The Baby Diaries. Sam Binnie

to be dealing with.

      Hilary Taylor – producer of Aga sagas. I’ve had brief dealings with her before, when Tony was trying to poach her from her last publisher. He won her over with a glossy presentation and proposed rejackets for her back catalogue, but we all suspect this is going to be one of those terrible triumphs of sales figures over blind optimism: she hasn’t sold well for years, and no amount of extra laminate on the jacket is likely to change anything about that. Favourite fact: In our email correspondence, she was unbelievably bitter and rude about her then-current publisher. Can’t wait until we receive that treatment too.

      Matthew Holt – a brand-new author, of truly dire Scandi-crime. I have a horrible suspicion that he’s been no nearer to north-eastern Europe than watching Eurovision, but the crowbarred-in geographical references are the least of my complaints. His book is really, truly, very bad, but my only hope is that people will assume they’re genuinely Scandinavian and blame the translator. Favourite fact: Matthew Holt believes that you can walk directly from Denmark to Norway.

      Jennifer Luck – another brand-new name, this time of trashy, shopping-and-handsome-bosses fiction. Magically inspired by completely current cultural reference point Sex and the City, she’s given us four books, all of which we’ve signed up: Nude in New York, Filthy in Finland, Hot in Hong Kong, and my personal favourite, Bonking in Brazil. Favourite fact: These books make me wish I’d never learnt to read.

      Stuart Winton – a complete unknown. The manuscript I have is a very ropy erotica novel set in the eighties, under the pseudonym Tara Towne. But I can’t find any details on our systems to even contact Stuart, nor can I find any evidence of the contract. Favourite fact: This may be an elaborate prank Carol is playing on the rest of the office. I can’t even begin to say how unlikely this is.

      And all of these I’m responsible for making sure they’re insanely successful.

      TO DO:

      Find out if it’s possible to change my career before the baby is born

      Also: Eat some fruit

      Don’t take up horse-riding, cross-country skiing or trampolining

      Stop looking up ‘dangerous pregnancy activities’ online

      November 4th

      Alice has been great over the last few months. She had to suffer my wedding ups and downs; then a week of Tony pacing the office, sweating profusely and muttering, ‘When is she back?’ like I’d just nipped out for the antidote to his snakebite, so desperate was he to go on his ridiculous sabbatical. And on my return from our brief Paris honeymoon, she had to witness slight hysteria on my part as I realised Tony’s five-minute meeting with me was the only handover I’d be getting before he vanished for who-knows-how-long.

      Alice is also still having to live with her ‘boyfriend’ despite the fact that everyone besides her family knows she’s gay. She does the work of three people here (a normal situation for publishing) while always keeping a smile on her face. As I thought over and over about breaking the news to my colleagues, I wondered for the first time in ages how she actually is, so took her out for drinks this evening, at our favourite little bar round the corner.

      Alice: What’s this for? What are you up to?

      Me: I’m not up to anything!

      Alice: Are you about to set me up with someone? Is there a beautiful woman just waiting to spend the evening being entertained by me somewhere in this bar?

      Me: Only me, I’m afraid. What’s your poison?

      Alice: No one actually says that. ‘What’s your poison?’ What are you up to?

      Me: Alice! Fine: it’s my round.

      Alice: [browsing the menu] I … will have … a Slutty Horse, please.

      Me: One Slutty Horse coming up, Madam. [to the barman] One Slutty Horse, one … Elderflower Handshake, please.

      Alice: Are you making me drink alone?

      Me: Oh no, I’m so sorry – I’m on these antibiotics –

      Alice: [mouth agape]

      Me: What?

      Alice: [whispering] You’ve been married three months.

      Me: [nervous] What?

      Alice: [shakes head]

      Me: What?

      Alice: Kiki, Kiki, Kiki …

      Me: Alice!

      Alice: Don’t make me say it, Kiki.

      [silence]

      Me: Alice, please don’t tell anyone. It wasn’t even supposed to happen – we didn’t even mean it – but we did mean it, but only for one night, and we were drunk, and it just – please, you please mustn’t tell anyone, [almost sobbing] please.

      Alice: Kiki, does this face look like it tells secrets?

      We talked for a long time. We talked about how I was feeling, and how Thom was feeling, and how Tony and Pamela might take it, and what the maternity package may or may not be at Polka Dot (for some reason we haven’t had anyone go on maternity leave while we’ve been there). And some more about how I was feeling. She also told me, after her fourth Slutty Horse, that everyone knowing about Norman and Carol’s office romance doesn’t seem to have quenched their passion – she caught them snogging in Carol’s office after work the other evening. At the end of the night, as we stumbled to the tube station and down to our platforms (Alice stumbling after taking on all the Slutty Horses, me stumbling after taking on Alice), I realised we still hadn’t talked about how Alice was. ‘Plus ça change, my darling,’ she smiled, as I put her on her train home. Is she OK?

      TO DO:

      Start carrying around a hipflask filled with apple juice, for when someone next needs to see me drinking

      Check Alice is OK tomorrow

      November 9th

      Body. Didn’t we have a deal? Didn’t we agree that enough was enough? That you would stop this nonsense? Yes, it’s probably hard work growing another human being, but do you need to make such a fuss? Women do it all over the world. Every day. And they’ve done it since before even my mum was born. So can you just stop? Please?

      The last few days, the mild queasiness I’ve had on and off the last month or two has burst into something far worse. I just feel rotten. Tired, aching, and sick, sick, sick. It just doesn’t let up. And I don’t want to be one of those frail Victorian pregnants, hobbled by confinement and sent to rest until the baby is ready to go to boarding school, but I just can’t function like this. It ambushes me at moments throughout the day, but the worst thing – the meanest trick in the whole nausea book – is that this isn’t morning sickness. Oh no. In the morning, I wake feeling perky and wholesome, hoping that this might be the day this sickness has slung its hook. So I enjoy a good breakfast with Thom, and we talk, and we make plans, and behave like civilised, happy humans. Then at work, I might feel a bit odd, but it’s OK, I just need to get on with work. By lunchtime, my mouth tastes gross, and nothing seems that tempting, but I can normally find something to fill the gaping, ever-increasing black hole in my appetite (because, of course! – it wouldn’t be truly funny unless this nausea coincided with a huge increase in appetite!) and I’ll be fine for a few hours. If I get hungry in the afternoon, I’ve stocked my desk with fruit and nuts, plus a huge bottle of water. So I just about make it through the day. I start feeling hopeful. Maybe Thom and I can have a conversation tonight! Maybe I can make him dinner, to thank him for all his recent kindness and consideration! Perhaps we can even do some of that stuff we’re probably contractually obliged to do, post-wedding ceremony! That would be great! But even as I’m waving goodbye to everyone,