Pregnancy, Winter 2009

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Life had a habit of taking swerves. While Faye was busy daydreaming about diamond rings, frothy veils and stout men in long black dresses with table runners round their necks, her body had been hatching other plans.   ‘You always did things in a funny order,’ said her mother, who was nonetheless far more excited by the prospect of a grandchild than in a marquee in the garden and a day spent in the company of her ex-husband and his Barbie of the Week. Small children were plainly far more interesting than weddings.   ‘It’s a very good order to do it in,’ said Faye, stroking her belly. ‘We’ll get married when she’s fifteen and she can help me choose my dress.’ (Faye already knew that the bump contained a little girl called Clarice.)   Faye’s mother was used to this sort of comment.   ‘I’m sure Ed will ask you to marry him as soon as the baby’s born,’ she said.   Faye gave her a hard stare. She always seemed to think she knew everything.   Clarice let rip with an energetic wriggle, as if to add her piece to the conversation.   ‘Oh dear,’ thought Faye, smiling. ‘She's got the outspoken gene.’