I want to leap out of my seat, run to the exit doors, fling them open and jump. Not because I want to kill myself – I simply need to escape Scott. He’s witnessed a side of me not even my closest friends have seen. I’m surprised I’m capable of such an outpouring. I thought I was more like Dad. Stiff upper lip and all that crap. But my recent outburst means there might be more of Mum in me than I realized: and that’s a truly terrifying prospect. My only hope is that pregnancy hormones are making me an emotional basket case.

Oh, shit, I’m pregnant!

I’d forgotten all about the orange-sized foetus in my belly. Every time I remember, it comes as a shock. A shock that I’m pregnant and a shock that I’d forgotten I was pregnant. Does that mean I’ll be a forgetful mother, too?

Agitated, I flick my thumbnail over and over against my forefinger and stare straight ahead as the plane lifts off the ground. The roar of the engine fills my ears. As soon as we level out, I’ll put on my headphones, crank up my playlist and get to work.

Once I get off this plane, I won’t have to see Scott again. I can pretend my outburst never happened. It’s one moment I’ll be delighted to forget.

4

I’m eating eel sushi. Emma – ever the foodie – would be proud of me for trying something so adventurous. Truth is, I didn’t realize what unagi was until I’d googled it. I was trying to find something on the menu that was cooked, since raw fish is fourth on the list on my phone entitled Don’t Eat – Might Kill Baby, and the menu said this unagi stuff was not only grilled, but also teriyaki-flavoured. I love a good bit of teriyaki chicken back home so confidently placed my order with the impeccably groomed waitress before Google informed me unagi was in fact a slimy, hideous eel that lurks in shadowed, murky streams. It’s not too bad taste-wise; especially with a good amount of soy sauce on top. Being starving helps. I wonder if there’s a boy incubating inside me – my appetite is insatiable. If I don’t eat something every couple of hours, the foetus starts grumbling.

The hotel restaurant is surprisingly full at 9 p.m. I had hoped by coming down so late in the evening there would be fewer diners glancing in my direction wondering why the girl with giant boobs (if you ever want to go to a country where a white girl with big tits is going to stand out, Japan is your place) was hunched on her own in the corner. But it must be tradition to eat late. That or the other singletons in the room, of which there are many, all had the same idea as me.

“Trish?”