Page 44 of Two Wrongs
I can’t be pregnant. I can’t. That’s all there is to it. Besides, I’m sure my last period was just after I got back from LA.
As in, eight weeks ago.
No. Noooo. I’m imagining things. This is all because of a cheese fucking sandwich.
‘Are you listening.’
‘Abso. Ears switched on.’ I make this weird motion with my hands, as though I’m actually switching my ears on. Why, I’ve no idea.
‘You’re really weird this weekend.’
‘I am. You’re right. Just... just got lots on my mind. And I’m a crap friend. Sorry.’ I squeeze her arm, dropping my hands just as quick. ‘How’s the new job?’
Fin shrugs. ‘It’s okay, I suppose.’
‘And this mess with Marcus?’ Just his name makes me rage. ‘Is it over? Can I hang out the celebratory bunting yet?’
‘Sadly, no. But you can maybe buy it in preparation? Soraya’s on the case. Well, her legal team is. She seems to think she has the upper hand somehow.’
If anyone can fix this, Soraya can. Her family has more money than God, and their arms are just as far reaching. ‘Good. Excellent. I hope her upper hand bitch slaps this good and fucking proper.’ I clap my hands together. Hard. ‘Ka-pow!’
‘I need to buy that swear jar,’ she replies... in a subtle change of topic.
‘And the other stuff... nothing from him?’ Rory. I already know the answer to this, seeing as I’m one of the people—friends—who are deceiving Fin. Hiding his visits and his demands to speak with her. Refusing to pass on his pleas that she got it all wrong.
‘Nothing, unsurprisingly.’ She looks up from straightening the hem of her scarf. ‘You haven’t—you haven’t seen him in the village?’
I almost respond. Almost. But decide to shake my head minutely instead.Does a small shake equal less guilt or more?
‘I expect it’s for the best. My will is so weak around him, nothing good could come of it.’
‘You’d see him again?’
‘Does that shock you?’ Fin stops walking, turning to face me, eyes resolute. ‘When some other woman’s expecting his child?’
‘No. Not at all. You’re human, and you love the prick.’
‘I do,’ she answers sadly. ‘Even when I’m trying not to.’
‘Love’s a donkeykont.’ Eyes now on the walkway beneath our feet, she nods. ‘Do you hear that,’ I say louder now. ‘Love’s a donkeykont!’ I don’t realise I’m actually shouting until a man nearby covers his child’s ears. I pull a face and mouth, ‘Sorry,’ as Fin’s shoulders begin to heave.
‘Come on,’ I say, sighing. ‘Let’s go find that gin joint.’
‘You wanna get shit-faced drunk?’ She eyes me sceptically—first, swearingand nowinebriated—and I’m not surprised.
‘How about comfortably numb?’
I’m not pregnant. I know I’m not. I’d know if I was, wouldn’t I?
Fin isn’t runningthe following morning. Seven cocktails and little to eat means she and Sunday morning aren’t exactly on speaking terms. Which gives me the opportunity to duck out to the pharmacy on the corner.Thank God for Sunday opening hours.
I buy one of everything, just in case. And two of the thing I actually came in for—a sort ofbelt and braceseffect.Another just in case.
I’m not pregnant. I can’t be. For starters, he hates me.
Pregnancy tests—two.
A jumbo box of tampons. Is that practical or wishful thinking?
