He was jolted awake by the sound of Scarlet barking, followed by Ruth shouting, verging on hysterical. He lay for a moment, letting the unfamiliar room swim into focus, trying to gauge just how much pain it would cause him to move. Gingerly he edged his legs out from under the duvet and lowered them onto the floor. Reaching for the stick balanced against the headboard he levered himself upright, wincing as his knee rebelled.

As he reached the hall all was quiet. 'Ruth?' he called. 'Is everything alright?'

Pushing open the living room door he was greeted by the sight of Ruth sitting in floods of tears on the floor beside a huge fluorescent pink rubber ball. A quick scan of the room and his eyes alighted on Scarlett under the coffee table, ears flattened, head on paws, the expression on her face the epitome of doggy guilt.

'What's wrong? What's happened?'

She turned a tear-stained face towards him . 'That…bloody…dog…' she hiccupped. 'I went to sit on my ball and…and…she started barking and…jumping all over the place and I fell off and…and I couldn't get up, and…' she sniffled, the tears falling anew.

'Scarlet?' Harry moved towards his dog, who began to whine softly.

'Harry! Never mind that…that sodding dog! Help me up.'

'Sorry, I…' Tossing his stick onto the sofa he edged round the ball and bracing himself he reached for her. 'What the hell is that thing, anyway?'

She stumbled against him as she got onto her feet, causing him to stagger backwards. 'Sorry…it's my gym ball. I…I can't get comfy anymore, so I bought it to sit on. Unfortunately Scarlet had…had other ideas.'

Gently he thumbed the tears from her cheeks. 'She'd just have thought you were playing. It is a ball, after all.'

The look on Ruth's face was a clear indication that the defence should rest, so as he followed her out of the room he attempted what he hoped would prove a more welcome topic of conversation.

'Darling, we need to talk. About the…elephant in the room.' As her pace slowed, he added quickly, 'Not you! Of course, I don't mean you! Well, I do, but not in the way, you think, I…'

She had come to a halt now, and slowly turned round to face him.

'Harry. I am due to give birth to two babies in six weeks' time. I think that entitles me to be the size of a house!'

'Exactly! That's just my point!'

'Wh…? Have you not read any of the baby books? Do you not realise that right now you're supposed to be supportive and complimentary and loving and endlessly patient and…' To her fury, tears sprung to her eyes once more.

'N-no, you misunderstand me. The babies are only six weeks away. Call me old fashioned, but I really want us to be married before they're born.'

She stared at him.

'I know that knocks a church wedding on the head, but we're neither of us religious so that shouldn't really matter…and it makes things tight for a registry office wedding, but there are some perks to being in the service. Strings that can be pulled. We…we could get married at Mayfair Library, go away for a few days and then have a proper honeymoon…' he grinned ruefully, 'in about eighteen years' time.'

'Now? You ask me this now? When I'm huge and hot and can hardly move and everything hurts and I haven't slept properly for weeks? And, AND,' she said, cutting him off before he could reply, 'do you really think we're in a fit state to be getting married? I'm not talking heavily pregnant and knees and burns, I'm talking about US, Harry. This relationship is hanging by a thread and well you know it.'

'Nonsense.'

With a gasp of frustration Ruth flung up her arms and without a further word turned and continued towards the kitchen.

Harry hesitated for a moment then limped after her, willing himself not to put his foot in it any further than he had already, and for her to give him a break. She was standing at the sink, one hand on the small of her back, another holding the kettle as it filled with water.

'What do you want for breakfast?'

'I'm not hungry. I'll get something later. Ruth…' He sat down heavily at the kitchen table, questions cycling through his brain, each being quickly discarded. Finally he ventured: 'If you weren't pregnant, would you have left me?'

She turned off the tap, switched the kettle on. He watched as she got mugs off the tree, the cafétière from the cupboard, milk from the fridge. As she stood by the kettle waiting for it to boil a chill began to settle on his stomach. He swallowed. 'Ruth?'

Finally she turned towards him, hands slowly rubbing her belly, her eyes on the floor. 'My gut reaction is no.'

That had to be good news. 'And your…considered reaction?'

Finally she raised her eyes to him, and slowly shook her head.

He gulped a lungful of air. 'That's…that's good.'

The kettle clicked off, and he got to his feet. 'You sit down. I'll make it.'

For once there was no argument about her caffeine intake. As he placed the cafétière on the table between them he realised that he was hungry after all.

'Actually, how do you fancy bacon rolls?'

'I thought you weren't hungry?'

'I wasn't. But the coffee's whetted my appetite.'

Grimacing, she shifted her weight on the chair. 'We've no rolls. Or bacon.'

'I'll get some from the corner shop. Take Scarlet with me.'

