I put a hand on my stomach and silently apologize to the foetus lumped with me for a mother. It’s not that I won’t love you or take care of you – I’m just not sure I’m ready for this.

I wonder how my mother felt when she discovered she was pregnant with me. Was she happy to be having another baby? Excited? Terrified? As a child I’d often catch Mum looking at me with eyes so full of despair that I thought she was silently wishing I’d never been born.

Lily claps her hands together and springs to her feet.

“Now, let’s stop talking about sex, guys and babies, and turn our attention to something far more important.” She strides into the kitchen. “What delicious morsel have you got waiting for us in here, Em?” she calls. “You realize we only come here for the food.”

Mags starts laughing and Emma joins in. I attempt to laugh, too, but I’m distracted by this strange sensation in my lower stomach. It’s like there’s a silent mobile phone ringing inside me. It’s vibrating and leaping about, trying to get my attention. I slide one hand over my stomach and there are little flutters beneath my hand.

My heart begins to beat fast and hard and I feel light-headed. It’s real. This baby thing is really happening. Patricia Kirkpatrick, only daughter of Colonel Reynold Kirkpatrick, is having a child out of wedlock to a father who is yet to be identified. It’s laughable really, considering my upbringing. There’s no way in hell I’m telling Mum and Dad, or my older brothers. Not that it’ll be hard. I haven’t spoken to any of them in years.

3

The only direct flight to Tokyo leaves Auckland at 8 a.m., which means I’ve been up since four. I feel jet-lagged already and we haven’t even taken off. Unfortunately, the plane is full, meaning the likelihood of getting any sleep during the eleven-hour flight is looking increasingly slim. The problem with living on an island in the Pacific is that I live on an island in the Pacific: New Zealand is a great place, but it’s bloody miles from the rest of the world.

I’m wedged between a man around my age with dark shoulder-length curls who smells intensely of lavender, and an elderly lady who hasn’t stopped sniffing since we boarded and who wears incontinence pads that need replacing, judging by the smell of stale wee emanating from her body. Needless to say, I’m leaning in lavender guy’s direction.

“Heading to Tokyo for work?” he asks as I click my seat belt.

Knowing my luck, he’s going to be a talker. Better shut him down early.