It is a cyclone of a feeling. Thrilling, and electric, and terrifying.
I don’t think about Josh. I refuse to let him even enter my mind.
Having called in sick again this morning, I end up pacing my flat for the rest of the afternoon. It is a primal response, I think, to the excitement and fear barrelling through me, and – crazily, already – love.
I have to keep checking the pregnancy test, as if the lines might somehow have reverted to a blank window since I took it.
I want to call Polly, and Ingrid, and my dad. But I can’t risk any of them muddying this decision for me. I can’t even allow Lawrence to do that.
I cannot tell him. Not until I am sure.
I fire up Yahoo, search for stories of people who became pregnant very early in their relationships. I pore over accounts of couples who, decades later and five kids down, are still happy. Slowly, incrementally, certainty begins to shore up inside me. Why shouldn’t it work out that way for us? If being with Josh taught me anything, it’s that the life you plan is often a universe away from the one you end up living.
Anyway, things have been going better lately, with Lawrence. We’ve told our colleagues we’re dating now. And he recently surprised me with a weekend trip to Bath, after overhearing me telling Polly I’d never been. I’m making an effort, as well, to resist thinking too far into the future, or constantly revisiting the past.
Somehow, our relationship has begun to feel lighter, and yet deeper.
I even introduced him to Dad over lunch last month. It went well, I think, though the occasion felt a touch too formal, the conversation sometimes stilted. I’d suggested pints at thepub, but Lawrence talked me into four courses at a smart fish restaurant. I know that was only because he was so keen on impressing my dad, though.
Anyway. I’m trying not to worry too much about what Dad thinks. Because, as Lola has wisely reminded me, Dad loved Josh, and look how that worked out. Maybe the precipice of parenthood is the point at which you need to start listening to your own instincts over anyone else’s. Perhaps this is just another situation where I need to shut my eyes, trust my gut and take a leap.
I ask Lawrence to drop by my flat after work. I wait for him on the sofa with a knocking heart, the positive test in my hand.
A little after seven, I hear him clatter through the front door, swearing loudly.
Trepidation skates through me. ‘What’s up?’
He appears in the doorway, water dripping from his hair and coat and face. ‘Pissing it down,’ he says breathlessly.
I glance towards the window. He’s right. Long tails of grey rain are sweeping sideways against the glass, but I hadn’t even noticed.
He vanishes into the bedroom while I remain where I am, beginning to doubt my timing.
Eventually, he re-emerges, in jeans and a fresh shirt, rubbing his hair with a towel. He comes over to kiss me without noticing what I am holding.
‘You look handsome damp,’ I say, because it is true.
‘Must try to get caught in more downpours, then.’ He flops on to the sofa and discards the towel, stifling a yawn. ‘How are you? Feeling better?’
I take a moment to observe him. Maybe I’m being over-cautious: he does seem to be in a good mood, despite the dramatic entrance.
I draw a breath and decide to go for it, passing him the positive test.
He stares at it for a couple of seconds, then looks up at me. ‘What the hell? This is amazing.’
‘You’re happy?’
Dropping the stick, he leans over and pulls me into him, wraps me tightly in his arms. I breathe in the scent of CK One and autumn rain.
‘Of course,’ he murmurs, voice cracking slightly. ‘What did you think I would say?’
‘I don’t know. It’s quick.’
Lawrence has told me several times that he’s looking forward to being a dad one day. But that is different from saying,I would like to have a baby with you.
He takes my face between his hands, kissing me hard, the way he usually does on a Friday night, or whenever the company share price has spiked. ‘I told you from the start I wanted kids.’
‘But it’s fast. Do you think we can do this?’
