement. He’s got it all worked out. This isn’t good. I can’t buy a pregnancy test with Miller tailing me.
Shit . . .
After giving Gregory the rundown on Nan and ensuring all her pills are laid out so he doesn’t need to bother with instructions, I’m guided to Miller’s car by my nape and placed neatly in the passenger seat. He seems a little tetchy after taking a call while I spoke with Gregory, all signs of the easy-going man at the breakfast table gone. As ever, it’s like he was never with me in the first place and while the gaps in his signature aloofness are becoming more frequent, his usual habits are muscling their way back. I sense fiddling with the temperature controls won’t be disregarded today, so I let the window down instead. Miller puts the stereo on, killing the difficult silence, and I sit back and let Paul Weller keep me company. I call the house twice en route, each time hearing Nan in the background squawking something about being a whittle arse. She’ll just have to tolerate the fuss.
I start forming a plan in my head, plotting and scheming trying to figure out how best to get a few moments alone in Tesco so I can buy what I need to either put my mind at rest or send it into a faster tailspin. There’s only one way.
After Miller parks and we’ve collected a trolley, we get swallowed up in the chaos of Tesco. We make our way up and down the aisles, me armed with the list that Nan wrote, Miller looking all stressed. I can only conclude that the chaos of our surroundings is the cause. There are abandoned trollies everywhere and the shelves are a royal mess. I inwardly laugh, having a mental bet with myself that he’s fighting the urge to tidy all the shelves. But when his mobile rings from his inside pocket and he takes it out and scowls harder at the screen before rejecting the call, I think maybe it’s not just the pandemonium of Tesco that’s bothering him. I don’t ask who’s calling him because I don’t want to know, and, in fact, I’m still mentally plotting our separation.
‘I need to get Nan some bits from the toiletries aisle,’ I say, feigning casualness to within an inch of my life. ‘You take this and get the last few bits.’ I hand him the list that I’ve cunningly added some items to – items at the opposite end of the supermarket.
‘We’ll go together,’ he replies without hesitation, scuppering my plan.
‘It’ll be quicker if we separate,’ I say offhand. ‘I can see you hate being here.’ I tactically use his discomfort to my advantage and head off before he can come back at me, glimpsing over my shoulder to check he’s not in pursuit. I find him staring down at the list with the biggest scowl of all.
Rounding the corner, I take off fast, looking up at the signs above the aisles to find what I’m looking for. It’s only a few moments of scurrying until I land in the correct aisle and I’m staring at box after box of pregnancy tests – all locked away in individual Perspex outer boxes – a stupid security measure. ‘Great,’ I grumble, reaching for the first that guarantees a rapid and accurate result. Flipping it over, I scan the print as I start to walk away, but gasp when I collide with something.