Chapter 4
Pea-Lime Is in the House
Christa
The pregnancy test turns pink with the sort of decisiveness I respect.
No blurry bits. No faint line that needs squinting at from six angles. Just a solid, unapologetic result.
Right then.
I sit on the edge of the bathtub and place the test on the sink, facing me, like we’re about to have a conversation. My brain tries to leap straight into panic and I shut it down immediately.
Nope. Not yet.
First, the list.
Lists stop me from spiralling. Lists take feelings and put them in orderly queues where they can wait their bloody turn.
I open the Notes app on my phone.
Things to do.
Book GP appointment
Work out dates
Finances
Housing
Tell Geoff
Breathe
I pause, then add another.
Vitamins
There. Already better.
Only once the list exists do I let the thought settle.
I’m pregnant.
Actually pregnant. A bit over three months pregnant. Early January pregnant.
That part lands with a dull thump somewhere behind my ribs.
Miranda's birthday party at Jasper’s. Everyone drunk enough to be sentimental but not enough to be a liability. Prosecco, then whisky, because, evidently, I was in a phase where bad decisions came in glass tumblers.
People had drifted off to bed in stages. Miranda and Jasper to their room in the main house. Theo and Ivy tucked into Miranda’s bedroom in the annexe. I was relegated to sleep in SJ’s bedroom in the annexe as well. Geoff was supposed to stay in Jasper’s spare room.
Only he didn’t.
Instead, Geoff and I stayed up too late in the kitchen, nursing whisky and not talking about the obvious things.
My break-up was still raw then. Two months out, from a fiancé who’d turned out to be very good at lying and very bad at remorse.
I was tired of being brave. Geoff was tired of…
something. We didn’t define it. We just drank and existed in the same quiet space.
One thing led to another. As it so often does when you mix unresolved grief with familiarity and alcohol.
I don’t remember much of the sex itself.
I remember warmth. Laughter that tipped into something a bit hysterical.
Waking up tangled in a bed clearly too small for my five-foot three body and Geoff’s six-foot-four frame.
I nearly fell out of it, and with that jolt came the kind of clear-headedness that only follows a night of mutual regret management.
We looked at each other, assessed the situation like two competent adults, and agreed it was a one-time thing.
No drama. No meaning. No consequences.
We even laughed about it. Promised not to make it weird. Promised not to worry.
I snort softly now, alone in my bathroom.
So much for that.
I hadn’t tested earlier because my body and I have never been reliable colleagues.
My cycle has always been erratic. Stress makes it worse.
Heartbreak does interesting things to it too.
February had passed in a blur of deadlines and pretending I was fine.
March arrived with nausea I blamed on coffee and exhaustion I blamed on life.
Busy is my favourite avoidance technique.
It’s only this morning, standing in my bedroom fighting with a pair of jeans that absolutely did do up last week, that I finally stop lying to myself.
I pick the test up again. Just to be sure.
Still pregnant.
“Okay,” I say out loud.
This is happening.
I’m not crying. I’m not romanticising it. I’m also not panicking, and that feels worth noting. This is a situation. Situations can be handled.
Geoff will need to know. Soon. Not theatrically. Not with apologies or assumptions. Just facts. He deserves that. We both do.
I add a few bullet points under his name on the list.
– Be direct
– No minimising
– No emotional buffering
I stand, wash my hands, and look at myself in the mirror. Same woman. Same face. Dark eyeliner I trust and hair styled in a way that invites assumptions. Punk, probably. I’m not, but they’re welcome to their theories. The only difference is the thing I’m carrying now. Something entirely new.
I pick up my phone again. Practical until proven otherwise. I type a very neutral, very unromantic search into Google.
How big is the baby at three months pregnant.
I sit there for a while, phone loose in my hand, the fruit comparisons blurring together.
Peach. Plum. Lime.
A peach feels manageable… a lime too.
I rest my palm against my stomach, not because I expect to feel anything remarkable yet. Just acknowledging that something is there.
“Right,” I say quietly. “Pea-Lime. You might as well have a name if you’re going to be this disruptive.”
That earns a snort from me, because I’ve barely had five minutes with the idea and I’m already naming it. That feels… telling.
“Okay,” I murmur. “What do you think we should do, Pea-Lime?”
I say we, which is another point against my own objectivity.
I let the options line up properly this time. I could book an appointment and end this before it grows into something with a timetable and opinions. That path exists. It’s real. It’s allowed. It would be clean and finite and would return my life to roughly the shape it had yesterday.
I sit with that.
It doesn’t horrify me. It also doesn’t settle.
Because the other path is there too. Messier. Longer. Louder. But also possible in a way it never was before.
