Page 35 of Prognosis Christmas Baby

‘I’m taking the other test.’

Nash stared after her. What the hell? Following her, he found her pawing through her handbag in the kitchen. ‘The other test?’

‘They didn’t have any single test kits,’ she said, locating the other pink box and heading for the toilet.

‘There’s no point,’ he said, following her. ‘it’ll be the same.’

Maggie turned around. ‘It’s wrong. It has to be.’

She was trying not to get excited. Trying not to get carried away. How many tests had she done in the past convinced she was pregnant? How many times had her hopes been raised, only to be dashed so wretchedly?

Nash sighed, resignation already taking a firm foothold in the mountain of his blind panic. ‘It’s not. You don’t get false positives. Only false negatives.’

If he’d had any idea how much Maggie wanted to cling to that, he would have kept his mouth firmly shut. But she’d been down this road one too many times. She was forty, for crying out loud.

And infertile.

‘It’s wrong,’ she insisted, before closing the door in his face.

Because if he was right, if the test was right, it would be just too surreal.

Nash paced outside, his brain churning, thoughts tossing around like garments in a tumble-dryer. He checked his watch. A minute later he checked it again. What the hell was taking her so long?

‘Maggie.’ He banged on the door. ‘What on earth are you doing in there?’ he growled.

How long did it take to wee on a stick?

Maggie startled. The flow she was trying to coax instantly disappeared. She couldn’t believe her bladder was choosing this moment for an attack of performance anxiety. She could see the shadow of Nash’s pacing footsteps in the polished floorboards under the crack of the door which was putting her urinary tract under a lot more pressure.

‘Give me a break,’ she said crankily. ‘I only did this twenty minutes ago. It’s not a bottomless cup.’

‘Do you want me to turn a tap on?’

Maggie glared at the door. ‘I want you to go away.’

‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Great! Maggie shut her eyes and concentrated. Hard. On waterfalls and pouring rain and dripping taps. And warm, yellowish fluid of another origin. Surrounding her baby. Nourishing it. Cocooning it. Protecting it. Rocking it to sleep.

She smiled at the thought and finally found the release she was after.

This time she looked straight away, preparing to count to one hundred and twenty Mississippi’s before she saw a change in the test window. But it was there already.

Another pink plus sign.

Maggie stood for a few seconds, just staring at it, until another bang on the door interrupted the sheer incredulity she was feeling.

‘Damn it, Maggie.’

Opening the door, she found Nash looking equal parts harried and annoyed. And when he quirked his eyebrow at her she said, ‘I’m pregnant,’ and promptly burst into tears.

***

Nash stood, temporarilyparalysed, as Maggie’s face crumpled and great heaving sobs screwed her face into a mask of utter grief.

Oh, God. Not tears. How could he be angry with her when she was so heartbroken?

Still, he was surprised at her reaction. For a woman who’d spent a good part of an entire decade and a lot of hard-earned money trying to get pregnant, he’d thought she’d be ecstatic.

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