When she gets up, American Woman mentions again, just like she did two evenings ago, how sore her breasts are. This time she says she reckons it’s in reaction to her period being a few days late. Obviously, my ears perk up at that! But neither of us take the concept of pregnancy particularly seriously because we both know how little sex we’ve had in the last couple of months.
[Defensively] The lack of recent sexual activity between us (as opposed to independently) is because of an unusual combination of recent factors. It’s not the usual - me being a morning person and her being an evening person.
- She’s been most ferociously busy taking online courses in an attempt to become qualified for a particular job within her organisation. She got the qualifications, just in time to get the job.
- We went to Sicily with her mother, to track down ancestral relatives. Because of costs, we all stayed in the same room throughout the trip (two double beds). My, THAT was fun . . .!
Anyway, I type ‘sore breasts’ into google and it’s soon clear that that’s a major sign of pregnancy. American Woman doesn’t believe it’s possible, really, but my brain goes into overdrive. We get the test, I read the instructions while she unconcernedly puts the groceries away, I convince her to bring me a cup of fresh pee, and then conduct my experiments. It’s instantly positive.
We talk for about an hour, rather happily and excitedly, and then she urges me to go watch the football at the pub. We agree to keep texting each other during the match. Rather irritatingly, Spurs draw in the final minute, but this doesn’t dampen my mood. I walk back up Portobello Road, collecting calamata olives and bread for American Woman.
Then when my aunt and uncle arrive, we go to Evensong at St Paul's Cathedral. We hold hands, and every now and again, think a couple of garbled, silent prayers.
This is followed by a seven mile walk across London (across the Milennium Bridge, along the South Bank, across Westminster Bridge, eat a picnic in St James’ Park, up past Buckingham Palace to Hyde Park Corner, then across Hyde Park to Notting Hill in the dusk).
Because we’re at tourist pace rather than normal pace, it takes a long time, so we have a chance to have a few words when we’re not pointing stuff out to my aunt and uncle.
But those words are mostly always the same. It’s what we’ve both been thinking all day, sometimes negatively, mostly happily: ‘Fucking Hell!’
