You’ll need filling in, I suppose.

So, was I pregnant or wasn’t I?  Well, the test was negative, which was slightly disappointing, but then a week later there was still no sign of me menstruating.  The night before the bin men came, I found Harry standing by the bathroom bin with the pregnancy test box in his hand.  When he saw me, he said, ‘Pips, was it midstream urine?’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Was it midstream urine?’

‘What’s midstream urine?’

‘Pippa,’ said Harry, ‘what do you think midstream urine is?’

‘Oh, it’s as simple as it sounds, is it?’ I said.  ‘Well how should I know?’

‘Well you - ’

‘Yes, but it was a week ago.’

‘I’m going to get another pregnancy test,’ said Harry.

He’s not usually so impatient.  I mean, I was the one who might have been pregnant, and I wouldn’t have minded getting a few hours’ sleep first.  He would have just had to wait if we didn’t live so close that all-night chemist - it was nearly midnight - and then when he got back and we read the instructions really, really carefully, it said it had to be morning wee anyway.

‘I suppose morning means after a night’s sleep,’ Harry said dejectedly.

‘I suppose it does,’ I said.

‘It must be to do with melatonin or something.’

‘Isn’t that the hormone that makes you have orgasms?’

‘No, darling, that’s serotonin.  Melatonin is the hormone that makes you sleep.’

‘God, Harry, you know a lot of useless shit,’ I said.

Then we made love and went to sleep.  Eight hours later I was being shaken awake by Harry, and he was saying, ‘Come on, Pips, it’s morning.’

I’m not a morning person.  I got out of bed and started lurching towards the bathroom, and suddenly Harry was going, ‘Pips, Pippa - take the pregnancy test!’

I turned round, and Harry gave me the stick.  He said, ‘Wee on it, remember?’

‘I know.’

‘Midstream urine.’

‘I know.’

‘That means you have to - ’

‘I know!’

So I went into the bathroom, and I did it - you don’t want details - and then I came out with the stick and we read the instructions again while we waited.  However many times we read it, it said that two blue lines would mean I was pregnant.  It was no more complicated than that.  So I looked at the stick.

‘Harry, there’s two blue lines.’

‘Well that means you’re pregnant.’

‘Are you sure?’

Ah, dear Harry.  He’s very capable, but just occasionally I seem to make him doubt himself, like he thinks scattiness can be sexually transmitted or something.  He read the instructions again, and then he said, ‘Pips, you’re pregnant.’

I started getting all excited then.  Harry looked excited too, but then he wanted to look at the stick, and that annoyed me a little bit.  I said, ‘Harry, I know two blue lines when I see them!’  But he had to look for himself before he’d believe me.  Then we jumped up and down and hugged, and then I said, ‘What do I do now?’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Harry.

‘Am I supposed to tell anyone?’

‘Well, yes.  You have to tell your GP and organise antenatal appointments and things.’

‘Oh, I don’t like the sound of that,’ I said.

‘Darling, you’ll have to,’ said Harry.  ‘Why don’t you make an appointment with your GP now?’

‘I haven’t got a GP,’ I said.

‘Yes you have,’ said Harry.

‘I haven’t.’

‘Pippa, you have got a GP.  Everyone in the country has got a GP - it’s the law.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes,’ said Harry.  ‘You will have been registered with your parents’ GP when you were born, and if that person moved or died or retired then you will have been automatically transferred to someone else.  Now think - who is it?’

I’m skipping ahead now.  You know the important part: I was pregnant.  I still am.  Between us Harry and I managed to get hold of my GP - a really horrible woman called Dr. Sanderson, I never want to see her again - and things progressed from there.  We’ve just come back from my first scan.  And guess what.  It’s twins!

Yeah, I know.  I still can’t believe it.

‘I still can’t believe it,’ I say.

‘And you didn’t even think you were pregnant with one,’ says Harry, grinning all over his face.  He’s delighted.  Well, of course he is - he isn’t the one who has to give birth to two babies all at once.  God, that’s scary.

‘Harry,’ I say.  ‘Are we really going to elope?’

‘Of course,’ says Harry.  He sits down on the sofa, and beckons me to join him.  ‘If that’s still what you want to do.  I’ve organised us a marriage licence, and I’ve been phoning round register offices and - ’

‘I thought it was registry office.’

‘Most people think that,’ says Harry.  ‘But it’s actually register.’

‘I’ve never heard anyone call them that before.’

‘Yes, well - we can get married in Melton Mowbray a week on Thursday,’ says Harry.  ‘Do you fancy that?’

When he first said we could elope, I think he was just kidding, and he said Gretna Green.  I think we both had visions of us just turning up and going, ‘Marry us!’  But now that it’s actually happening, he’s being a lot more practical.  He even wants to invite two friends along as witnesses - and there I was thinking we’d just drag in a couple of strangers off the street.  I saw that on telly once - it was quite romantic, really.

‘I’d like that,’ I say.

‘Pippa, darling, something’s wrong,’ says Harry.

