I quite like going in on Sundays – I can catch up with some admin while it’s quiet and the only distractions are Ginge and Tripod, who have a penchant for walking across keyboards when you’re trying to type.I glance towards Alex, who’s sitting beside me on the picnic bench on the lawn outside the Talymill Inn, his thigh, clad in smart grey trousers with a stiff crease, touching mine. He smiles. I lean into him, rest my head on his shoulder and close my eyes. The sun warms my face as I breathe the scent of aftershave, bruised grass and river, and listen to the vigorous flapping of pigeons in the trees, the splash of a duck landing on water, laughter and conversation, the clink of glasses and a woman’s voice, shocking in its belligerence, calling for various groups of people to assemble on the lawn by the water for photos.As I relax, my bump squirms, reminding me that I’m thirty-one weeks gone, which means I have nine weeks to go, assuming the Bean comes at forty weeks, not the thirty-seven I’ve been warned about.
