Her eyes bulged, and the colour drained from her face. She looked shocked. "Oh!" I muttered as she ran her fingers through her pink hair.
"How the fuck am I supposed to be a mother? I can barely look after myself." She gulped. "Shit! This can't be fucking happening."
"Well, if we kept it, we could try parenting together? We'll manage between us."
Her hands trembled as she took the pregnancy test from me and she stared at the pink strip. "What the fuck do I know about babies?"
I sniggered. "You've used nappies. And bottles. And baby-grows." She wiped her eyes as she reluctantly smiled. "I'm sure we'll be fine. If you want to have a child with me. Just think, they could inherit my IT ability and your musical talents. The sky will be the limit."
"Or they might have my rebellious nature and sex drive and get themselves expelled before the age of 14. I cannot be a mother. I just can't. How can I go on tour with a child? I can't be responsible for a baby. I'm not ready for that." She gulped and looked across the room. "I know you want to know. As I would ask if I was you. I'm sure it's yours from Oxford. I don't do bareback fucking, normally. And nothing since that day. I don't think I've had any split johnnies, either."
"I wasn't...." I muttered.
She sighed. "But as I've bedded around three hundred partners this year. And over two-thirds of them have been blokes, you should fucking ask. You have a right to a DNA test." She gulped and bit her lip. "But I'm sorry. I just can't go through with a pregnancy. I will not risk fucking up a child like my parents screwed me up. It's not fuckin' happening."
Natasha and I talked endlessly about her positive test; I promised to support her, and she booked an appointment with our local medical centre. They confirmed her pregnancy, and we discussed a termination, but the more we spoke, the more she softened on motherhood.
Although I argued against it, I am not anti-abortion; I believe it is a fundamental right for a woman to choose, but seeing some of my friends and colleagues have kids, made me want to start a family. And if I had a child, I wanted it with someone wonderful who I loved, like Natasha.
On Monday morning, when we had the positive test, she was 100% certain that she could not be a mother. By dinnertime, it had slipped to 90%, and it was 50-50 by lunchtime on Tuesday. We discussed the practicalities of having a child in the house. We had the room, and I believed our relationship was robust enough to handle parenthood. I trusted my fiancée implicitly, and I loved her wholeheartedly. I promised to support her decision, whatever she chose to do.
Our discussions about the predicament happened around the band's promotional activities on their Christmas single. The record label worked intensely to promote the festive hit, and my lover spent most of her days doing interviews or shows, and travelling to and from their engagements.
Natasha revealed her dilemma to the band, and her friends encouraged my fiancée to keep her unexpected pregnancy. On Tuesday evening, ITV interviewed the punk rockers on a late-night culture programme. Faye was erudite, and the well-spoken interviewer asked about Natasha's previous brush with scandal. "She's engaged to the guy, and he's knocked her up, so I don't think that would have happened if Nats really took a slash over him," Maddison crudely interrupted. Along with my fiancée's shocked expression, the additional news that my lover was pregnant became a front-page story.
Bitches Against had become that year's protest song with a feel good rebellious message. It cut through the crowded field and the odds of the punk rockers having a Christmas Number One, and only their second ever Top 40 single, had shortened incredibly.
I felt a weird sense of pride as I watched the interviews and discussion about them in the media. I may not have sung a note, but Natasha's success was a delight to watch. She was my partner, and I loved to see her triumph.
Popbitch's weekly email had plenty of Bitches Against content, including tales from their recent tour. I didn't doubt a word of the sordid stories that they published. I knew about some of the orgies, drinking games and hedonistic debauchery, but one particular tale about my fiancée, a stripper, an all-male warm-up act and several litres of custard was beyond the typical "girls-on-tour" shenanigans. I wished I had been present.
The band arrived at my house late on Thursday night and we had a quiet night before the big announcement. The punk rockers had agreed to attend a videoconference with the chart show when they revealed the Christmas Number One at quarter-to-six the following day, and all of them were a little preoccupied.
Natasha and I visited the supermarket in the morning to stock the annexe with plenty of snacks and booze, and we made sandwiches for lunch. There was a weird tension about the band; they had never been in this position before, and suddenly they were second-favourite to bag the top spot. Rumours on social media suggested they had pipped the reality show winner by the tiniest of margins.
We went for a short walk, and I drove to Rickmansworth to collect Monika and Nessie from the train station; they were both keen to join any celebrations. Fox, Vixen, and others arrived before 3pm and Natasha tuned the radio to play the show through the speakers in the room. The girls stunk of nervousness as the host played the chart from Number 40 downwards.
Many of the songs were Christmas hits from yesteryear, sneaking into a top forty because of the relentless streaming of familiar favourites. Samantha and her friend interrupted after an hour, and I left the band to go to my conservatory with Natasha. Samantha glared at us as we showed them to the glass structure. "You'll find your outfits on the chairs," my fiancée said without emotion and when my ex-girlfriend's companion complained, my lover barked sharply. "The annexe is our sanctum, and we don't want hidden listening devices or phones or anything coming over. Either you play by our rules or you get lost. Please note the contract you signed which states that..."
"Yes, very well!" Gina snapped. "Don't rub it in!"
As Samantha stripped, I admired her two new tattoos. The skin was red and inflamed, but over her freshly shaved mons was a prominent 3cm high black Bitches Against logo. On her left ankle was an anklet design with four inked pendants, reading S, L, U and T. Seeing her naked, she had certainly gained a couple of stone since we split up, and she looked away from me as she rolled the fishnet stockings up her legs to her thighs. The dark G-String and then the short, cheap French Maid's dress made her look like a whore.
The band provided Samantha's friend with a hoodie, a Bitches Against T-shirt and jogging bottoms to wear, and Natasha watched them dress before we wandered across to the annexe. "Hi all, this is Samantha the Slut. She is being paid an extortionate amount of money to be our entertainment so we'll be having some fun with her later, but in the meantime she's here to wait on us," Natasha announced to the band, to raucous cheers. She gestured towards the kitchenette and the dozen attendees fired drinks orders at her.
Samantha had never had a waiting job, and she found it hard to keep up with the demands of the women. Natasha asked her companion what she wanted to drink and my ex had to serve her best friend. I spoke to Gina; she looked overwhelmed as the boisterous band rowdily shouted. Sam's friend had a defensive demeanour but relaxed as her alcohol consumption increased, and she saw we had embarrassed Samantha and not abused her.
The tension in the room rose as the radio host got to the top ten and then the final five. The DJ spoke to the reality show winner and to Faye via a videoconference link on the laptop.
