Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (best classic romance novels txt) 📕

didn’t say it, but she was rather looking forward to being by herself. She’d been with Tim her whole adult life. Living on her own for six weeks felt like an adventure.

‘Is Chantel going to visit?’ asked Tim.

‘Jack can’t get the time off either,’ said Amy.

‘She can’t come on her own?’

‘Apparently not,’ said Amy.

‘He doesn’t trust her around those spaghetti men either,’ said Tim. ‘And I don’t blame him. You know how much Chantel likes her carbs.’

‘Not any more,’ said Amy. The last time she’d met her friend, Chantel had ordered a salad again and barely touched it.

‘It’s good of Trapper to hold your job for you.’

Amy looked up at Tim. She’d been carefully folding a purple dress. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘A little sabbatical. He called it his way of supporting the arts.’ Amy was hoping that the programme would go well and she would make some useful contacts. It was still her dream to quit that boring job in the little advice firm and make it as an artist. Perhaps now Tim had a proper job, it would finally become reality.

‘Then I suppose it’s just me and the clock,’ said Tim. ‘Ticking away time until you come back.’

The studio was beautiful. Large with high, ornate ceilings and exposed wooden floorboards splattered with the paint of artists past. In front of her was the life model, Antonio, confidently naked, reclined on a chaise longue like a lithe Roman emperor. Around her, her fellow students studied him with serious faces. Amy had done life drawing before, many times, but today especially she wished Chantel was with her. She longed for someone to make a joke. No one here was likely to oblige, and Amy knew that if she did it would be frowned upon and she’d be the subject of intense whispered criticism over large plates of pasta that evening.

And wine. Her stomach lurched at the thought. She’d lost her ability to drink since she’d come away, feeling the wine curdle inside her.

Her appetite had gone, too. She’d nibbled on dry bread at most meals and moved her pasta sadly around her plate. Even the rich garlicky smell made her want to retch. It was homesickness, Amy decided. She didn’t think that she could miss someone enough to put her off her penne, but she did. She wished desperately that Tim would hit his targets early and fly out to surprise her.

She glanced out of the window. The view was perfect. She could see the cupola of the cathedral in the distance, a round cone that reminded her of the hat she’d seen the bishops wearing in the paintings that hung in the Uffizi gallery.

She’d dreamed of being in Florence many times on those long days spent filing suitability reports and investment recommendations at Trapper, Lemon and Hughes. But now she was here, she just couldn’t enjoy it. Not without Tim.

She’d call him tonight, she decided, from the payphone outside the boutiquey little apartment she shared with two po-faced students. She wouldn’t tell him she was off her food without him, he’d never let her hear the end of it. But she would tell him she missed him. That the clock was ticking for her as well.

Amy stared at the plastic stick. She was a couple of days late, that was all, and she’d bought the test just to set her mind at rest. She was so confident that she was not pregnant that she’d also bought tampons from the same small and fiercely priced little farmacia outside the studio. And here she was. Looking at the two little blue lines that she didn’t need her limited Italian to interpret.

Pregnant.

Amy felt different already. A little life, growing inside her. A baby. Her baby. Tim’s baby.

It wasn’t planned, but Amy realised she wanted nothing more. They’d finally clear out Chantel’s old room. Amy would paint little birds flying on the walls that the baby could gaze at from its crib. It would be a winter baby. She tried not to think about names already, but Robin popped into her head. She’d always loved those birds, friendly and festive and so delicate and beautiful.

She’d keep her job at Trapper for the moment. They were bound to have a maternity policy of sorts. Then she’d paint while the baby napped. Tim would soon start earning a decent commission. They’d get married. They’d be a family. Chantel would be godmother.

Amy longed to call Tim right now from the mobile in front of her, but international charges were extortionate and they needed to save their money. She sent him a text instead, asking him if he could speak. He replied with an instant yes, and Amy put the test in her pocket and carefully made her way down the dusty marble staircase to use the payphone.

She hesitated as she dialled. She was happy – would he be? Yes, she thought. Of course he would. So happy.

Amy wished she could see his face when she told him. She heard his voice. ‘Hello?’

‘Hello,’ she replied, then hesitated. There was only a week left of her trip. She’d wait and tell him when she got back. It would be worth it. ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ she blurted out, then stopped herself. ‘But I don’t want to do it over the phone.’

‘I have something to tell you too,’ replied Tim. His voice sounded odd.

‘What?’

‘You first,’ he said.

‘No,’ replied Amy. ‘I’m going to wait and tell you in person.’

‘Me too,’ said Tim.

‘I miss you,’ said Amy.

‘The clock hasn’t stopped ticking,’ said Tim, cryptically. ‘I don’t think it ever will.’

‘Is Tim with you?’ asked Amy.

‘Can I come in?’

Chantel was so familiar and yet a stranger. Her face was filled with nervous concern and she was picking at the edge of her thumbnail.

‘No,’ said Amy.

‘Please,’ said Chantel.

‘Where’s Tim?’ asked Amy. ‘Are you two . . . ?’ Amy trailed off. She found she couldn’t say the words.

‘Amy, we need to talk.’

‘We needed to talk eleven years