Chapter 74
Tom Bradley International Terminal, LAX, Los Angeles
I’ve left Charlie in the lounge, claiming that I need to do some last-minute retail therapy to decompress. He offered to come with me but I told him that this is something I need to do alone. Which isn’t a lie. I just need to find a shop selling what I need.
We said goodbye to Antoinette and Agnes with lots of hugs and promises to be back to visit soon.
‘Look after her,’ I said to Agnes as the Uber pulled away.
‘She’s in good hands,’ Agnes had replied and I believe her.
I hate goodbyes so I was almost grateful that I had something much bigger on my mind when I gave my sister a final hug.
Now I just need to find out, one way or another.
I scurry past some of my usual go-to shops with barely a second glance. Although I might have to pop back in and check out that dress in Bvlgari in a minute.
No, no, no.
Stay focused, Kitty.
Ugh, why are there so many duty-free shops and clothes shops? This isn’t what I need at all.
Why isn’t there a Boots or a Superdrug?
God, I can’t wait to get home.
I suppose I could wait until I get back to London. But I can’t. The thought of spending eleven hours on a plane and not knowing would be torture.
I spot a Hudson store and hurry over to it.
Please, please, please.
I see what I’m looking for and think I say ‘Oh my God, yes’ out loud because I’m getting some funny looks from other travellers as I make a grab for the item and rush to pay. I stuff it in my bag.
Now I need to find some toilets.
Okay. So this isn’t exactly how I ever thought this moment would go.
Not that I’ve particularly thought about it.
But it’s not really every little girl’s dream to take a pregnancy test in an airport loo.
Especially when whoever is in the cubicle next to me is making noises – and smells – that truly belong on a farm.
Forget all that we listen and we don’t judge crap.
I am being forced to listen and I am very much judging.
Anyway. Whatever is going on in that cubicle is none of my business.
My business is here. In my hands. All I need to do is pee on this stick, wait three minutes and then I’ll know.
Turns out that peeing on demand is easier said than done though.
It’s never been something I’ve excelled at, in all honesty.
I’ve had to give samples to the doctor before and it’s like I just totally dry up from the inside.
I don’t understand it. It’s not like I’m not well hydrated.
Is it stage fright? I squeeze and squeeze but not even the smallest drop of pee is playing ball. This is ridiculous.
‘Come on,’ I whisper to my bladder. ‘What are you playing at? This isn’t the time to go all shy on me.’
After what feels like several lifetimes I feel a small but determined stream of pee finally leave my body.
I hope I’m not missing the stick.
That would be beyond frustrating.
I pull the stick out from underneath me to check and am relieved to see that I’ve hit the spot.
So now I wait.
God.
This is awful.
What if it’s positive? How will I tell Charlie?
We’ve only just got back together and we’ve never even spoken about kids.
Not in any real depth anyway. I know he’s not opposed to the idea, in theory.
But theory is a hell of a lot different to reality.
Particularly when the mother of your potential child has a sideline in serial killing.
And how do I feel about motherhood? I’m not one of those women.
Not like Maisie, who played with baby dolls the moment she could walk.
Who started any conversations about our futures with the words when I’m a mum.
Who goes all funny when they walk past the baby section in a shoe shop.
Like I can appreciate that teeny-tiny Chloé sliders are cute, but Maisie gets positively gooey.
And the shoes might be cute but what about the thing that goes inside the shoes?
Babies are loud. And they sleep like shit.
And they excrete stuff from every single orifice.
Plus how the hell would a baby fit into my lifestyle?
For one, serial killing when I’m the size of a penthouse and my centre of gravity has left the chat would not be easy.
And what about when it’s born? Then I’ll be the one excreting stuff from every orifice.
For months after I pop the thing out. And serial killing isn’t exactly known for its generous maternity package.
What would I do? Stop mid-slaughter and whip out a breast pump?
Sorry, sir, would you mind waiting a few moments for your imminent painful death?
I just need to hook myself up to this milking machine before my tits explode.
It’s just not practical. And this is before we even consider the fucking issue of genetics.
My father was a psychopath and both of his daughters have uncontrollable bloodlust. One more than the other though.
Let’s hope Antoinette never decides to procreate.
There’s no way that’s not a family trait.
What if this baby doesn’t get the memo that killing is only acceptable if the killee is an absolute abhorrent monster?
What if I birth this generation’s answer to Jack the Ripper.
Or Jacqueline the Ripper? How would I ever be able to live with myself if I unleashed something like that into the world?
God, I’m having a panic attack.
Okay, Kitty, breathe. It’s okay.
I take some deep breaths.
I close my eyes.
My heart begins to slow down.
My thoughts don’t feel like they’re racing ahead of me.
This baby would be half Charlie. So there’s no way it could be all bad.
Charlie is the best person in the world.
He’s kind and he’s funny. He’s generous and loyal.
He’s the smartest person I know. Admittedly the bar there is pretty low, but still.
And he’s just got so much love. It emanates from him.
It flows through his veins. I’m pretty sure if I ever cut Charlie open – not that I would without very good reason – he’d bleed glitter and rainbows or something.
For all of my darkness, he is light. Would that cancel out all that’s bad from me?
I can’t believe anything that is half Charlie’s DNA could ever be fully bad.
And our kid would be pretty cute. Beyond cute.
Whichever one of us it looked like, it would be a knockout.
Suddenly there’s an image of a little girl in my head with Charlie’s sandy hair and my blue eyes.
My rosebud lips and Charlie’s dimples. My olive skin and Charlie’s freckles.
My hand slips down to my belly.
This is the longest three minutes of my life.
If I am knocked up then I’m only a few months behind Maisie. I wouldn’t have to go through the horror of new motherhood alone, one of my best friends in the world would be right by my side. Maisie would be thrilled. And my baby would have instant best friends.
My baby.
My baby.
The three minutes are surely up now.
I open my eyes and look at the little window on the stick.
Oh.
Oh.