One Thing Led to Another. Katy Regan

it’s his doing as much as mine, but I can’t start going all jealous wannabe girlfriend on him now. It’s just…stood here, his DNA fusing with mine, it’s in slightly bad taste, that’s all.

      And so I say, ‘It’s really pretty important. I do need to speak to you. Now.’

      ‘OK, hang on,’ he says, and there’s a few seconds where he obviously puts his hand over the receiver and explains he has to take the call.

      I can picture him now. He is getting out of bed, hair sticking up, skinny legs making for the door, holding his privates. He is slipping on his dressing gown, going into the kitchen and picking up the other phone.

      ‘So what’s wrong, hey?’

      The concern in his voice makes me well up, my voice starts to wobble.

      ‘I am pregnant after all.’

      Silence. He swallows.

      ‘What do you mean? You did a test, it was negative.’

      ‘I did another, it was positive.’

      ‘How do you know?’

      ‘There’s a cross.’

      ‘What sort of cross?’

      ‘A blue one.’

      A pause. Just the sound of his breathing.

      ‘Are you sure you’ve read the instructions properly?’

      ‘Yes. I’m sure, I’m not that stupid.’

      There’s another silence and then when he speaks again, there’s a tone in his voice I’ve never heard before.

      ‘Is it mine?’ he says softly. And as the tears finally fall, and I say, ‘Yes, yes, of course it’s bloody yours,’ I realize that the tone in his voice, was hope.

      

      We arrange to meet outside the Tate Modern after work; I’ll bring the test so he can see it for himself. I put the phone down and walk back to the office, under a cloud, through a city sheathed in rain. I imagine that everyone I pass: a group of smokers huddled outside their office, a queue outside the post office, can see inside my womb, red and illuminated. And I have never felt so extraordinary in my entire life.

      When I get in the lift for the third time today, who should step in behind me but Julia, my ridiculously glamorous friend from Journalism College, who is eight months pregnant herself. She’s features editor of Luxe now, having actually worked her way up rather than got to the first place that would have her and never moved again, so we often bump into each other like this and have some awkward conversation about how I should send her some features ideas, which of course I never get round to.

      ‘Hi,’ she says, but I’m not really listening, I’m too fixated on the words that bubble threateningly in my throat. ‘I’m pregnant too!’ I want to say. ‘Help! What do I do!?’ But I don’t obviously, that would be ludicrous. So instead I say, ‘Had a good week?’

      ‘Yeah, chilled out,’ she says, stroking her bump. ‘It’s all I can do to haul myself off the sofa these days. Fraser’s started calling me The Rock, because I’m so hard and big and immovable,’ she laughs. Then she says, ‘Oh God, don’t. My pelvic floor isn’t quite what it was.’ Then she laughs again and I do too on some very obvious delayed reaction.

      I imagine she can sense it, smell the fact I’m pregnant. They say pregnant women have heightened senses. I know any minute now she’s going to say it and it’s making me nauseous with anticipation. I run through what I’m going to say in my head, how I’m going to explain.

      ‘Tess?’ she says eventually.

      ‘Yes?’ I gasp. Oh shit, here it comes.

      ‘I said have you?’

      ‘Have I what?’

      ‘Have you got anything planned for the weekend?’

      ‘Oh right! I say, letting out an almighty sigh of relief. She’s frowning at me now.

      ‘Yeah, quiet.’

      I can sense her looking at me, but I stare at the floor. She giggles.

      ‘You’ve met someone haven’t you?’ she whispers in my ear. ‘Go on, I can tell by that face.’

      I don’t stop staring at the floor.

      ‘Oh no! I know! You’ve finally got it together with Jim – that’s it isn’t?’

      ‘No!’ I snap, making her start back ever so slightly.

      ‘Oh right. It’s just, you were looking kind of shifty that’s all.’

      Thankfully it’s then that we get to the eighth floor and Julia waddles out as I mumble something about having a hangover.

      I rush to my desk, the email’s there. I didn’t send it. Thank fuck I didn’t send it!

      To: [email protected]

       Yes I’m free, if I haven’t been taken in by a polyamorous cult by then.

      (Or if I haven’t been impregnated.)

      I press delete.

      By some miracle, I make it through the rest of the day, the sun sinking behind St Paul’s by the time I meet Jim outside the Tate.

      He’s sitting on one of the black rubber benches when I get there. His gangly legs are stretched out in front of him and he’s carrying a bunch of freesias with foil wrapped around the stems.

      He looks up when I say hello and squints into the light.

      ‘These are for you,’ he says holding out the flowers. They smell amazing. ‘I’m sorry about before.’

      ‘About what?’

      ‘Er, for being in bed with Annalisa when you rang to tell me you’re pregnant? I feel awful.’

      ‘Don’t worry, honestly I’ve forgotten already.’ A picture of her, nude, black hair flowing all over the pillow pops into my head. ‘Was she naked?’ I ask.

      ‘I thought you’d forgotten,’ says Jim. ‘Sorry,’ I mumble. ‘I have, I have.’

      I sit down beside him. The evening sun flickers like embers on the river in front of us. ‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘Look at this.’

      I undo the front pocket of my bag, take out the test and hand it to him. He unwraps it, looks at me, squeezes my thigh, then holds up the test to the light.

      ‘Mmm. There’s definitely a cross there isn’t there?’

      ‘Really? Oh God, I was hoping…Do you think?’

      The reality hits me, there’s no getting away from this now. I burst into tears, tears of pure shock.

      ‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘I just don’t know what to do. I cannot believe this is happening, what are we going to do?’

      Jim rubs his face with his hands then puts an arm around me and we don’t say anything for a while, just stare blankly at the water. Then Jim says, ‘I don’t know. But whatever happens it will be alright, OK? I promise. Whatever happens, I’m here for you.’

      

      In reality there never really was any question of whether I was going to keep the baby.

      ‘It’s your decision,’ Jim said, as we walked across Millennium Bridge. ‘I’ll stand by you whatever you decide.’

      It felt like I was alone at that moment. As if the glittering towers at either side, the Gherkin glowing orange like a burning rocket and the river below us were holding their breath, awaiting my decision.

      But the truth was, I had already made my decision. The decision was made the moment the blue cross emerged. If I was eighteen, I wouldn’t