“You can’t,” hissed Miranda drunkenly. “The first sperm blocks the second, or something.”
“What about when someone has one black twin and one white twin?”
“That’s different eggs but the same sperm.”
—
This was not how I had imagined this moment would be. I thought I would be with the square-jawed love of my life in a renovated farmhouse in the Cotswolds with poured concrete floors and shaggy rugs, possibly interior-designed by Jade Jagger.
—
“This is just completely ridiculous. A woman can’t have black eggs and white eggs,” growled Shazzer.
“Speckled eggs?” suggested Tom, as I emerged from the bathroom.
“Look, she’s got the stick.”
“Give me that.”
Shazzer and Tom both lunged at the stick, knocking it out of my hands. We watched as it twirled up into the air and landed gently on the carpet, then stared at it in awed wonder. There was an unmistakable blue line across the little window.
“You can’t be…”
“…a little bit pregnant,” finished Tom.
“A. May. Zing,” said Miranda.
I couldn’t believe it.
In the background I could hear the friends continuing:
“But she’s been drinking and smoking.”
“Oh my God, you’re right—she’s killed the baby.”
“The baby’s dead.”
“And she doesn’t know who the father is.”
“What are we going to do?”
—
But none of it mattered at all. I felt like trumpets were tooting and harps were tinkling. Clouds were parting, the sun’s rays bursting through, while little birds tweeted with joy. I was having a baby.
FIVE
WHODUNNIT?
TUESDAY 26 SEPTEMBER
9 a.m. Obstetrician’s office, London. “So, which of the times do you think I would have got pregnant on?” I said, hopefully.
“Does it matter?” said Dr. Rawlings, a stern woman with a crisp, humourless manner.
“Yes! Such a special moment! We want to know which one it is so we can treasure it.”
“Well, you can’t. You’ll have to treasure both of them.”