Has anyone seen my period?

My body is waiting.

The breast tenderness has been and gone, as has the low mood. My belly is swollen, but that could be from eating too much.

'How late is your period?' asks Virgil in bed this morning when I get back from the bathroom. I consult Periodtracker on my phone.

"Only four days - I'm not worried," I say.

We agree that four days is nothing.

I have a pregnancy test stick in my sock drawer. I wonder if other people do. The other stick was used a year ago when I got my dates wrong and for several hours was struck by the conviction that I was pregnant. I wasn't and I doubt I am now.

Virgil and I have almost-safe sex. After two years we still use condoms but he sometimes allows himself the luxury of an early thrust or two. Liking the feeling of his skin too much, I don't stop him. It's only for a few seconds. (I think of going on the pill so that we can enjoy what other couples mostly take for granted but I don't like the idea of taking hormones.)

Of course everyone knows that's not safe. There are outrider sperm swimming around in pre-come. It would be so rich to get pregnant doing something my teenage self would not have countenanced.

The annoying thing is that we have a much-awaited date with Beatrix on Monday. If it comes now I'll be in full flood.

I hope it doesn't come yet.
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A date with Beatrix

Drinks and food with Beatrix on Wednesday. I am delayed, although I still stop to put on mascara and lipstick, and turn up late in pouring rain. She is sheltering in a very small doorway with an umbrella that is actually a sunshade and doesn't keep out water.

In the bar we share a chaise longue. I've always associated them with sex. As a teenager I had a series of fantasies about being seduced by an older couple which were inspired by an older friend's chaise longue. This one has been covered in leatherette. It's overstuffed and bouncy, like perching on a taxi seat. It's not possible to lounge against each other, or even to touch.

Maybe this is why our conversation feels flat and superficial. We have a getting to know more about you talk, in which we swap many details of our lives but nothing important. I admire the little wings of liquid eyeliner that Beatrix always has. I tell her that I can't get the hang of it. Beatrix says that she just does it automatically now and doesn't care that she always gets them a bit uneven but feels better for wearing it.

I don't need to bond in this dry, companiable way. What I want to say is how it is part of Beatrix's mystique for me that she wears liquid eyeliner. That it was one of the first things I noticed about her look and that those tiny angled wings symbolise a particular type of femininity that she embodies and I do not.

We finish the evening at home. Virgil is away working. Earlier he made a point of asking me not to reveal to Beatrix that he is staying in a Travelodge.

"I have some pride," he says.

Beatrix tells me that when she goes away on work she often stays in such places, and even in people's spare rooms, but I don't tell.

We kiss on the sofa. I love the feeling of her body and her small waist, but I'm tired and anyway I know that I am not going to take her to bed tonight. From her kiss she seems to be holding back and waiting. Virgil has said I can. Beatrix has said she would like it. I would too, but not yet. Instead I tell Beatrix that we must have her over really soon. I hope that is enough for her and that she won't change her mind.

It's still raining outside. I call her a cab.
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