Free The Novel Habits of Happiness by Alexander McCall Smith

own editorial for the anniversary issue to be written—she already knew what she wanted to say—but now she felt disinclined to spend the morning working. She stood up and walked to her window. She felt restless.
Another baby?
She and Jamie had talked about it so briefly and reached their decision so quickly that an inescapable air of impetuosity hung over it. She did not feel that she had even begun to think through the implications. Her first pregnancy had been relatively uncomplicated, although she had endured, as so many women did, a rather extended period of morning sickness. She could face that, just as she could face the slowness and discomfort she had felt in the last two months before Charlie had arrived; and even the pain of giving birth had been helped by her unusually receptive reaction to the electronic acupuncture device they had given her. She had not expected it to work, but it had, and she had been grateful for it.
    None of that worried her. Nor was she worried by the thought of the practical side of having another baby—the constant changes of clothing, the carting about of all the impedimenta that babies seemed to need, the inevitable sleepless nights. What concerned her was the thought that the family she had become accustomed to—that little group that she and Jamie made up with Charlie—was going to be fundamentally changed. She had not expected to be concerned about that, but she was. She and Jamie had not addressed that in any way, and she thought that they might have done so before embarking on the expansion of their household. As she stood at the window, though, she realised that perhaps there was something else behind her vague disquiet. This was something quite simple: the fear that she was about to do something that could radically change the life she and Jamie had created for themselves. Everything was perfect at the moment—or as close to perfect as might be imagined: she was contented, as was Jamie. But what if he suddenly started to feel oppressed by domesticity, as some men can do? Isabel was aware that some fathers were unsettled by the arrival of a new child; one of her friends had complained that her husband had gone completely off the rails when their child had arrived—had taken to spending long hours in the pub and had even joined a football club. “Very odd,” her friend had complained. “To join a football club when you don’t even play football is pathetic.” Jamie would never get involved in football, she thought; he would never tackle other players—he would
give
them the ball. That was the way he was; and that was
not
a sign of weakness; rather it was, she felt, a sign of maturity. Weak men need to score goals; strong men can let others score them, if it makes them feel better.
    Standing before the window, she put a hand on her stomach. Some people claimed they could sense the moment of conception. That was simply unlikely, attractive though the idea might be. What did they think they felt? A flutter? A sudden internal warmth? It was probably indigestion. And there was implantation to think about too. That took place later than many imagined; one could be shopping in the supermarket, peering into the frozen vegetable cabinets, or looking at the price of a tin of artichokes, when suddenly, within one, the results of what had happened days before—in the bedroom rather than in the supermarket—would take place, the tiny journey would be completed, and safe harbour reached; biology was matter-of-fact and was nothing to do with romance. So even now, as she stood in her study, it might be happening…No. She thought it unlikely. It would take time; months rather than weeks—if it happened at all.
    She looked at her watch again. It would be coffee time at the Enlightenment Institute, or almost, and if she called a taxi right now she could be there in time to join them. The one thing she missed about working in a university was the coffee breaks with colleagues and the