'Well, the exercise will do you both good.' She sighed. 'Sorry.'

'No, no, you're quite right. I've not exactly been doing my physio. Or anything else, for that matter.'

'Harry, you're not even bothering to go upstairs any more.'

He shrugged. 'The stairs bugger up my knee. Plus, you should be back in your own bed, without me hogging the duvet and thumping you in my sleep. And the upstairs spare room is a bit…well, Catherine decorated it. It's not really my style.'

'The stairs don't bugger up your knee, you just need to take the bloody painkillers.' She held up her hands in resignation. 'Ok, you do hog the duvet. The nightmares are awful. But you also rub my feet when I get cramp. Give me a cuddle when I come back to bed after I've peed for the 59th time. Talk sweet nothings to me as I'm falling asleep. 'Her fingers were drumming a rhythm on her mug. 'And I really, really miss the sex.'

'What?'

Ruth blushed. 'I think it's my hormones.' She flashed a quick, bashful smile. 'It's okay, I know you don't fancy it. Don't fancy me. But it might help you sleep better. Stop you having the nightmares. Anyway, don't you have bacon to buy?'

'Harry?'

'Mm?'

'I think your dog wants out.'

'Oh, she's my dog now, is she?'

'She always was your dog.'

Opening his eyes, Harry was greeted by the sight of Scarlet standing on his chest, panting excitedly. Before he could move she lunged forward and began to lick his face.

'Urgh…off!' With one arm he scooped her off and lowered her to the floor. 'Let me have a shower first, hm? Then we'll go and get some bacon. Time for…' he glanced at his watch, '…lunch, I think.'

'What time is Graham coming?'

Harry got out of bed with a little more ease than when he awoke, and began bundling up the clothes strewn on the floor. 'Four-ish, I think. Are these for the washing machine, or do you want to put them back on?'

Ruth, however, showed no indication of wanting to get up, and stretched languorously with an unselfconsciousness he seldom saw. He wondered briefly if he had it in him for another round, then a little wet nose nudged his calf. 'Ruth?' He held up the bundle.

'Oh, washing machine. Think I might stay like this the rest of the day. It's too blooming hot to be this pregnant and wear clothes.'

'Suits me fine. I'll cancel Graham.'

Her fingertips traced lazy circles on her bare belly. 'Don't you dare!'

He smiled. 'You are beautiful, you know. You'd still be beautiful if you were the size of Hertfordshire, never mind a house. And I'd still love you.'

'Harry, if I don't get a bacon roll soon I swear I'll wear that smock dress my aunt made me for the remainder of my pregnancy.'

He winced. 'I'm going, I'm going.'

Truth be told, Harry felt like a bit of a spare part whenever Graham came round. He and Ruth had an easy familiarity that all too often involved making fun of him, and they had a surprising amount in common, including an unlikely love of musicals which that evening had resulted in a raucous and rather tuneless re-enactment of Carousel. Harry, grumpily wondering what football songs had to do with it, sought refuge in the garden with Scarlet and a generous helping of Ardbeg while Graham washed up and Ruth sat chatting to him at the kitchen table. It was a scene of cosy domesticity which once upon a time Harry would have chewed his left arm off for, a fact that was not lost on his son.

'Where is the old sod anyway?'

Ruth looked up from the book of baby names. 'Back garden, I think. He's not much of a fan of my singing. What do you think about Aaron?'

Graham wrinkled his nose. 'Aaron Pearce? Sounds good, but Dad won't go for it. He'll want something traditional. English.'

'Graham's hardly traditional.'

He tipped the washing up bowl, waiting for the dirty water to drain down the plughole before answering. 'Mum chose that. I guess he'd been up to his usual as he wasn't allowed any say in the matter. Then again, I'm quite glad about that, as he wanted to call me Ben.' He shuddered. 'Not sure I fancy being named after someone who was killed.'

'This morning he asked me to marry him. Before the babies are born. Can you imagine?'

Used to her non-sequiturs, Graham didn't miss a beat. 'Talk about leaving it to the last minute! So are we all systems go, then? Why on earth didn't he say anything?'

'Because I turned him down.'

'You turned him down?! I thought things were getting better between you two?'

'They are…I think.' Ruth had a momentary flashback of the feeling of Harry's skin against her back that morning and blushing, looked away. 'But how on earth can I get married looking like this?'

He stared at her, blankly. 'Looking like what? Pregnant? But you look gorgeous! Eh, no offence. Pregnancy suits you. Honest.' He leaned back against the kitchen counter with a sigh. 'Christ, no wonder dad's seemed preoccupied tonight. He must be gutted.'

'It's not all about him,' Ruth snapped.

Graham balled up the dish towel and, striding out of the room, tossed it onto the table in front of her. 'No, it never is, is it?'