‘Oh God.’  I mean, how can he tell?  ‘Well… I don’t really know where to start.’

‘Oh dear!’  He looks really worried.

‘It’s lots of little things,’ I say.  ‘Well… one quite big thing.  I want to tell you about it, Harry, but just thinking about it gives me a headache - there’s so much of it!’

‘Well that’s all right,’ says Harry, and he gets up and wanders off, so I’m sitting here thinking, What?  But then twenty seconds (or so) later he’s back with a notebook and a mechanical pencil, and he says, ‘We just need to make a list.  It’ll really help.’

‘A list of my problems?’ I say.  ‘Oh dear, how depressing.  All right then, item number one.’

Harry’s sitting there with his pencil poised, looking all serious like he’s my little secretary or something.  God, I love him.

‘I still haven’t told Mum to call off the wedding.’

‘Oh dear,’ says Harry, writing it down.  ‘How far along is she?’

‘Oh, not very.  She won’t book anything until I’ve said yes, so I just keep um-ing and ah-ing.’

‘But you can’t keep um-ing and ah-ing forever, darling.’

‘No, I can’t,’ I say.

‘All right,’ says Harry.  ‘What’s problem number two?’

‘This is the big one,’ I say, ‘and it follows on from problem number one.  Once I’ve asked Mum not to organise a wedding for us, I just know she’s going to go back to trying to get that poor hospice nurse put away for murder.’

‘Oh, I see,’ says Harry.  ‘Well, Pips, I do wonder if she’s actually been doing that on the quiet.  I mean, either she’s serious or she isn’t - and if she is, she’ll want to act quickly.  May I enquire as to the state of your grandfather’s body?’

‘Well it’s dead.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose it would be,’ says Harry.  ‘You didn’t have him cremated, did you?’

‘No,’ I say.  ‘He’s in the cemetery.’

‘Well,’ says Harry, ‘I’m no expert on these things, but it would be possible to dig him up and find out whether he was euthanised.  But like I say, she’ll have to hurry.  I think, Pippa, that you should address this problem before we go to Melton Mowbray.’

‘Oh no.  How?’

‘You need to talk to your mother.  Ask her if she’s still pursuing the murder charge.  If she is… well, you could get all teary and say you don’t want people digging your grandfather up and disturbing his rest, or something.’

It’s an idea, but I don’t know if she’d fall for that.

‘I don’t know if she’d fall for that,’ I say.

‘We’ll go and talk to her tomorrow,’ says Harry.  ‘We’ll tell her you’re having twins, and then when she’s in a good mood we’ll try and talk her out of it.  Darling, don’t look so worried,’ he says, and he squeezes my hand, which is really nice.  ‘It’ll be fine.  I have to say, I think it’s lovely of you to care so much about this nurse.  You said yourself you think she probably killed him.’

‘You know how I feel about euthanasia,’ I say.  I gave him this long speech once about how I think terminally ill people in pain should have the right to die, when Granddad asked me to euthanise him.  I’m glad I didn’t now - Mum might be pressing charges against me.  That’s the last thing you want when you’re pregnant.

‘Well,’ says Harry, ‘anyway, that’s what we’ll do.’

‘And what about the wedding?’

‘We’ll let her keep planning for a bit.  Then we’ll tell her we’re going away for a few days, and she’ll probably keep it up while we’re gone, and then we’ll come back and - I think I’ve had this idea before, actually - and we’ll say, “Sorry, we just couldn’t wait - we’re already married!  But never mind, you can busy yourself now with knitting baby clothes.”  Actually, Pips, I’d better get back to that register office.’

‘Do,’ I say.  ‘I want to get married a week on Thursday.’

‘Excellent,’ says Harry, beaming at me, and he goes and starts booking us a nice little wedding.  While he’s doing that, I look at the list:

1. Mother still organising big wedding.
2. Concerned about hospice nurse.

Well, they’re still not solved, but Harry’s made me feel a lot better about both of those things.  I sit back and start listening to his conversation with the wedding people.

‘Yes, twelve o’clock’s great…  Just two guests…  No, no, nothing fancy…  MasterCard all right?’

So he’s arranging payment.  He pays for everything - I don’t really like it.  But we’ll get onto that later.  I look down at my stomach, and I think, Holy shit, I’ve got two babies in there!  They’re non-identical, we’ve been told.  Maybe it’s girls, or maybe it’s boys, or maybe it’s both.  That’s much more exciting than just having one baby, isn’t it?  You get three possibilities instead of two.

‘I’ll get us a hotel when we’ve finished the list,’ says Harry, taking his notebook from me as he sits down.  ‘Have you decided who you want to take as a witness?  We could take one friend each, or will we take a couple?  I need to know for booking rooms.’

‘Would taking a couple be cheaper?’ I ask.

‘Darling, money is no object,’ says Harry.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘actually that’s my other problem.  I’m beginning to feel like a tool of the patriarchy.’

