Mum: [voice almost cracking] You’re being ridiculous! If you don’t want to feel better –
Thom: I’ll get her some toast later. I think she’s just a bit tired at the moment.
Mum: [grumpily] Well I shan’t kiss you, in case it’s catching and I give it to your father.
Thom: [sniggering]
Me: [faintly] Alright Mum. Thanks for the photos.
Mum: That’s perfectly alright. See you soon!
And she was gone. We both felt such relief, even though she is incredibly kind (sometimes) and did do a huge amount towards saving our wedding from disaster: but her attentions can be a little much, and if she’d kept saying the word toast I would definitely have been sick in front of her. And she seemed even more tense than usual – surely she wouldn’t care that much about my toast intake normally? Plus, we definitely don’t want to tell anyone until we’ve had the first scan. It still doesn’t seem real.
November 15th
Ah, crazy hormones. Yesterday I got home from work and, in a brief respite from nausea, pounced on Thom, then fell straight to sleep to a night of the filthiest dreams I have ever had. I can’t even name some of the people who featured for fear of this diary ever falling into the wrong hands, but it was … well, I’m not surprised I was more tired this morning than when I went to bed.
November 16th
Thom remembered the Diary today – last Christmas he’d given me a diary for the year, with trips and treats every month. Last month he’d dug me out a perfect Marion Ravenwood costume (wicker-basket-Marion, not Nazi-tent-Marion) for Halloween, and in return I found him a Captain Sharpe costume (yes, I know, Thom Sharpe, Captain Sharpe, I am exactly that imaginative); the combination of which resulted in us arriving slightly late, but very cheerful, to the party.
This month, the treat was simply Tickets. November seemed so far off when Thom arranged it all last Christmas that he couldn’t book anything, leaving it instead up to our whims of the moment. Right now, I didn’t know what I wanted – a gig? Theatre? A film? An exhibition? That is, until Thom suggested a swap.
Thom: You don’t have to go for this. But you know you’re only allowed the treat within the month – there are no rollovers.
Me: Where was this written down?
Thom: [taps side of his head] So, here’s your alternative. I go out, right now, and get you six ice-cold bottles of ginger beer, a jumbo bag of salted vegetable crisps, aaaand … [holding up his hands]
Me: A can – no, make it two; two cans of corned beef.
Thom: [shuddering] Whatever milady requires. So what do you say? Is it a swap?
We agreed to the swap, as I’m in no fit state to be going anywhere at the moment. But I did enjoy my strange, protein-heavy meal this evening immensely.
November 17th
Drinks with Eve tonight, my oldest, most difficult, but potentially-most-reformed friend (since meeting wonderful baker Mike, she’s developed a taste for not being a terrible human). Or rather, it was supposed to be drinks, but I changed it to a trip to the Wellcome Collection as I couldn’t face Eve giving me suspicious side-eyes when I wasn’t drinking. So we met outside, hugged, and headed in.
Me: [narrowing eyes at her, suspicious] You look very well.
Eve: [narrowing eyes too] So do you.
Me: My goodness, is Mike still making you incredibly happy? Goodness. He is, isn’t he? You love him.
Eve: I might. Do you know what it is, though? I just don’t see good-looking men anymore.
Me: Maybe it’s because you’re so in love.
Eve: [mock-concerned] No, I think my eyesight’s getting worse. I really need to see a doctor.
Me: Optician. And I don’t imagine they’ll be able to help with what you’ve got.
Eve: Syphilis?
Me: Wow. You old romantic.
Eve: But speaking of which …
She was right. We were right in front of a huge display of sexually transmitted diseases, complete with moving structures to illustrate the ravages of each one.
Eve: You sure know how to show a girl a good time.
Me: You just wait. There’s a mummified woman upstairs.
Eve: Woop!
As always, we linked arms and strolled around; Eve telling me about Mike and her work (particularly her terrible new boss, Joyce: ‘She couldn’t manage a ball downhill’) and me mostly listening, asking questions, and telling her a little bit about my family. Family. The whole time we were talking, I was just thinking, ‘Don’t mention you’re pregnant, don’t mention you’re pregnant,’ to the point where I was amazed she couldn’t read it behind my eyes whenever she looked at me. I even forced myself to loiter by the cabinet upstairs filled with tiny ceramic models of pregnant women with detachable stomachs, revealing miniature ceramic babies inside, just so Eve wouldn’t suspect anything in my avoidance of it. ‘That’ll be you, soon,’ Eve whispered in my ear, coming up behind me. I laughed manically, trying to turn it into a fake laugh, but only succeeding in sounding even more suspicious.
Eve: Are you pregnant?
Me: Are you pregnant?
Eve: No.
Me: [apologetically] Oh, I am. [taking the hand of a suit of armour] Don’t tell my husband, but this suit of armour loves me in a way Thom will never understand. I’m due to give birth to a beautiful toaster any day now.
Eve: Alright, alright. Tell me how Thom’s enjoying the teaching life.
So I think I managed to shake Eve off the trail. But why would she ask that?
November 18th
First meeting with Hilary Taylor today. She was exactly as delightful as I’d expected, constantly looking around the room during the meeting with me and Alice to see what she could have.
Alice: So we’re looking at promoting you within the supermarkets – we think that we can get you a placement in some of the weeklies, which should lift those sales.
Hilary: Can I have a copy of those ones? [pointing at a pile of Jacki’s books]
Me: Yes … of course. [passing her over a copy]
Hilary: No, I’ll need three – for my girls, you see.
Me: Right.
Alice: We also thought that you might like to start talking to your fans online –
Hilary: Do you have those flowers changed regularly?
Alice: I think someone just brought those in.
Hilary: They’re lovely. Can someone wrap them up for me?
Eventually Alice kicked me under the table and I called the meeting to a close before we were forced to donate our clothes to Hilary too. She hasn’t even submitted her new book to us yet. I should set her and Monica Warner up together – Monica’s one of our most successful authors, but she’s loaded beyond all imagining, and an absolute monster of a snob. I don’t know which of them would make it out alive.
TO DO:
Talk to Alice about whether we could make that meeting happen
November 21st
My