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are two bold blue lines.
    Si embarazada.
    Yes, I’m embarrassed.

5
    #Breakingnews
    @ c alicokate I sent my boyfriend the positive test #shocked #delighted

    @ B randimoon I gave my mother this cute I love my grandma bib. She cried for like an hour about me missing school

    @ L alabinks Put the scan photo on Facebook phone buzzing

    @ b oringedgy I told my boy he’s the daddy he left the next day #mistake

    S o I’m back beneath the grey fug of London with Max and someone else as well – two for the price of one. Waking up in my own bed in my own flat has helped me to properly absorb the news. In Spain, everything was bathed in romance and sunshine, skewed. Now I have the man (he’s moved in) and I’m having his baby. Quite a result. I feel like high-fiving myself. Obviously, I’ll be the best mummy ever. I’ll be smiling a lot of the time and wearing things I haven’t tended to before, mummy things like thin-gauge cardigans, big knickers and low ponytails. I’ll be firm about some things – table manners, road safety – but mostly I’ll be a lot of fun. I think of all the times I’ve had fun with kids – well, the one time, when I played with my friend Ramona Parker’s little sister, chasing her round the garden with sticks. Then she chased me, but she had dog poo on her stick . . . Anyway, I know how I’m not going to be: I’m not going to be like my own mother. Be really hard to be worse: even before she left, when we lived in the shitty bedsit together with Uncle Whoever She Was Seeing At the Time, she was unpredictable. I have memories of us – one minute we’d be making stuff with bottles, mobiles out of coat hangers, the next I’d be dumped with the neighbours. She’d be dancing, then suddenly sobbing. Forgetting to get me from school. Angry with me, dragging me, then singing to me, plying me with Jaffa Cakes. Finally leaving me at Nana’s with no explanation, to wonder all my life, What did I do?
    Hell, being pregnant seems to stir up a lot of emotional debris, and floating on top in a raft of her own is my mother. I can’t stop thinking about her. How did she feel with me growing inside her? Did she ever look at me and feel happy?
    I wonder how you go about getting on The Jeremy Kyle Show . They’d track her down and save me the bother and we could be reunited. ‘Abandoned daughter pregnant!’ ‘Mother who deserted daughter now a grandmother!’ Yes, and they’d plug her into a lie detector and make her do a paternity test to tell me who my father is. I need to know these things now for genetic reasons.
    Finding my mother is proving difficult with Nana away, but find her I will. I look out of the window, narrowing my eyes. She should know about her grandchild, and she can’t run for ever. I imagine how she’ll react; I picture her crying and vowing to be in her granddaughter’s life as a force for good. A fantasy, I know, but I also know I’d take anything, any insight she can offer, any thin scrap of a relationship without terms or conditions. Forgiveness – it makes me cry.
    But no, save your tears, Viv. Stop thinking confusing thoughts about your mother. Concentrate instead on Max and having his baby. I think about all the times in the past when I thought I might have been pregnant, those tense moments, those risks I took and how I imagined it to be. It was a pretty star cloud of a thing, with decorated nurseries and tiny little shoes and silver hairbrushes. I imagined the moment of discovery: hugging the father, who looked a bit like Gary Barlow, crying with joy and dancing about together. When in fact Max and I just sat on that bed in Spain looking at the stick for a good long while. Then he checked the instructions one more time and whispered, ‘Whoa . . . shit!’
    ‘I’m pregnant . . . I am pregnant,’ I said into the middle distance.
    ‘You are.’
    ‘I am with child.’ I started nodding. ‘I’m having a baby all right.’
    Max clutched my hand, his knuckles turning