I glance down again, my hand still there without me consciously putting it back.
I’m forty-three. I’ve spent years assuming that door was quietly closing while I was busy getting on with things. And now, naturally, it’s swung back open without asking my permission.
I think about my life as it actually is. Not the worst version. Not the fantasy one. The real one. A job that pays the bills. A bit of savings. A body that, against the odds, is still capable of surprising me. Friends who don’t flinch when things get complicated.
Ivy would be in this with spreadsheets and sarcasm. I know that without question. And Geoff… Geoff would panic internally and then do the right thing externally, because that’s how the Corbins are built. Golden Retriever tendencies and all.
I exhale slowly.
“Right,” I say to Pea-Lime. “Here’s the thing.
“I’ve already named you. I’ve already put my hand here. I’m already thinking in we instead of me. Which suggests my heart has wandered off ahead of my brain and left it jogging to catch up.”
I don’t love that. I also recognise it.
So I let my brain arrive and join my instincts.
This won’t be easy. It will change everything. It will be exhausting and inconvenient and occasionally terrifying. It will also be something I am, for the first time in my life, finally equipped to try.
That’s the truth of it.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Let’s be sensible about this.”
Not a vow. Not a promise.
Just an agreement between me and Pea-Lime that, if we’re doing this, we’re doing it with eyes open.
I reach for my phone again and open my list.
Lists first.
Feelings can follow when they’ve caught their breath.
The GP surgery smells faintly of disinfectant. The kind that’s meant to reassure you but mostly just reminds you that a lot of people have been quietly miserable here.
I sit on the edge of the chair with my coat folded on my lap, posture calm, expression cooperative. I have already done the emotional gymnastics at home. This is meant to be the factual bit. The tick-box section. The confirm and proceed phase.
The confirmation is brisk. A nod. A couple of numbers. A polite click of a keyboard.
“Yes,” the GP says. “You are pregnant.”
I resist the urge to say surprise. “I thought as much.”
He hums and types for a moment, like he’s warming up.
I take a breath. This is the point. “I’d like to understand my options. All of them.”
I’m proud of how even my voice sounds. Neutral. Adult.
That gets his attention. He swivels slightly in his chair.
“Well,” he says, folding his hands, “given your age, this may be… your only opportunity.”
Ah.
There it is.
I blink once. Slowly. Partly to be polite, partly to stop myself saying something that will definitely get written down in my notes.
“I wasn’t asking for prophecy,” I say. “I was asking for information.”
Inside, I’m thinking: We’ve known each other for four minutes and you’re already narrating my life arc.
The nurse beside him stills. Interested. I clock that immediately. Always know who’s on your side.
“I just think it’s important you’re aware,” he continues, warming to his theme, “that many women later regret not continuing a pregnancy when time is limited.”
I smile. Pleasant. Polite. With just enough teeth to be noticed.
“With all due respect,” I say, “you don’t know my circumstances, my support system, or whether I even like children before ten a.m.”
Which is generous of me, frankly.
The nurse’s lips twitch.
“I’m simply trying to ensure you don’t make a hasty decision,” he says.
I think of the list on my phone. The colour-coded calm of it. The fact I have, in fact, been thinking about this for days.
“I agree,” I reply. “That’s why I asked for options, not guidance from the Book of Revelations.”
The nurse coughs. That is absolutely a laugh.
The GP clears his throat, finally sensing the room. “Termination is available within the legal timeframe, of course.”
“Thank you,” I say, because this is what I came for. “That’s all I needed. Available. Not recommended. Not discouraged. Just… available.”
Inside, something settles. Information received. Box ticked.
He looks faintly ruffled. “I wasn’t discouraging.”
“Good,” I say brightly. “Because that would be inappropriate.”
There’s a pause while he recalibrates. I imagine a small internal reset button being pressed.
“Shall we discuss antenatal care?” he asks, tone corrected.
“Yes,” I say. “That would be lovely.”
The nurse hands me a leaflet as I stand. As she does, she murmurs, barely audible, “Handled that beautifully.”
I smile at her. “Practice.”
And it’s true. Years as a receptionist for one of the most successful urban planning firms in London has trained me well. I spend my days managing egos in expensive suits, deflecting unreasonable demands, and keeping control of rooms where everyone assumes they’re the most important person in it.
Once you’ve calmly handled a senior partner who believes the rules don’t apply to him because he owns three sports cars and a house in Tuscany, a slightly judgemental GP barely registers.
Turns out you can ask a simple question and still end up batting away someone else’s assumptions.
Useful skill.
I have a feeling I’m going to be using it a lot.