Stockings and Cellulite (47 page)

‘Morag!’ I hissed. ‘What on earth are you doing? If somebody came in right now-’

Too late, footsteps were approaching. The Rest Room’s door swung open just as Morag pushed me backward, slamming the cubicle door shut. Oh terrific. I eyeballed her furiously and snatched the tester stick from her proffered hand. Morag jerked her head towards the loo. I frowned and shook my head in the negative, then likewise jerked my head indicating she turn around. She rolled her eyes but obliged. The minute her back was turned I hitched up my gown. Elsewhere a toilet energetically flushed.

‘All done?’ she whispered over her shoulder.

Moments later a hand dryer whooshed into life and then the door banged back on its hinges. We were alone again.

‘Just give me a sec,’ I murmured.

I stared at the twin windows, watching, waiting. Inexplicably I was holding my breath. Goodness, this was weird. And surely ridiculous. Whatever was I doing jammed in a toilet cubicle with Morag’s chest taking up most of the available area, peering at a pregnancy stick when I was simply menopausal?

‘Well?’ she asked, turning around.

I didn’t answer.

‘
Well
?’ she repeated impatiently.

I met her gaze, my face expressionless. ‘Well, well, well.’