Blind Carnival

Break It to Him

She decides not to worry for three days. She isn't sure if it's the right thing to do, and whether it's her being smart and badarse, or it's her being in denial. She's proud of one thing though: she doesn't take any more tests. It's hardly necessary, to think of it. The view of those two pink stripes is forever etched in her brain.

The fourth day, in the morning, she dutifully pees on the white stick, waits while filing her nails, and then looks, and nods. She's pregnant.

Somehow the next thing she does is call her doctor. She doesn't freak out, she doesn't cry, she doesn't even ring up Bea. Olivia makes an appointment, and her voice isn't shaking when she tells Miranda, the wonderful receptionist who has known her for twelve years, that she thinks she's pregnant. Miranda seems more affected by these words than Olivia. She asks again and emits a fretting 'oh dear' and 'of course, of course.' What gives?

Olivia has a substantial breakfast and starts cleaning her flat.

It hits her mid scrubbing her bathtub.

She. Is. Pregnant.

From John. The man she's known for about a month. Less so. She's pregnant, and eight years ago she had a miscarriage because the contraceptives she was taking then arsed up her reproductive system. She's healthy now, she's been taking great care of her body since then.

She's pregnant from a man she started dating because, simply speaking, she couldn't keep it in her pants. And she does need to let him know about this development of what used to be a pure shag experiment, which he personally suggested the two of them 'continued conducting for an indefinite period of time.'

She slides on the floor and stares at her cheery, bright yellow rubber gloves.

They used a condom, every single time. There was that one botched up time in the bathtub, but the timing is wrong. It must have been one of those rad shags in his bed, or her bed, or the kitchen table. For some reason she feels suddenly certain it's his kitchen table. She emits a hysterical giggle imagining all the puns he could make: about a bun, and cooking a Bahamian duff, and serving her a supper up his spout.

Does that make her the 2% for whom Durex didn't work? The internet would remind her that people aren't perfect, and the reality is it's only 87% who get saved by the rubber.

She scrambles out of the bathroom and into her living room. She runs in circles looking for her mobile. For some reason, it's stuffed in the sleeve of her jumper she started to fold, and apparently abandoned mid-way. She dials John's number, and only then she realises it's lunch time, and he's probably at work.

"Hello!" He sounds very happy to hear her - technically, not to hear, since she's silent, hyperventilating. "Liv?"

"Um... hi." She sounds very croaky.

He immediately switches to a concerned tone. "Liv, are you OK?"

No, Liv isn't OK. Liv's preggers.

"Um... I need to see you. John, I need to see you. As soon as possible." That didn't come out right.

"OK..."

She can hear some noise in the background, and she realises he's outside.

"Sorry– Is it a bad time? I mean– Are you busy?" she asks.

"I was just stepping outside, I was going for lunch– Wait, Liv." There's more noise, and then he hails a cab. "I'll be at your place in twenty minutes."

"Um..."

He is coming to your place, Liv!

She can hear him give the cabbie her address. She's still sitting in the middle of her living room, in her PJs, one rubber glove on. And he's coming to her place!