Coco Pinchard, the Consequences of Love and Sex: A Funny, Feel-Good, Romantic Comedy Read Online Free PDF Page B

’is pick of any woman, but ’e chose you.’  
    ‘Where are you going with this? You’re telling me to have this baby?’
    ‘I’m not telling yer nothin’ love… But I think the good Lord likes you Coco. ’E’s blessed you. Just imagine what life would ’ave been like if you ’adn’t ’ad Rosencrantz.’
    She patted me on the head and tottered off downstairs.
    ‘’Ere, I ’ope you don’t mind,’ she shouted up. ‘I’ve nicked a packet of Jammy Dodgers for me book club. We’re reading The ’ unger Games , an’ they’ll be nice with a cuppa if it makes us peckish.’  
      A moment later the front door closed and there was silence.

    Sunday 22nd January

    Forgetting your pregnancy symptoms must be genetically programmed into us so we have more than one child. When I think back to Rosencrantz all I can remember is craving fish fingers, and wearing a big floaty dress.  
    I’m sweating constantly. My stomach and abdomen are woefully tender and seem to be filled to capacity with no chance of an evacuation to ease the pain. Nausea is my constant companion. Being sick is bearable; it’s the thought that I’m going to be sick at any moment, which incapacitates. The only thing I can keep down for any length of time are ginger biscuits. Although they have to be loose on a plate. If I see the packet with ‘ginger nuts’ written on it, I think of things anatomical and it makes me heave even more. Every hair follicle hurts, so when I push my hair back from my face, or rest the back of my head against the cool wall of the bathroom, it’s as if tiny hands are yanking at the roots.
    We haven’t mentioned the row we had. Neither of us has apologised, but neither of us is being more than civil.
    And Mother Nature is such a cow. My breasts look incredible. Even in the state I’m in, I can acknowledge how fabulous they look. I almost have the full breasts of a twenty year old. The kind that can literally open doors for me and make men my captive slaves; but they are on fire. The shift of fabric brushing against them is agony. Soon they’ll balloon to terrifying proportions with veins like an aerial map of the M25. Then a hungry little mouth will clamp down on them until they’re sore and cracked, and when it has drained me dry, they’ll shrink and shrivel and I’ll be able to toss them over my shoulder like an old African woman.

    I had forgotten we agreed to go to dinner with Marika at Milan’s house. Adam kept saying we could cancel, but to spite him, I said we were going. He offered to call a cab, but I opted for the tube. I could cope with throwing up on the tube more than I could in a taxi. In the event I didn’t throw up, but I managed some rather theatrical dry heaving which caused panic amongst the tube-goers.   The tube was a smorgasbord of vile aromas, all the food consumed and perfume ever sprayed assaulted my senses, along with the stench of pee in the clanking lifts on the way up from the depths of the platform at Kennington.  
    Milan lives in Stockwell, and owns a tall, thin, white-stuccoed terraced house in a beautiful Victorian square. Adam rang the doorbell and Marika opened the door. She was dressed in an apron (most unusual) and was sparkling with happiness. Milan came up behind her grinning his gap-toothed smile. I could see past them into a long cosy candlelit hallway. The sandblasted oak floor glowing gold. We went to cross the threshold, but a smell hit me; it was like running full pelt into a brick wall. I normally love it when Marika makes Bryndzove Halušky, which is special pasta served with sheep’s cheese and bacon.   But that night the aroma of it was so vile to my pregnancy-addled brain that my stomach contracted, and I puked up a little lumpy mouthful of ginger biscuits, which splattered on the doorstep. I pulled out some tissues, which were whipped out of my hand by the wind and blown into the green in the centre of the square. I managed to keep hold of one, wiping my