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else.”
“You don't understand. My child is here. Our child. You're carrying our child. You can't just take the decision to destroy it because I may or may not create another child with someone else.”
“But it's my body.” I'm starting to get stressed, emotional, and I can already feel tears of frustration welling up. “It's my body and I'm not ready to give it up. Nor am I ready to deal with the responsibility of a child.”
“What if I take on the responsibility? What if I have the child, raise the child? You could carry on doing whatever you're doing. Christ, you could even be back at work a couple of weeks afterward.”
I'm so tired I haven't got the energy to argue with him anymore, and Mark sees the chink in my armor and dives in.
“Look, all I'm saying is think about it. At the very least cancel the appointment tomorrow to give us both a bit more time. Even a week. A couple of weeks. Let's take a bit of time so that when we make a final decision we know it's the right one. You wouldn't want to spend the rest of your life regretting your decision to have an abortion, when you didn't give yourself a chance to consider the other options.”
“I'm too tired to argue with you,” I sigh as our food arrives. “I'll cancel the appointment tomorrow, but I don't want to wait longer than a week. I just want my life to be back to normal again.”
Mark lifts his wineglass and shoots me a grin, and in his grin there is delight. Excitement, anticipation, and delight.
“Am I allowed to make a toast?” he says tentatively.
“Not if you're going to toast the baby,” I shoot back defensively.
“No. To us.”
“To us,” I echo warily, clinking his glass gently.
Mark is charming, funny, and protective. He treats me rather like an invalid throughout the lunch, and although, under normal circumstances, this would be enough to make me walk out in fury, right now, given my fragile state, this is exactly what I need.
And Viv would love him. Love him.
Jesus Christ. What the hell have I got myself into.
16
How did this happen? It is three weeks since my first lunch with Mark, three weeks since I told him I was not prepared to wait longer than a week to have an abortion, and at an absolute push I would wait until the twelfth week, but that by week twelve I would be babyless.
And here I am. Twelve weeks pregnant. My resolve is weakening.
How did this happen?
I'll tell you how this happened.
Friday afternoon, the day after I had told Mark the news, I was sitting at my desk, finalizing the schedules of Loved Up. The office was quiet as it so often is on a Friday afternoon, my researchers conjuring up recces and interviews, disappearing with a cheery wave at 3 P.M. I know they're all heading off to the pub, but I have learned to be lenient in order to be popular, and God knows I need every ounce of popularity now.
I finished the schedules and tipped my chair back, closing my eyes for a few minutes because this tiredness sweeps over me in waves, and although all I can think of is sleep, I know that a few minutes of resting my eyes will enable me to make it through the rest of the day.
And no more sojourns to the company bar for me. The only thing that seems to float my boat after work these days is a large bowl of pasta, a chunky bar of chocolate, a hot bath, and bed. Last night I dragged the television into the doorway of the bedroom, and what a complete pleasure it was to climb into bed at ten past eight and snuggle up under the duvet to the dulcet tones of Jackie Corkhill.
So Friday afternoon there I was, in my office, eyes closed, and indulging in a fantasy involving Cookies 'n' Cream ice cream and an electric blanket, when my reverie was interrupted by a knock on my already open door. I opened my eyes to see Mark standing there with a bag from Books Etc.
“Hi.” He hovered awkwardly until I smiled and gestured to the chair, and he shut the door for privacy before sitting down.
“Hi yourself.” I was surprised at how pleased I was to see him. I found there was, is, something immensely calm and reassuring about his presence. Although I would never have said that