Love... And Sleepless Nights MAY 2012 (3 page)

The door swings open and I’m greeted by three worried faces. Not-Biggins looks the most concerned, to his credit.

‘I do apologise gentleman. I can’t explain how that happened. I assume I must be sick.’

Charles Lipman’s eyes narrow. ‘You’re not… not
pregnant
are you?’ he asks tentatively.

Me? Pregnant? Don’t be so flaming silly!

 
‘Oh, I very much doubt it, Mr Lipman. My husband and I are always careful with our contraception.’

…and there we have it. I’m now discussing my sexual health with three men I met less than half an hour ago. The bright red of shame flushes my face.

‘Oh.’ Lipman looks horrified. Presley looks like a deer in the headlights. McDougal continues to inexplicably look like Christopher Biggins.

 
‘Well Mrs Newman,’ Lipman carries on, ‘perhaps we should end the interview there, given what’s just happened? We wouldn’t want you to have to continue in your present state.’

You mean the feeling of bloated nausea? Or the drying vomit now forming an unsightly crust on my lapel?

‘Perhaps you’re right Mr Lipman.’ My face takes on its most hang-dog expression. ‘Thank you for seeing me today. I apologise for the sickness.’

‘That’s quite alright, Mrs Newman. My wife suffered with morning sickness with our first child,’ not-Biggins points out.

I’m not pregnant. Fuck you Widow Twanky!

I go over and pick up my portfolio.

‘You’re welcome to leave that here if you like, Mrs Newman, I’d like to read through it,’ Charles Lipman says. A glimmer of hope breaks through the clouds of abject mortification.

‘Thank you Mr Lipman, I will.’ I’m surprised by the way my voice is shaking.

With sudden unvarnished terror I realise I’m close to tears. Lipman’s simple offer to read my portfolio is about to make me cry like a five year old girl.

What the hell is the matter with me?

With shining eyes and trembling lip, I go to shake hands with Charlie boy. He looks down at the hand I proffer, no doubt examining it for signs of my stomach lining. I smile like an arsonist holding a match and withdraw the hand, swallowing the hard lump I’ve got in my throat.

‘Well goodbye gentleman,’ I say in a rush. ‘I hope you all have a very pleasant day.’

All three offer me an equally polite farewell.

For an instant not-Biggins looks like he’s going to hug me. I don’t think I could stand that. If he tries it I will burst into tears.

How could I not? He has the friendly, open face of a pantomime legend.

Thankfully he doesn’t go for an embarrassing clinch, and without another word I scurry out of the room.

As I pass The Joker, I can hear her on the phone asking for a cleaner to come up to Mr Lipman’s office as quickly as possible.

I couldn’t feel worse about myself right now if you told me I had dengue fever…

Of course, there is no way I’m actually
pregnant
. No way in Hell!

It’s just the result of the hangover from Saturday.

…and probably the Thai takeaway we had last night.

Yes, that must be it. Just a combination of too many
vodkas
and some bad chicken Pad Thai noodles.

The visit I make to a nearby Boots on my way back to the train station is
entirely
coincidental.

I merely go in to purchase some Rennies to settle my stomach. Quite how the pregnancy test finds its way onto the counter in front of the sales assistant is beyond me.

For some reason I buy it anyway and stick it in my jacket pocket.

I may – or may not! - take the test later.

…just out of idle curiosity.

Only because I’ve never taken one before, and am interested on a purely academic level as to how they work.

After all, there’s no way I’m pregnant!

Oh goodness gracious me no!

***

Oh good God, I’m pregnant.

Knocked up.

Up the duff.

In the first blossom of motherhood.

Carrying the first few cells of an unborn human being that will one day soon expect to squeeze itself out of my vagina.

…which can’t happen of course.

It’s
impossible
.

Squeeze a human being from my prim, healthy lady garden? Don’t be so ridiculous!

Oh Mum, I really wish you were here. I’m
terrified
.

Love and miss you,

Your soon to be enormous daughter, Laura.

xxx

Jamie’s Blog

Tuesday 2 April

 
‘Don’t worry, I’ll pull it out before I cum and do it on your tits.’

As far as I can tell, with the above words my life as I knew it came to an end.

Not the most apocalyptic, erudite or quote-worthy of statements to mark the end of existence itself, I admit.

