That man – no, boy! – is the father of my child. Him with his pathetic excuse for a moustache and extra-long fingers (I noticed them for the first time tonight). As for his pigeon-toed walk… How could I have missed it? Maybe I’ll have a boy and he’ll be the spitting image of Elliot. Not that Elliot is unattractive. He has nice eyes, perfect eyebrows… he’s broad across the shoulders and his skin is a lovely olive tone. But what’s on the inside? What parts of his character, his personality, his background has yet to be revealed? Apart from the fact he clearly didn’t focus in biology class when it came to female human anatomy.

I head inside and have a long glass of water – I’ve been insanely thirsty for the past two hours but unable to swallow a drop. Then I have a long shower, flick the kettle on and eat three chocolate biscuits while waiting for it to click off. After making a peppermint tea, I head to the couch and grab the remote. Time to watch something mindless and mind-numbing. Stretching my legs along the couch, I make myself comfortable and do my best to erase the agonizing – let’s be honest – embarrassing antenatal meeting from my mind. Without warning, I start to giggle, remembering the faces of everyone there. Victoria practically had her jaw lying on the floor. And Ethan was unable to meet my eye. Wait till I tell my friends – they’re going to find the whole story hilarious.

33

For the next week I field daily visits from Elliot. He turns up at my desk every morning and asks in a low, not-so-secretive voice how I’m doing. I tell him I’m fine and he leaves, which I can deal with. Just.

It’s his lunchtime visits I come to dread. He asks me what I’m having for lunch and if I haven’t yet decided, or if it’s something that isn’t up to scratch according to whatever website he’s been reading, he insists on getting me something – either a salad with chicken (important for baby to have protein, he says) or a soup laden with vegetables. It takes all of my strength not to tell him to piss off and let me eat chips.

I’m struggling to get any work done and it comes as no surprise on Friday morning when Tash calls me into her office.

“How far along are you now, Trish?” she asks the second I’ve closed her office door.

“Six weeks to go,” I say. “But I feel fine.”

“I’d like you to finish up at the end of today,” states Tash, closing a folder on her desk and placing it to one side. “I’ll continue to pay your full salary until the end of the month when you were due to take maternity leave.”