Golden Luckenbooth

Fifty-Six

Blair, my ever-observant bestie (birthing partner, doctor, cheerleader, etc.), taps her pen against her notepad. "How's your eating been lately?" She inquires with a knowing glint in her eye.

"Ugh. Don't even ask," I snap at her, a knot of guilt forming in my stomach as I picture the night with the chips and cheese with curry sauce (and a few other indulgences).

"So you've not made any major changes to your diet lately?" Her impish grin, designed to make me laugh, has the opposite impact.

My irritability, already at an all-time high based on the fact that I'd not been able to wallow in my deep sadness last night with a 'Marley and Me' marathon, threatens to burst like an overinflated balloon, and I growl at Blair, channelling one of the many disgruntled dogs that come to my practice on a daily basis.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum in a way that makes my skin crawl, and the paper on the exam gown crinkles and moves in all the wrong ways.

Harry, bless his supportive heart (and damn him for trying to make me face reality), squeezes my hand gently. "Alright, Blair, truce! Anna's mostly been a health superstar. She knows the expectations - smoothies, salads, all that jazz. Sure, there's the occasional Percy Pig detour, but hey, nobody's perfect, right?" He winks, leaving the "thanks to me" part unspoken.

All of which makes me even more tetchy because my eating habits are based on the food Paddy and Arran prepare for me more than anything Harry has done. In all reality, his limited presence at night and his extended absences during the day make zero difference in what goes into my mouth.

Pun definitely not intended since we've not had sex of any sort since our weekend at the manor.

Blair continues making notes. "Your weight is in the right range, but we'll see what your glucose challenge test says in a bit."

Uncomfortably, I shift on the table, naked under the paper gown but for my socks and shoes. "It's cold in here." The words are a snarl, meant to frighten off even the bravest of friends and lovers.

Exchanging a glance with my boyfriend, my doctor raises an eyebrow.

"I think it's the piles that are bothering her," Harry whispers, pretending I can't hear him.

"They can certainly be a pain in the arse," my bestie giggles.

My glare would intimidate a charging bull, but makes no impression on Blair.

"Oh, come on! It had to be said," she nudges my shoulder, attempting to make me laugh. "And I never get to use that joke with my other patients."

This time, I bare my teeth at her, clenching my jaw and narrowing my eyes.

"It could be the acid reflux she seems to have when she lies down at night, too, now that I think of it," Harry adds.

"For fucks' sake," I grumble, "Does everyone have to know everything that's making me miserable?"

Blair, who has been containing her mirth for the most part, bursts into laughter at my comment. At my horrified look, she hugs me tightly from the side, ignoring my state of undress.

"Oh, pal. I'm so sorry. Pregnancy can suck even after the second trimester." Switching notepads, she scrawls some words on a prescription pad, tearing off the top sheet and handing it to Harry. "Here are the best OTC meds for piles and for heartburn." Turning to me, she adds, "It will get better, I promise." She patronisingly pats me on the leg. "How's your sleep?"

Dejected at her response to my pain, I refuse to answer her questions anymore.

Let's ignore the fact that I've not answered any of her inquiries so far, shall we?