Chapter 25

Her eyes bulged, and the colour drained from her face. She looked shocked. “Oh!” I muttered as she ran her fingers through her pink hair.

“How the fuck am I supposed to be a mother? I can barely look after myself.” She gulped. “Shit! This can’t be fucking happening.”

“Well, if we kept it, we could try parenting together? We’ll manage between us.”

Her hands trembled as she took the pregnancy test from me and she stared at the pink strip. “What the fuck do I know about babies?”

I sniggered. “You’ve used nappies. And bottles. And baby-grows.” She wiped her eyes as she reluctantly smiled. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. If you want to have a child with me. Just think, they could inherit my IT ability and your musical talents. The sky will be the limit.”

“Or they might have my rebellious nature and sex drive and get themselves expelled before the age of 14. I cannot be a mother. I just can’t. How can I go on tour with a child? I can’t be responsible for a baby. I’m not ready for that.” She gulped and looked across the room. “I know you want to know. As I would ask if I was you. I’m sure it’s yours from Oxford. I don’t do bareback fucking, normally. And nothing since that day. I don’t think I’ve had any split johnnies, either.”

“I wasn’t...” I muttered.

She sighed. “But as I’ve bedded around three hundred partners this year. And over two-thirds of them have been blokes, you should fucking ask. You have a right to a DNA test.” She gulped and bit her lip. “But I’m sorry. I just can’t go through with a pregnancy. I will not risk fucking up a child like my parents screwed me up. It’s not fuckin’ happening.”

Natasha and I talked endlessly about her positive test; I promised to support her, and she booked an appointment with our local medical centre. They confirmed her pregnancy, and we discussed a termination, but the more we spoke, the more she softened on motherhood.

Although I argued against it, I am not anti-abortion; I believe it is a fundamental right for a woman to choose, but seeing some of my friends and colleagues have kids, made me want to start a family. And if I had a child, I wanted it with someone wonderful who I loved, like Natasha.

The band arrived at my house late on Thursday night and we had a quiet night before the big announcement. The punk rockers had agreed to attend a videoconference with the chart show when they revealed the Christmas Number One at quarter-to-six the following day, and all of them were a little preoccupied.

Natasha and I visited the supermarket in the morning to stock the annexe with plenty of snacks and booze, and we made sandwiches for lunch. There was a weird tension about the band; they had never been in this position before, and suddenly they were second-favourite to bag the top spot. Rumours on social media suggested they had pipped the reality show winner by the tiniest of margins.

We went for a short walk, and I drove to Rickmansworth to collect Monika and Nessie from the train station; they were both keen to join any celebrations. Fox, Vixen, and others arrived before 3pm and Natasha tuned the radio to play the show through the speakers in the room. The girls stunk of nervousness as the host played the chart from Number 40 downwards.

Many of the songs were Christmas hits from yesteryear, sneaking into a top forty because of the relentless streaming of familiar favourites. Samantha and her friend interrupted after an hour, and I left the band to go to my conservatory with Natasha. Samantha glared at us as we showed them to the glass structure. “You’ll find your outfits on the chairs,” my fiancée said without emotion and when my ex-girlfriend’s companion complained, my lover barked sharply. “The annexe is our sanctum, and we don’t want hidden listening devices or phones or anything coming over. Either you play by our rules or you get lost. Please note the contract you signed which states that...”

“Yes, very well!” Gina snapped. “Don’t rub it in!”

As Samantha stripped, I admired her two new tattoos. The skin was red and inflamed, but over her freshly shaved mons was a prominent 3cm high black Bitches Against logo. On her left ankle was an anklet design with four inked pendants, reading S, L, U and T. Seeing her naked, she had certainly gained a couple of stone since we split up, and she looked away from me as she rolled the fishnet stockings up her legs to her thighs. The dark G-String and then the short, cheap French Maid’s dress made her look like a whore.

The band provided Samantha’s friend with a hoodie, a Bitches Against T-shirt and jogging bottoms to wear, and Natasha watched them dress before we wandered across to the annexe. “Hi all, this is Samantha the Slut. She is being paid an extortionate amount of money to be our entertainment so we’ll be having some fun with her later, but in the meantime she’s here to wait on us,” Natasha announced to the band, to raucous cheers. She gestured towards the kitchenette and the dozen attendees fired drinks orders at her.

Samantha had never had a waiting job, and she found it hard to keep up with the demands of the women. Natasha asked her companion what she wanted to drink and my ex had to serve her best friend. I spoke to Gina; she looked overwhelmed as the boisterous band rowdily shouted. Sam’s friend had a defensive demeanour but relaxed as her alcohol consumption increased, and she saw we had embarrassed Samantha and not abused her.

The tension in the room rose as the radio host got to the top ten and then the final five. The DJ spoke to the reality show winner and to Faye via a videoconference link on the laptop.

Fifth, fourth, third. The atmosphere sizzled as the last note of Mariah Carey’s evergreen Christmas anthem played.

“Do you think you’ve done it?” I asked Natasha.

She gulped. “Fuck knows. But number two is still fucking amazing!”

The chart DJ recounted the top ten as the band crowded around the laptop. His voice echoed from the external speaker as everyone held their breath. “And the Christmas Number One is...” You could have heard a mouse’s fart amongst the silence in the annexe as we strained to hear the presenter. “Bitches Against with...”

The roar from inside the room deafened. Maddison threw her arms around Paula. Faye and Nessie hugged. Natasha wiped her eyes. Vixen and Yasmin hollered in excitement. The annexe descended into a wild, crazy cacophony of excitement as one of the band uncorked a champagne bottle. And then another. And another.

How Faye got into a coherent conversation with the chart show is a mystery. My phone notifications exploded from friends and family as the news travelled.

For half-an-hour, the punk rockers celebrated. The band cheered their success as they digested their newfound fame and fortune. Photographs and stories for social media alongside phone calls with families.

And then they partied. Pressure unwound as their inhibitions evaporated. A dozen pizzas, delivered from the nearest town, were just the start. I had bought plenty of alcohol because I knew there would be some celebration, but the girls needed to unleash buckets of stress from their tour and their chart battle. The wild, hedonistic behaviour came to the fore as Natasha made us all down a couple of pints of beer. Samantha took the longest to empty her glass, and Maddison spanked her gleefully.

Fox fingered Yasmin on the sofa as they kissed, Paula and Natasha stripped and smacked Monika, Nessie sat on Faye’s lap while naked, and Maddison yanked Gina’s jogging bottoms to her ankles to expose her plump derriere as the two women drunkenly wrestled each other.

“Let’s get the paddling pool out!” Monika demanded, and with a rowdy rumble of excited approval, they attached the pump to inflate the blue pool in the centre of the annexe. Fox placed the commode chair in it, and Natasha swayed as she stood on the bottom step, addressing the band.

“Shall we put our host in? Or Nessie? Or the Slut?” Samantha blushed as my fiancée gestured at her.

“John!”

“Slut!”

“Nessie!”

“Slut!”

Natasha looked around the room and with a broad smile beckoned towards my ex-girlfriend. I watched from afar as they led Samantha to the pool, handcuffed her underneath the seat and blindfolded the plump woman. She did not know what was about to happen to her. She had no expectation or comprehension of what the wild punk rockers planned to do, and I watched my fiancée discard her clothes as she walked around the pool.

Natasha sat on the commode and steadied herself. Her jet of piss landed on Samantha’s face and there was a stillness in the room as we waited for a reaction. Expectant silence.

And then Samantha screamed.