Golden Luckenbooth

Fifteen

Immediately, I clamp my hands over my mouth. What the fuck, Anna? Way to share the news.

Harry simply stares at me, the smile formed enough that his eye crinkles have appeared. And then they disappear as his eyebrows draw down towards his nose. A crease materialises in his forehead. He reaches out to the nearby wall and rests the tips of his fingers on it as if he will fall over without the support.

"Anna?" He whispers, his face losing colour, "You only do that when the lyrics are relevant to the conversation."

Gulping air, I stare at him, my hands still covering my mouth. I don't know what to say. Rehearsing this conversation a million different ways on the plane and at the airport and on the tube, and as I walked to Hampstead Heath, I had not once anticipated this as one of the possibilities. In short, I am mortified.

"Are –" He takes a deep breath. "Perhaps we should sit down." Leading the way to a velvet green sofa, he begins to sit at one end, tucking a foot underneath him. As soon as his arse hits the cushion, he stands back up. "Sorry. Um, let me change clothes. Tea, maybe. Would you like some tea? Wait. Can you have tea? Is tea okay? Milk would be better, right? I'll –"

His nervousness is calming in a weird way. Neither of us has said the word, yet he clearly knows why I've come all this way to talk to him.

"Tea is fine, Harry. I can make it while you get dressed if you'll just point out the kitchen to me."

"Oh, of course. But are you sure you should be..."

"I can make tea, Harry. It's not going to exhaust me." My smile attempts to be reassuring, and he nods.

Leading the way, he points to the right as he plants a foot on the bottom step. "Kitchen is that way. I don't –"

"Drink tea. I know. I'll make you some coffee."

He stares at me for nearly a full minute before climbing the stairs. Making my way to his kitchen, I marvel at the modernity of everything. Finding the coffee pot takes no time at all, and I guesstimate how much of the fresh ground beans to put in the filter, finally deciding it doesn't matter. He likely won't be able to taste it much with the news he's absorbing. Locating the kettle, I fill it with water and flip the switch to turn it on. It's harder to unearth his teas, but I finally find a box of breakfast tea and one of chamomile. Choosing breakfast tea is the easiest decision I've had to make so far today.

By the time I've filled a cup with black coffee for Harry and removed the tea bag from my perfectly brewed cuppa, Harry has returned. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a bright fuchsia jumper, he looks cosy, and I want to fall into his arms and sob in relief that I no longer carry this weight alone.

But I don't.

"Shall we sit?" I ask, handing over his cup.

Wordlessly, he precedes ahead of me into the living room where we'd previously been. Settling on the same side of the sofa with the same pose of one leg tucked under him, Harry observes me as I sit on the opposite side. His eyes stray to my stomach, and I wonder what he's thinking.

"So..." He begins.

"Yeah."

"For real?"

"Yes."

"How long?"

"Nine weeks now. Almost ten."

He nods, and I see him counting backwards in his head.

"It's from the date of my last period."

Again with the nod.

"I swear, this wasn't in my plans, Harry. I was careful the whole time. Cervical cap and spermicide. Every time. I followed the recommendations and was even more cautious. It was never my intention to..." Here I falter, my voice breaking. "...trick you into anything. To mess up either of our lives."