Harry blinks at me.  ‘Like a…?’

‘Tool of the patriarchy.  Write that down.’

He does, and then he says, ‘Please explain.’

‘You’re keeping me,’ I say.  ‘I am a kept woman.  I don’t have a job.’

‘Well Pippa, that’s all right - you’re having my twins.’

‘How will I pay off my student loan?’

‘I thought you forgot to apply for it.’

‘That was only last year,’ I say.  ‘There were two years before that - I owe nearly nine thousand pounds.’

‘I’ll p- ’

‘I don’t want you to pay it off,’ I say.  ‘I don’t like being financially dependent on a man.’

‘Well, Pips, do you want to get a job?’ asks Harry.

‘Well no,’ I say, ‘because I’m having twins, and anyway there’s no job I’d be good at.  Are you writing this down?’

‘Right, sorry,’ says Harry, and he starts scribbling again.  ‘Pippa, darling, I had no idea you felt this way - it breaks my heart.  There must be some way around it.  Maybe if you worked from home?’

‘How?  Doing what?’

‘You can be my project manager.’

Have I told you how Harry makes his millions (yes, millions)?  He turns over dilapidated houses and sells them for really silly amounts of money.  He manages all his projects himself, and he’s brilliant at it.  If he sat me in front of a computer and told me to budget and organise the schedule or whatever the hell it is he does, he wouldn’t use any of it - he’d just be humouring me.  I mean, come on - I’d be terrible at it!

‘Harry,’ I say.  ‘I’d be terrible at it.  I mean, be honest - would you actually take any notice of what I said?’

‘Every project needs to be managed, Pippa.’

‘Yeah, but you’d be doing it behind my back all the time, wouldn’t you?’

‘Phillippa!’

‘Harry…’

‘Oh, all right, maybe I would,’ he says.  ‘But Pippa, I may not have to.  I don’t like this idea of yours that you aren’t good at anything.’

‘I’m good at some things,’ I say.  ‘I’m good in bed, by all accounts.’

‘You certainly are, you sexy little vixen.’

‘And I got a pretty good degree actually.’

‘That’s right, you did.  Do another.  I’ll pay.’

‘Harry, that would only exacerbate the problem.’

‘Oh… yes, I suppose it would,’ he says.

‘The thing is,’ I say, ‘that I’m not good at anything anybody would pay me for.’

‘You could write.’

‘Oh Harry, come on,’ I say.

‘No really,’ he says, ‘you’re good at writing.  You’re brilliant.’

God, this annoys me.  People do it all the time.

‘But it doesn’t matter if I am good,’ I say.  ‘People are all full of, “Ooh, this is really good, you should get this published,” like a good piece of writing is all you need.  There are thousands of people who can write just as well as I can, and about ninety percent of them get nothing but rejections.’

‘Isn’t it worth a try?’ Harry asks.

‘It’s such a long shot, Harry.’

‘Pippa, you’re a very talented writer.  Surely someone would pay for a few stories, at the very least.  I know I would.’

‘Yeah, but you’re my fiancé.’

‘Actually,’ says Harry, ‘that’s a really good idea.  You can write for me.’

‘What?’

‘How does… fifty pounds for every thousand words sound?’

‘Harry!’  I laugh.  He’s cheering me up, at any rate.

‘I’m serious, Pippa,’ he says, but I’m sure he isn’t.  How can he be?  It’s completely stupid.  ‘I love your stuff.  In fact, I’m commissioning a piece right now.  I want a raunchy little sex story to keep me going in the six weeks after you give birth.’

‘What’s so special about the six weeks after I give birth?’

‘Well that’s how long we’re not allowed to have sex.’

‘What?’

‘Darling, don’t worry about that now.’

‘Six weeks?’

‘Pips,’ says Harry.  ‘Try writing professionally.  Start with my commission.’

‘Harry,’ I say.  ‘I’ll write you as many stories as you want, but I’m not taking any money for them.’

‘Then I won’t read them,’ says Harry.

‘Are you sure it’s six weeks?’

‘Pippa,’ says Harry.  ‘I love you so very, very much.  You do know that, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘My goodness,’ he says, reading through the list.

‘May I see that?’ I ask.

‘Certainly,’ and he hands me the notebook.

‘Oh my God,’ I say.  ‘This is just me in list form.’  The list now reads:

1. Mother still organising big wedding.
2. Concerned about hospice nurse.
3. Feel like a tool of the patriarchy.
4. Owe nearly £9,000 in student debt and refuse to let Harry pay it off.
5. Lacking belief in ability to find work and be a good mother at the same time.

‘You’ve paraphrased,’ I say.

‘Well it’s all true, isn’t it?’

‘I can never pay off my student debt myself while I’ve got babies.  It’ll be okay, though - the Student Loans Company don’t start asking for payments until you’re in full-time employment.  I’ll just have to be in debt until they start school.’

‘Pippa,’ says Harry, looking again at the list.  ‘You really do have the most extraordinary problems.’