Newborn Baby For Christmas. Fiona Lowe

slowly. He pushed it onto the top of the pen before bringing the nib down towards the paper with an excruciating lack of speed, as if he still might stall and not sign.

      She bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

      He paused with the pen a millimetre away from signing. ‘It’s a hell of thing to ask, George.’

      ‘I know.’

      ‘If a child is born from this, it’s totally your kid and nothing to do with me.’

      ‘Absolutely. It’s in the contract you’re about to sign.’

      Tension shot through his square jaw. ‘If you do get pregnant, I don’t want blow-by-blow updates or ultrasound pictures. I’m nothing more than a three-time donor.’

      Three times? She wanted to argue that, ask for more, but she knew better. She’d take what she could get. ‘I understand.’

      ‘I don’t want invitations to birthday parties either.’

      ‘You’re preaching to the converted.’ A tiny whisper of concern gained volume. ‘Haim, baby or no baby, we’re still going to be friends, right?’

      ‘I want to hope we can be.’ He scrawled his name across the document.

      Tears pricked her eyes. ‘Thank you.’

      Hamish didn’t meet her gaze or reply. Instead, he downed his coffee in one long gulp.

      Georgie picked up the legal papers, hugging them tightly to her chest, and sent up a heartfelt wish. Today was the first day of the rest of her life.

      CHAPTER THREE

       December

      GEORGIE hummed ‘Six White Boomers’, the Christmas song about kangaroos pulling Santa’s sleigh, and grinned. She’d been grinning almost non-stop for months, even during the five weeks when morning sickness had lasted all day, leaving her stomach inside out and the rest of her limp, like overcooked cabbage. During that time she’d existed almost exclusively on dry biscuits and ginger beer, and it would be a long time before she could face either of them again.

      Even so, nothing could wipe the always-present smile off her face. She pressed her hand against her round belly, feeling a tiny foot under her palm, and pure delight made her laugh out loud. Despite the ultrasounds and her ever-increasing size, there were still moments when she couldn’t quite believe she was pregnant. It had taken three cycles and three trips to Tasmania before she’d been given the news she’d craved for so long, and from the moment the pregnancy test had shown a definitive blue line, she’d treasured every second.

      When she’d read the positive pregnancy test her first instinct had her reaching for the phone to ring Hamish and tell him the good news. Halfway through dialling she’d remembered his words.

      If a child is born from this, it’s totally your kid and nothing to do with me.

      She’d abruptly dropped the phone. She couldn’t believe she’d even thought to ring him because she’d been as adamant as he that this was her baby and not his in any way. No, Hamish needed to find out about the baby the exact same way as her other friends and colleagues—with a photo text when the baby was born.

      The baby kicked, as if reminding her that sending those announcements wouldn’t be too far away, and a fizz of excitement tingled through her. In a month’s time—give or take two weeks—she’d finally hold her baby in her arms and right now she was in full-on nesting mode. It had taken longer than she’d thought to find a house to buy that suited her and her lease on her apartment had expired just as settlement had been finalised last week.

      In most instances this would have been perfect timing with no need to find interim accommodation, but the house needed some renovations. Now she was technically living in her new home but surrounded by high stacks of cardboard boxes and the buzz of builders, carpenters, plumbers and cabinetmakers dragging the kitchen, bathroom and laundry into the twenty-first century. Painters roamed the rest of the house with their once-white but now paint-splattered dropsheets, freshening up the walls of the solid 1950s house with its spacious, light-filled rooms and large, decorative cornices. It was chaotic.

      She’d called in during her lunch-break to speak with the building supervisor, but when she’d arrived Dennis had been on the phone so she’d left him to it and was waiting in the dining room, which was the only room currently free of the renovation frenzy.

      Pulling open a box, she plucked out a small tabletop Christmas tree and placed it on the dropsheet-covered chiffonier. She knew it was silly to unpack it, let alone put it on display, given the total mess that surrounded her, but she’d always loved Christmas. Growing up, her parents had made it such a magical time and she was looking forward to recreating that magic with her own child.

      Despite feeling her parents’ deaths keenly at this time of year and missing them like mad, she still loved the season and it seemed disrespectful not to have at least one sign of Christmas. She knew they’d have wanted her to keep their traditions going.

      ‘Next year, Widget—’ she’d used the affectionate term she’d been calling the baby from the moment she’d known she was pregnant ‘—this house will groan with decorations and you’ll probably love the wrapping paper more than the presents.’

      She desperately wanted to set up the nursery and she was actively practising patience while she waited for the decorators to finish. Meanwhile, the white cot and her amazing change table that would convert to a play table in the future were both still in their flat-pack state and her prize possession—her mother’s Amish rocking chair—was in the corner of the dining room with a dustcover over it, waiting to be housed.

      Dennis had assured her that everything would come together in his promised time frame of two weeks, but given the chaos that didn’t seem to be abating at all she was having trouble imagining the house finished in time. Meanwhile, she was showering at the practice and for evening meals she was working her way through the many restaurants that were part of her local shopping strip at the bottom of the street.

      The whirr of a circular saw and the rhythmic banging of a hammer added their sound to the blaring radio that the tradesmen always had playing, and Georgie decided that being at work was almost peaceful compared to this. Glancing at her watch, she realised her lunch-break was almost over and she hurried to find Dennis. As she entered the hall she heard a loud shout followed by an almighty crash and an emphatic stream of swearing.

      Doubling back, she rushed towards the sound and arrived at the kitchen at the same moment as Dennis. He was swearing more loudly than his employees.

      A white cloud of dust was settling around the young apprentice who lay sprawled and groaning on the floor surrounded by half of Georgie’s ceiling. He was on his side with one leg lying at an odd angle. She instinctively looked up as if she’d forgotten the ten-foot height and needed to calculate the drop. ‘Get my medical bag from my car. The silver four-wheel drive,’ she shouted to no one in particular. ‘My keys are on the hallstand seat.’

      ‘On it.’ One of the workmen hurriedly left the room, the loud thud of his workboots hitting the polished hall floorboards and reverberating back to her.

      ‘I promised your mother I’d look after you, Mitch,’ Dennis said, his face tinged with green. ‘She’s going to kill me.’

      Clearing a space by swiping her foot back and forth through the debris, Georgie pulled her sundress over her legs for protection and knelt down next to the teenager.

      ‘Mitch? Who am I?’

      His face was twisted in pain. ‘Sorry about your plaster, Dr Lambert.’

      ‘Right now I’m more worried about you. That was quite a fall.’ She looked at his pupils, which were thankfully the same size as each other. ‘Did you hit your head? Black out?’

      ‘I dunno. One minute I was on the beam and the next minute I was here.’

      ‘Can