Epilogue
Violet
I can do this.
Women do this all the time, and it’s not as though it’s even particularly difficult. I mean, I don’t want to insinuate that anyone who can’t figure this out is an idiot, but they’re most likely idiots.
But maybe—just to be safe, mind you—I’ll read the instructions one more time.
Five seconds. Got it.
The thing is, I got some tips from a blog after typing ‘tips for taking a pregnancy test’ into Google, and now I’m not sure if I bought the right test because tip number one was choose the right HPT. What in the hell is an HPT? I had a whole shelf to choose from at Waitrose and I don’t recall seeing that on any of them. I grabbed one that promised rapid results and ninety-nine percent accuracy and put it in my basket next to the Dairy Milk buttons and the multipack of Jaffa Cakes because I’m probably pregnant and I deserve them.
Anyway, tip number one was choose the right HPT. The next tip was wait for the results. Duh. The post actually suggested I take a break and sip on a cup of tea or coffee while waiting. So dumb.
“Babe, can you bring me a cup of tea?”
“Violet, just pee on the stick. It’s quite literally the only direction on the box. I don’t understand why you keep reading it over and over again, love.” He tosses the empty box onto the vanity where it lands with a hollow thud.
Tip number three was check the expiration date on the test, which I’ve done of course, but the way they list the date before month in the UK still throws me a little.
“Does that test expire on the seventh of October or the tenth of July?”
“It expires on the seventh of October,” Jennings says patiently. He’s going to be such a good dad. “Two years from now,” he adds with a bit of sarcasm.
“It could be twins, you know,” I say, mostly just to mess with him. The confidence on his face falters a bit as he reaches over to pick up the box again. “There isn’t a home test for twins. We’d have to wait until the first ultrasound to find out.” Assuming they both showed up at the first ultrasound. My mom was six months along before they found the second heartbeat. Holy crap, it really could be twins.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “Well, a twofer would be lovely.”
“A twofer? Did you just refer to the idea of me carrying two babies at the same time as a twofer? As if I’m carrying a twin pack of chocolate biscuits?”
“Would you prefer I call it a twin win?” He shrugs, unbothered by my reply. “I’m almost forty, love. I’d be quite chuffed to hit the ground running with two.”
Dammit.
I’m positive he ups the British word count when I’m on the edge of being cross with him. He knows it’s my weakness. He can get away with just about anything if he tosses in words like ‘knackered’ or ‘gutted’ into a sentence.
It occurs to me then that I’m going to have a British baby.
Do you know what’s great about British babies?
Everything.
I mean, I know they’re basically the same as American babies, but they have super-cool names like Poppy or Pippa. Amelia or Isla. Oscar or George. Well, maybe not George. Then when they get around to speaking it’s in a British accent and let me tell you, a child having a tantrum in Waitrose with a British accent is about a hundred times less annoying than a child having a tantrum in Wal-Mart in an American accent. It’s a fact. Wait a minute…
Oh.
My.
God.
“They’re going to call me Mummy.” I say it as a matter of fact as I drop my pants and sit. I don’t even care that Jennings is still standing in the bathroom with me because we’ve been married a while now and way past tiptoeing around one another in the loo. I hold out my hand for the stick and Jennings hands it to me.
“Er, yes. I suppose so. Though I’m certain we could teach them to call you Mom if you prefer it.”
“No!” I shake my head. “Are you crazy? I get to be a mum!” I finish with the test and snap the cap over the absorbent tip before placing it on the counter. “Don’t look at it without me!” I warn as I flush and wiggle my pants up, then wash my hands. Jennings wisely doesn’t move from his position leaning against the wall. “Has it been sixty seconds yet?”
“More like fourteen.”
“Oh.”
I manage to keep my eyes on his for another three seconds before I give up on patience and move to the counter, leaning over the test with my elbows braced on the counter and my chin resting on my hand. Jennings moves behind me, his arms bracketing mine as he leans in and dips his head next to mine.
“Don’t distract me,” I say, because when he’s this close we tend to end up distracted. Naked and distracted.
“I’m not doing anything,” he replies but when he speaks his breath tickles my neck and I get butterflies in my stomach. The butterflies get bigger as his lips curve into a smile where they’re pressed against my neck, because the results are in. Two lines. Two very distinctive, no-doubt-about-it lines.
I spin around so we’re facing each other and then we’re both smiling and laughing and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me from the bathroom through to the adjoining master.
“You won’t be able to do this much longer,” I mumble.
“Do what? Make love to you in the middle of the day? The baby will nap, surely.”
“No, silly. You won’t be able to carry me like this much longer.” My arms are on his shoulders with my fingers interwoven behind his neck. I look down at the gap between us and back at him. “I won’t fit.”
“Hmm, probably not.” He drops me onto the bed with a dirty grin and I bounce as my ass hits the mattress. “I’ll carry you sideways if need be. How’s that?”
“You’re supposed to say something more reassuring than that.” I wrinkle my nose at him and narrow my eyes. “Lie to me. Tell me I’m going to gain less than a stone and total strangers will marvel over my svelte pregnancy figure.”
I hear women at work talk about weight in terms of stones. I’ve no idea what the conversion is to pounds but I like the idea of only needing to lose one of something.
I don’t work for Jennings. I held firm on needing my own identity. It took months to find a job once I relocated to London and I was tempted to cave, to admit defeat and buckle to the fears that I’d be unable to find anything on my own. But I didn’t. I stuck to it and eventually I found a position with a boutique design firm in London. I’ve learned so much and I love it and for now, it’s a perfect fit.
Jennings still wants me to work for the family company, of course. He says I’m brilliant and I’m denying the company my talent. He fills my head with visions of walking to work together and secret afternoon trysts in his office.
