Page 18 of How We Loved

“Darling.” She bustled into the flat and immediately started inspecting the nursery. “Why haven’t you built this furniture yet?”

“Ben’s at Abbey Road,” I explained as my excuse as to why I wasn’t dressed, had chocolate on my chin, and the furniture still wasn’t built. No one can blame me for trying.

“Abbey Road! Darling! How exciting.”

“Yep. Isn’t it.” Then I realized she must have known. Why else would she have turned up uninvited on a Thursday afternoon when I’d expressly told her to stay at home? Hm.

Ben was going to be in trouble when he got home, and I didn’t care how well he’d played his guitar.

“Now, sex, Dharling.”

“What?” I spluttered. Conversations are random at best with Mum. This was a new level stuff.

“Sex and onion bhaji’s.”

“Are you having a funny turn?” I checked her over for grey skin, a distant stare, all the things the advert on the television ad about spotting the signs of a stroke.

“No. That’s what you need to do to get the baby out. Lots of sex and some Indian takeaway. Worked for me.”

“Tristan and I are twins. Didn’t we just fall out?”

She gave my lump a pointed look. “And you’re sure there aren’t twins in there, your frightfully large, my darling.”

“There’s only one in there.”

“And how do you know?”

“Well, we’ve had about a thousand scans, and I think they would have noticed.”

Mum pursed her lips and then went to inspect the nursery some more. “This is a very funny paint scheme, darling.”

I groaned and followed her. All I’d wanted was a day on the sofa and a KitKat instead I got her brutal, blow by blow account (because it’s important to hear it from your own mother) birth recount.

Christ.

Later

Ben came home, smelling of the sweet scent of success. It hit me as he rushed in and splurged just about every detail of the day at me just how much I’d missed him being excited about playing the guitar. I guess when we met, that was what defined him, but since our temporary blip earlier this year, he seems almost determined to put it on the back burner.

“So what are you going to do about not having a manager?” I asked once I could finally get a word in edgewise. He had his face pressed up against the bump. Not going to lie, it’s a bit annoying when people talk to my stomach all day, even if it’s Ben doing it.

“I’ve spoken to Tristan, and he’s going to do it.”

I nearly choked on the KitKat I’d finally got around to opening. “You’re kidding. Tristan.” I covered the bump with my hands. “No way. He can’t do that. He doesn’t know the first thing about showbiz.”

Oh God, this was going to be the end of his solo career before it had even started.

Ben laughed and tickled my big toe. “He does know the first thing. Plus Baz is going to help, and there’s some guy who works for the record company that’s going to run the social media.”

“Sounds very organized.” A bit too organized. Clearly Ben hadn’t just been idly scrolling on his phone like I thought he was.

“You look pissed off.”

“No, I’m not. I just want you to do well... and Tristan... he can’t even write a crap article for a magazine on time.”

“I know. That’s why he needs a change of career.” Ben’s smile turned mischievous. “Never know, maybe the magazine will ask you to write his articles instead. I chuckled. “I doubt that. I can only write about you.”

“Well, I have all the material you need. The first time we fucked, the first time we rowed... loads of material.”

“Ben! Language around the baby.”

I pulled him across the sofa so I could kiss him. We can’t lie on the sofa together anymore. That’s too much of a squeeze. A bit like trying to take part in the Crystal Maze and working out how to fit a giant puzzle together.

“Ben?”

“Hmm,” he mumbled against my lips.

“Did Mum tell you I need to have onion bhajis and sex?”

He grinned. “She might have.”

“Don’t listen to her. I simply refuse to fart this baby out.”