Addison looked over at the clock on the nightstand and laughed. “It’s only seven. I think we have time.”

***

Their day almost ended before it began because, much to Addison’s dismay, when Fiona brought Addison her poached eggs and bacon, the smell instantly caused Joanna’s stomach to roll. Running from the room, Joanna sequestered herself in the parlor to munch on dry toast until her stomach finally settled while Addison ate alone in the dining room. Meeting up an hour later, they climbed into the Rolls, and George drove them into London, and they spent the day crisscrossing the city visiting every shop Joanna could pull up on her mobile.

Addison had the wisdom and experience to run Kane Holdings and run it well. Between schooling and her tenure at the company, her qualifications were exemplary and her confidence lofty, but thirty-six years of being female did absolutely nothing to prepare her when she walked over the threshold of the first shop.

Women with baby bumps and basketballs waddled about, cooing and awing at the frills, lace, and cutesy baubles displayed on walls, shelves, and floor. They tittered and buzzed, trading stories with whoever would listen, and joyfully rubbing their stomachs as they filled their baskets with pink and blue.

Joanna’s face lit up as soon as she stepped into the shop, and like a beacon, it attracted the clerks like flames did moths. Salespeople quickly swarmed around her, pausing only to inquire about a due date before their recommendations began.

Addison tried to participate, tried to display a toothy grin that matched her wife’s, but the more she listened, the more incompetent she felt. Why the need for a crib and a bassinet, and why wouldn’t a baby require a pillow for its head? It seemed sensible to buy blankets to keep the child warm, but the ones they were shown were thin and light, and what the hell was a swaddle wrap? She was shown nursery sets and changing tables, pads for mattresses and syringes for noses, one-piece rompers and stocking caps, dribble bibs and nappies of every size and style, and by the time they walked from the shop, three words kept repeating in Addison’s head. What. The. Fuck.