I’ll agree, someday. I’ve got a few more things I want to accomplish professionally on my own first. All in due time.
“Probably two or three stone,” Jennings says. “I think you’re more likely to gain two or three.”
Oh. That’s starting to sound like a lot. “But the baby will be a stone of that, right?”
“I should hope not, for your sake.”
“That’s not helpful.” I really need to look into this stone thing more carefully.
“You’re going to be the most gorgeously lush pregnant woman London has ever seen. Your pregnancy style will cause a sensation envied by women citywide, whilst every man under eighty will wish he were me.”
“That’s better.”
I lie back on the bed as Jennings lies next to me, one hand spread across my flat stomach. Our heads are turned towards one another and I rest my hand on top of his. He’s making the softest circles on my stomach, the touch a combination of possessive and comforting.
“You’ll be stunning. I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”
“You won’t?”
“I promise you I won’t. I’m quite looking forward to watching your body change.”
“You are?” This is news to me. He’s made his interest in children clear, but without pressuring me. He respected my need to establish my career on a new continent and has patiently waited for me to be ready. We’ve talked about it in the abstract, checking in with each other on timing and interest, but this I’ve not heard.
“You’ll be huge by summer and I’m going to buy you loads of pregnancy sundresses.”
“How sweet. And I’ll still love you when you have no hair.” He’s got great hair. It was all I could come up with.
He laughs. “It’ll get me off. Seeing you swell with my child.”
Damn. That’s some caveman talk right there. And makes me a little excited, if I’m being honest.
“Are you proud of yourself?” I ask him, fighting the grin from my face and doing my best to ask the question innocently.
“For knocking you up?”
“Yes.”
“Quite chuffed, yes.”
I laugh then, giggling until something else occurs to me. “Wait.” I bolt straight up on the bed and stare at Jennings. “I’m going to have a baby in England.”
“Yes. That’s indeed what’s happening.”
“Do you do it the same here?”
“Do what the same?”
“Deliver babies.”
“I believe they do it the same everywhere, love.”
“This country doesn’t even know what Hidden Valley Ranch is. Nothing is the same.”
“I’m not sure one has anything to do with the other, but I’ll ensure a case of salad dressing is shipped over before your due date.”
“People don’t refrigerate their eggs here.”
“Also not relevant, but we can go over that again if you like.”
“This country doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving and no one eats pumpkin pie.” I’ve hopped off the bed now to pace and I wave my hand at him about the pie.
“Violet, you don’t like pumpkin pie.”
“That’s a valid point,” I agree.
“We have afternoon tea in England. You know how you enjoy the mini-sandwiches and the assorted cakes.”
“Also true, but what does that have to do with delivering a baby?”
“Nothing.” He shakes his head. “I thought we were just talking gibberish about the differences between our homelands.”
“No, babe. I have a point.”
“Of course you do.” He nods without laughing at me, which is a really important quality in a husband.
“What if I do it wrong? What if I go into labor and they say, ‘Sorry, Violet, you were supposed to have pre-booked a room, you’ll need to deliver it yourself now. Good luck?’”
“That’s not likely to happen anywhere in the UK. Or elsewhere for that matter.”
“You never know.”
“Tell you what,” Jennings says, sitting up on the bed and putting on his thinking face. It’s the face he uses when he’s trying to rationalize with me about things such as the lack of flavored coffee creamer available in this country.
“What?”
“We’ll use the same hospital Will and Kate did. Will that work for you?”
“Shut up!” I gasp. I stop pacing and face him. “We can do that? For real? Normal people have babies there?” If they delivered the future king of England then they can probably deliver this kid.
“Yes. We can do that. Anyone willing to pay private hospital fees can do that. Is that the end of your concerns?”
“It is for now, but I reserve the right to change my mind at any time.”
“Of course.”
“Good thing we just finished the renovation on the mews house.” That’s what they call a guest house over here. A mews house. It was originally a carriage house—like an actual carriage house. For horse-drawn carriages. Insane, right? I can’t believe I live in a house old enough that it has a horse garage.
I mean a mews house. Jennings has told me repeatedly that horse garage is not the correct term.
In any case it’s renovated now, top to bottom. Two-car garage on the ground floor, a kitchen and living space above it and two guest bedrooms above that. Perfect for visiting family to stay as long as they like. Plus that’s just the guest quarters. We’ve got more room in the main house, but don’t get me started on that. No, really, don’t. It took two years to renovate.
I loved every minute of it, of course.
Do you ever look up dream houses on the internet and imagine what it would be like to actually live in them? It’s like that. Only better, because it’s in London and the original details are a design dream come true. Imagine a historical townhouse on one of the best streets in Mayfair and an unlimited renovation budget. I could come just thinking about it and it’s my house.
“Why is that a good thing? We’ll be keeping the baby in the main house, surely.” He grins when he says it so I know he’s teasing.
We’ll be keeping the baby in the nursery adjacent to the master bedroom. I might not have been ready for a baby when I drew up the plans for the remodel, but like any good designer, I planned for the future.
“My parents will want to stay when the baby comes. Plus my sister and her crew.”
“Ah, yes. I look forward to it.”
If I’ve one complaint about the British, it’s that I’m not always certain when they’re teasing. I side-eye Jennings now as I try to determine if he’s sincere or not. And my sister—well, she does love to mention that Jennings fired her any chance she gets. But she’s teasing. It’s not like she’d have been able to go back anyway.
“Are you taking the piss out of me?” That’s British for sarcasm. Taking the piss. It’s not my favorite of the Britishisms but it doesn’t stop me from using it whenever the opportunity arrives.
“Of course not, love. I’m attempting to get into your knickers.”
“Oh. Well, in that case, carry on.”