Nevertheless, this was indeed the utterance that signalled the death knell of Jamie Newman’s care free and frolicsome existence.

I’ve put a lot of thought into this, and I’m sure I’m right.

It was a month ago.

No… let’s go back a bit further than that, to last Autumn, when Laura had to come off the pill because it was giving her migraines.

That was fine though, the family planning clinic wasn’t far from the office so I was happy to pop down and pick up a free supply of condoms, until such time as she found another pill to take; one that wouldn’t leave her needing a darkened room for the rest of the day. Either that, or until we agreed on an alternative form of contraception.

It was only supposed to be for a few weeks, but if there’s one criticism you could level at Laura and I as a couple, it’s that we can procrastinate to absurd lengths if we want to.

Testament to this fact is the eight year old couch we’re still sitting on. No matter how many times that bloody DFS advert comes on the TV, we still can’t get our arses in gear to go and have a look at their latest collection of sofas in the never-ending sale.

Anyway, fast forward to a few weeks ago - and a mesmerisingly dull Sunday evening in March.

Frankly, I’m going to blame Simon Cowell for this entire thing. If the selection of lunatics on
Britain
’s Got Talent had been of a higher standard they might have held our attention for longer and I wouldn’t have suggested a quick screw before Top Gear started.

I’m aware that sounds about as romantic as herpes, but it’s not actually that bad.

Laura and I have a very healthy sex life - where long, sensual and romantic love-making sessions are very much in evidence. But the universe thrives on variation, and as such, we also enjoy the odd occasional quickie when we have a spare bit of time.

As two people with long work hours, these quickies have sadly become more common than the sweaty, lengthy, candle-lit sessions - a big drawback of living in twenty first century
Britain
if ever there was one.

And thus it was that Jamie Newman positioned his lovely, graceful and inordinately beautiful wife on her knees on the aforementioned eight year old couch and prepared to administer a good, hard pounding.

…but,
disaster
!

‘Oh shit. I haven’t got any johnnies,’ I tell her, wanking little Jamie rapidly in order to maintain an erect state while we consider this dilemma.

‘Really?’ my gorgeous wife replies, bum aloft and arms gripping the sofa cushions. ‘I haven’t got any either!’

‘Stay right there,’ I order. ‘I’ll go have a look in my bedside cabinet.’

Off I trot, penis waggling gaily in front of me like a divining rod, leaving Laura to put her head in her hands - the perfect globe of her peachy little behind still pointing upwards, making her back arch in that way I find so irresistible.

Sadly, there are no condoms in evidence in the bedside cabinet. I move on to the bathroom to check the cabinet in there, still pumping away at little Jamie to ensure that should I find any of the little rubber lifesavers, I will be standing proud and ready.

Thus begins a five minute search of every cupboard and drawer I can think of - all conducted with one hand.

I now resemble some kind of sex pervert with a fetish for household storage facilities.

‘Come on Jamie!’ Laura shouts, the impatience in her voice unmistakeable.

‘Sorry! Just play with your clit for a while! I’ll be there as soon as I can!’

Yes indeed, the romance is well and truly alive on this very special night…

So there we are, me frantically pulling drawers with one hand and penis with the other, while Laura is left diddling herself with Ant and Dec in the background, chatting to a mental patient who’s just sung Camptown Races at Amanda Holden in full scuba gear.

(The lunatic is in scuba gear by the way, not poor old Amanda.)

‘It’s no good,’ I say, wandering back into the lounge. ‘There’s none in the house.’

‘Shit,’ Laura replies. ‘We’ll have to leave it then.’

She’s right. We should stop. It’s the sensible course of action.

But here’s my problem: my wife is a
very
attractive woman, and right now she’s kneeling on the couch, her legs apart, her bum in the air and her fingers still hovering over her crotch.

This was the time for Jamie Newman to utter the words that would seal his fate:

‘Don’t worry, I’ll pull it out before I cum and do it on your tits.’

There’s a part of Laura - the romantic, soft demure lady inside her – that is no doubt disgusted by this pronouncement.

Sadly, the part of Laura firmly in charge of her faculties right now is the animalistic, filthy sex kitten that every woman
also
has inside her - if you look hard enough and poke her in the right places.