Page 42 of The Un-Apparent Heir

“I still get confused with you,” Paul said.

“Your mum still calls trousers pants. It cannot be that confusing.”

Paul pulled on his jeans and grabbed the overnight bag. “Still confusing. Context. You’re not my mum. Yes, you sound the same, but I don’t like to confuse you with her.”

“It’s funny because everyone else does,” Sanne groaned.

“Do you think this morning helped? Is that what this is about?”

“Paul, I do not think you going down on me like it was your life’s calling was what did the trick. However, it did make me happy, which is good. Because my entire body is about to be ripped apart and you may never want to be within five feet of my pussy ever again.”

“Nonsense. There are few places I enjoy quite so much. Promise.”

“There will never be…” Sanne gripped Paul’s arm and let out a low growl. “Normal again.”

“It will be fine. I will love you—all of you—as I always will. We’ll return with a remarkably cute baby. We’ll be so happy, Sanne.”

“I hope so,” Sanne groaned.

They climbed into the waiting car and sped to the hospital, passing all the paps on the way out. They drove surrounded by photographers. It was disorienting and made Sanne want to vomit. The pain was intense. She felt like her back was going to split open and the baby might crawl out. She didn’t want to be photographed. She just wanted to be medicated.

Paul reached over to feel a contraction passing. He marvelled at it and made mention of how “cool” it was. Sanne wanted to smack him. The day had finally come when he would hold his son or daughter in his arms. He wanted nothing more than to be a father while Sanne unexpectedly panicked about motherhood. She’d watched her sister do it for years. She knew how difficult it was. What if she wasn’t good enough?

“Paul, I am going to be a bad mom. I can feel it.”

“Don’t say that,” Paul pulled into the parking garage.

The door flung open. Paul held out his hand.

“I feel like I have no idea what I’m doing. Nor did my parents,” Paul said. “But I’m alive.”

“That is ridiculous. Think of poor Lucy! Her parents are fucked and?—”

“Sanne,” Paul said. “My love, it will be okay. Lucy’s parents are fucked, but we are not Lucy’s parents. And I’m not an alcoholic last I checked.”

He wasn’t. Paul could have taken or left booze. Both preferred an edible to waking with a hangover. Unfortunately, weed was criminalised in the UK. Mentally, Sanne gave Michigan another check mark and took one away from London. She wished she were stoned right now rather than listen to Paul ramble as she suffered excruciating pain.

Inside the ward, Sanne was swept to a private room. Paul was on the horn with his mothers-in-law trying to coordinate their arrival. They were presently in nearby Oslo—nearby being relative when you lived on an island in the Atlantic.

“The baby isn’t going to take long, Sanne,” a nurse said. “Looks like you’ll be in transition before too long.”

“I need drugs NOW!” Sanne’s voice rang strong.

It was as if she had no other volume level. She commanded people suddenly. That wasn’t her leadership style with anything other than troublesome, misogynist fathers-of-the-bride or badly-behaved grooms.

“We will put the order in.”

“Paul! Paul!”

No response. He was still on the phone.

“Paul Edward!”

He was hyper-focused on the call. Sanne wanted to toss something at his head.

She barked, “Paul Edward Simon Niall! Whatever that is, it’s less important than I am.”

He turned. “Shit. Yes. Uh, I will have… someone else coordinate it. I dunno. She’s shouting at me. Yes, I know she’s in labour, Natalie. Bye.”

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