I look down, releasing an involuntary ‘Oh.’
There’s a blue line in the indicator window, strong and unmistakable.
‘Shit.’ I’ve done it now. ‘Fuck.’
I should be happy. I should be dancing with joy. But instead, I stay exactly where I am, perched on a cracked toilet seat and staring in dismay at a plastic stick. My brain descends into abject confusion. Pregnancy. Birth. Motherhood. Teeny-tiny clothes filled with a teeny-tiny wriggling baby. I shake my head. This can’t be real. But in some disconnected, logical part of my brain, I know it is. I can’t ignore the facts any longer, because the facts are lining up, one after the other, relentlessly. My period’s gone AWOL, and I’ve got tender boobs, and tea tastes weird, and there’s this little blue line …
‘I’m not ready,’ I breathe.
And neither, in all likelihood, is Dan.
‘Shit.’
After all my complaints about being kept out of the loop, I’ve gone and made the mother of all decisions behind his back, and I can’t imagine that going down too well.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’
How do I tell him? What do I say? And when do I break the news?
I’m tugged from my thoughts by a ping of my phone. Hastily, I wrap the stick in the plastic bag and bury it back at the bottom of my handbag. Digging out my mobile, I’m thoroughly surprised to be greeted by a text from Lily.
Hope you’re ok. Can we meet up? I want to talk.
I stare in disbelief at the words, bristling at the memory of her tone the last time we spoke, dismissive and cold. But I hardly blame her. In her mind, I was the deranged ex-girlfriend. She had no choice but to keep her distance and protect her friend. But why is she contacting me now? With everything else that’s going on, I should simply ignore the text. But I can’t. I’m intrigued by this apparent change of heart. Overwhelmed by temptation, I tap in my reply and fire it off.
What do you want to talk about?
The reply comes immediately. One word.
Dan.
My interest’s thoroughly piqued, my brain whirring with possibilities. Has she finally realised she misjudged me? Or is there something else I don’t know about the father of my child? Going on past form, that’s exactly the sort of blow fate would love to chuck in my direction. Unable to resist, I probe further, asking her what’s going on. Giving nothing away, she insists on talking to me, face to face. And nobody’s to know. Finally, I cave in.
When and where?
The reply shocks me.
Tonight? It’s urgent. Please. I’ll be at my new place until late. The Concordia on the north bank. Problems to sort out. Can you come over?
It doesn’t take long to reach a decision. I’ve got the Steves’ retirement do tonight and I’m hardly in the mood for it. At least this is an excuse to leave early. And if Lily’s changed her mind about me, if Dan’s told her the truth, then I can get a little advice on how to break my news to him.
I’ll see what I can do. Need to show my face at a party first.
Almost as soon as I hit the send icon, I receive her reply.
That’s fine. See you later. X
‘Where have you been?’ Lucy demands.
I take the last step up to the ground floor of the gallery, and say the first thing that comes to mind.
‘On the loo.’
She watches me from the sofa.
‘Bloody hell, you must have the shits.’
‘Yeah,’ I answer half-heartedly.
‘The poshmobile’s waiting outside.’ She waves a hand at the window. ‘Time to go home and get ready for the shindig.’
I look outside, to where the Bentley’s waiting for me, Carl standing by the rear door, checking the street. He’s even more anxious than this morning, and that’s saying something.
‘Aren’t you coming?’ I ask.
She shakes her head.
‘I’m closing up here, going straight over to Covent Garden. Tweedledum and Tweedledee need help. They’re flapping, as usual. I’ll see you there later.’ She frowns. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes.’
But I’m not. Of course I’m not. All I want to do is tell Lucy I’m pregnant, get the truth out into the open, collapse in a heap and cry. Because then I might just begin to process the fact. But as it is, with no release, my brain’s had enough, gone on holiday, cleared itself out and hung up a sign saying ‘back in a while’.
‘I’d better go.’
Without another word, I leave the gallery, nod a greeting to Carl and slide into the back of the Bentley, where I find Gordon waiting for me.
‘Hey.’
‘I didn’t expect you.’
‘An added bonus.’
And a much-needed source of news.
‘How did lunch go?’
‘Well, that’s why I’m here. Carl? Camden if you please.’
With an uneasy glance in the rear-view mirror, Carl starts up the engine and the Bentley pulls away. As we thread our way through Soho, Gordon starts on his story.
‘So, Dean comes over to The Goring for lunch, and Bill was right, by the way. He is a seriously nasty individual. Dean’s still pissed off about losing one of his workforce, even though he’s been royally recompensed, so I let him
