‘What, even if it’s a girl?’
‘Even if it’s a girl.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll brainstorm.’
I’ve been thinking lately about Jack, if it’s a boy. I haven’t told Daff yet. Maybe I’ll pitch it in the new year.
The whole thing still doesn’t seem real, to be honest. When Daff missed her period back in October, we hadn’t even restarted the conversation about having kids. We were still trying to find our way back into married life. But I knew for certain it was what I wanted. A family with Daphne: the thought made me explode with joy. And when she told me it was what she wanted too … Well, put it this way, I was unable to form a coherent sentence for a good few hours.
She places her hand on top of mine, and I hear the soft clink of our wedding rings touching.
‘I love you, Daff,’ I tell her.
‘I love you too. And hey – we haven’t even said it yet.’ She smiles at me: her wide, bright, beautiful smile. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘Oh yeah. Merry Christmas.’
We kiss for a while, our fingers interlocked on her tummy, and I find myself hard pressed to remember a moment when I have ever felt happier.
Our families and our best mates will all be here in a few hours, and over a glass of champagne, we’re going to let them know we’re expecting.
Today is going to be a very good day.
‘All right,’ I say finally, climbing back out of bed and collecting the trays. ‘You stay put. I’m on turkey duty, gravy duty and trying-to-get-rid-of-this-hangover duty. Do we have any Nurofen?’
‘Under the sink in the bathroom.’ She sits up and wriggles out of the duvet. ‘I’ll come down and give you a hand with everything.’
‘No way,’ I tell her, mock-sternly. ‘You’re not lifting a finger today.’
She laughs. ‘You can save that attitude for the third trimester, when I’m genuinely losing my mind.’ She walks around the bed and takes my hand. ‘Come on, let’s do it together. That’s the best way.’
Down in the kitchen, we switch the radio on to hear Michael Bublé warbling about what he wants for Christmas. We start chatting and laughing as we pull out spices and chopping boards and everything else we need to prepare our slap-up festive lunch.
I am nervous, to be honest. About everything: about being a good husband and a good dad and a good teacher. It’s daunting. It’s scary.
But I also can’t wait.
Daphne’s right: we’ll do it together. All of it. That’s the best way.
Epilogue
London, 16 June 2022
‘Time for one more?’
Harv raises his empty vodka glass at me hopefully.
I check my watch. ‘Nah, it’s after eight, I’d better be off,’ I tell him. ‘Sorry. Daff’s on her own and I told her I wouldn’t be too late.’
He rolls his eyes. ‘Mate, she probably wants some time on her own! In, like, ten days, she’ll never be on her own again. Neither will you.’
‘I’m having a kid, Harv, I’m not grafting on a Siamese twin.’
‘Still. This is your last opportunity for some actual me time. Or you time. Or … You know what I mean.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah, I do. But still, I’d better get back.’
Harv sighs as we stand and take our glasses back to the bar. ‘I thought this was supposed to be a celebration,’ he moans. ‘You’re now officially qualified to shout at children in exchange for money. We should be out tearing it up.’
I called him on the spur of the moment, as soon as I walked out of the final interview. I was still dazed at being officially offered the job I’ve been training to do for the last ten months. When the new term starts in September, I will be an English teacher – and a Year 7 form tutor – at Belmont Comprehensive School, Willesden.
It feels absolutely amazing.
We’ve just spent a very pleasant couple of hours toasting the news in a little pub next to Harv’s new office in Bloomsbury, but now I’m eager to get back to Daff. She’s always telling me not to worry, but I can’t help it. Plus, I just like coming home to her.
When we step outside the pub, it’s still very much T-shirt weather, the sun blazing brightly in the clear blue sky.
‘You heading back to yours?’ I ask Harv.
He shakes his head. ‘Nope – staying at Isha’s tonight.’
‘Ah, right.’ I grin at him. ‘I still can’t believe it’s been six months now. Honestly, I’m the greatest matchmaker of all time. This must be how Paddy McGuinness feels whenever there’s a Take Me Out wedding.’
‘Who said anything about weddings?’ I swear I see Harv blush as he fights back a sheepish smile. Have I tapped into something he’s genuinely thinking about?
Before I can probe any further, he starts walking. ‘OK,’ he says, ‘by the time we get to the Tube, we have to name every Premier League top scorer since 1993. Without googling.’
‘Right.’ I nod, feeling a powerfully simplistic delight at the task in hand.
As we turn the corner, though, we pass a street sign that reads Foster Road, and out of nowhere, a strange electric shiver passes through me. Like I’ve just remembered I was supposed to do something important, but I can’t recall what …
Harv is striding along with his lips pursed. ‘OK …’93 … Well, it’s got to be Alan Shearer, hasn’t it? Or maybe whatshisface … the guy that tried to be a rapper for a bit … Andy Cole! Or hang on, maybe …’ He breaks off mid-sentence. ‘Wow. Pretty weird place.’
I stand frozen to the spot beside him, my mouth hanging open as I stare up at the building in front of us: a squat red-brick house with an uneven roof and a precariously wonky chimney. It’s almost like it’s been dropped onto this street by mistake – one snaggled tooth in an otherwise perfect mouth.
‘Sort of a Harry Potter vibe,’ Harv says. ‘Who d’you think lives there?’
I’m barely listening. Heart pounding, I take my watch off
