Ill Conceived Plans

A Little Late For Regrets

SOME women wanted it all - good job, nice house, handsome husband and at least two adorable, well-behaved children to run in the yard and paint beautifully naive artwork for the immaculate well-stocked fridge (with additional ice cube maker).

Sarah Huntington, historian, Shakespeare nerd and spinster of the Parish of London, was not one of these women.

Sarah Huntington was a realist, a straight-shooter; she knew this beautiful fairytale was probably full of shit - no probably about it. You couldn't have it all, nor did she want to. She didn't hear her "biological clock ticking loudly in her ear" or even feel the need to fill her bed with a permanent snoring, bed and TV hogging, ball-scratching male. She loved her independence and didn't need an "other half" to validate her; she had one - her career.

Sarah Huntington worked with the British Library living between her nice Edwardian house in London and her spacious flat in Stratford. She liked the life of an academic, researching the works of the great Bard and working on anything and everything that you needed Shakespeare for; whether that be flying to the US to authenticate a First Folio or working with a film crew on the latest adaptation of Midsummer Night's Dream. It was her dream job and she loved it. She worked long hours but that hard work had paid off, she was now one of the world's leading experts on the Bard - the go-to-girl if you needed to know anything about him.

Sarah Huntington was at the top of her game; and she had friends, old friends, good friends, friends she'd do anything for and who would do anything for her; people she could count on and call on and who loved her unconditionally. She even had a couple of acquaintances she could ring if her little battery operated helper wasn't cutting it - though these weren't part of her inner circle, her adoptive "family" no she didn't fuck anyone in the inner circle.

Well not usually and certainly not sober, no the men in her inner sanctum were mainly her cousin Neville's mates and were off limits.

And that was the problem.

Sarah Huntington was fucking pregnant if the little plastic stick in her hand, with its two blue lines, smelling faintly of pee, was accurate. And the other half of the biological equation was one of Nev's best mates, her old university chum Dane Hilditch. Worse than that, he'd just flicked up on her Twitter feed in a series of grainy pap shots cavorting with a very young, slightly dressed - bikini model bodied, raven-haired actress on an Antipodean beach.

She didn't blame him, he was a single man and his job was done - sperm delivered, cells divided, foetus implanted. She was strong and independent, she had this. Sex with Dane had been a one-off deal, well two if you counted losing their virginity way back before they started at Cambridge together. Yes, you probably should count that one because that one fumbling event led directly to this - well-known historian and television personality Dr Sarah Huntington standing in her bathroom with a womb full of foetus, wondering what the fuck to do next.