It was raining outside, although Diane rather thinks that raining isn't a strong enough word for what's happening. It's coming down in the traditional cats, dog and rabid t-rexs. Diane's never really liked dinosaurs, though. Nasty scaly things. She'll have a Klingon any day.

Which is why on this particularly unpleasent afternoon, she's taken refuge in the bookstore. Not the big fancy Chapters at the mall - they always make her feel obligated to buy something - but the quaint little used bookstore.

It has a generous sci-fi and fantasy section. Poorly organised, and low on shelf space; most of the books are just stacked everywhere and falling one way or other. It makes Diane nervous that her huge butt will knock some precariously balanced pile over.

At the moment, all of her is wedged inbetween a shelf of books on weather phenomena and a shelf of books on American history (two very similiar subjects, obviously) with her back up against a cardboard box of old On Spec magazines.

Her trenchcoat is piled in a soggy heap next to her and her legs, wet black denim clinging to them, are stretched out in front of her. Her shirt is mostly dry except for the straps, and her hair is looking like it's been dragged backwards through a hedge.

She is reading A Good Day To Die, by Keith R.A. DeCandido.

No one said she was sophisticated.

Even when it’s pissing it down, Jacobson’s feels dry. The soggy people who come in to shelter from the rain are interlopers in the world of musty book smells and stepladders. They’ll probably be gone again in a few minutes. Minutes are nothing compared to the long hours Jessie’s spent reading, propped up against shelves or piles of books that feel slightly more solid than usual.

She’s currently holed up in a gap between an armchair and the Jane Austin shelves. Her interest has been repiqued recently by a certain hospital visit, so she’s got a huge hardback copy of Sense and Sensibility across her lap. Half the pages have been recently rebound and the thing smells faintly of cat widdle, but the price they’re asking for it is still far above anything Jessica can afford. She’s been there for – she takes some time from reading to check how many pages she’s devoured – about half an hour so far. No wonder her back’s starting to ache. In days gone by she would’ve drawn her knees up to her ample chest and leant against something, but now her belly gets in the way she has to hold the book up close or have it on the edge of her lap instead.

Leaving the shop is the part of this trip Jessie’s least looking forward to. When arrived, it had been a mild, pleasant day and she’d dressed accordingly in a wraparound dress that showed off a bit too much boob and made her look like a Roman matriarch. If she goes out in that now, she’s going to get soaked. Not to mention the hair, which frizzes at the mere suggestion of humidity. Oh dear.

She sighs, heaves her shoulders, moves the book and clambers to her feet to stretch. Her left leg has gone numb from the knee down so it’s not an easy task but it’s made worth it when she sees a flash of red/blonde/gold.

“Diane?”

Diane is swimming in a world of pathetic cliched little sentences - a million miles away. She startles back to reality when she hears her name, and knocks over the stack by her left foot.

"Bugger," she says, cheerfully. She closes A Good Day to Die and sets it down on top of American politcal biographies before looking up to see who it is. "Jane!" She sounds pure delighted to see the girl, although her proper name has slipped Diane's mind. Janet... no, that's wrong. It was a J... Juh...

"How're you? Miserable weather, eh? Did you find out about the baby?"

She's stacking the pile she knocked over - all books with serious looiking naked tree people on the covers - in such a way that they obscure the G.W. Bush Jr. section.

“Jessica,” she says pointedly. It’s rare for people to remember it after she’s given her full name but at least Diane got the start sound right. It must’ve been confusing for the poor girl hearing all those jay sounds, including Janet.

She about to tell Diane not to bother restacking the books (scattered in a pile on the floor is no less neat than they usually are) when she notices what Diane’s doing with them, and decides to join her instead. Jessie’s never really been one for politics but she’s the right age to have absorbed a lot of her peers’ hatred for Bush.

Tam would undoubtedly make a rude joke here.

“Oh aye,” she replies placidly, picking up one of the last naked tree people, “s’go’ all ten fingers and toes, they reckon. An’… it’s a boy!” And yes, Jessie said the last part like a kid sitting on a secret who couldn’t hold it in any longer.

"Jessica, sorry," Diane says, stacking up the books. "Mind like a leaky sieve, 'm afraid. Can't be helped. It's genetic. Or mugwort. One way or the other. These books aren't half bad, except everyone in them has some traumatic childhood and substance abuse problems. Not as escapist as one might like."

"Fingers and toes is good. Really good, actually. As for bein' a boy... Mixed. At least he won' steal your beauty or nothin'. They make your life right hellish."

She shrugs, and one the damp black spagetti straps slides partway down her plump shoulder. "But you can't really call 'im Jemima, I s'ppose. That'd be taking things a bit too far."

Mugwort? Jessie has no idea what mugwort’s used for, but it’s on the list the doctor gave her of things to avoid now she’s pregnant.

She blushes beetroot from her hairline to her toes when Diane remarks that the boy won’t steal her beauty. Jessie doesn’t remember ever having had any to steal. She’s plump and short with frizzy hair and crook teeth, and she knows it. It’s why she was so glad of affection growing up. Which is, to complete the circle, how she got pregnant in the first place.

“No,” she agrees, “no’ Jemima any more. Ah was thinkin’ maybe William i’stead. What d’ya reckon?”

"William," Diane repeats, thoughtfully. Most people would think of the prince, or the pirate, but what comes first to her mind is Sweet William - that little pink flower. Indian Carpet, sometimes. "William's nice, yeah. I like William, provided nobody calls him Willy."

Diane's sense of beauty is warped enough that a larger number of people qualify then is normal. Aesthetically interesting is just as good as pretty, though to her mind, Jessica falls into the latter category. Nothing that jumps out and screams at you - just a nice sort of face.

Jessie roars with laughter at the fact Willy was the first shortening to pop into Diane’s head, startling some of the other customers in the process. She’s only vaguely aware of the prince and the pirate. Her little babby would be after William Wallis, and anyone who asked ‘oh, like in Braveheart?’ would have to start praying hard and fast to the gods after his mam heard about it.

“Aye, no, he’d be a wee Billy instead.” She pats her stomach contentedly before looking back at Diane, beaming. “Ah guess he approves o’the name since he just kicked his first kick.” She’s ecstatic, wanting to jump up and down but suspecting that the other patrons won’t approve, and so limits herself to waving her hands up and down like a sorority girl in crisis.

Diane smiles at Jessica's obvious pleasure. She really would like a baby of her own, one of these days. Not today, though. She's in position to have to be taking care of a child and anyway... She's not quite sure she could trust herself with something that important.

"Wow," she says, "first kick? Lots to look forward too, then... But you should go do something to celebrate."

Celebration in Diane's mind - like in many people's minds - suggests getting utterly wasted. Obviously not a good idea in Jessica's case. On the other hand, it's perfectly fine in Diane's books to have a glass or two. Or just to down shandies until you've convinced yourself that you're tipsy. She would claim it helped babies get used to the responsible consumption of alcohol, and prevented them from become binge drinkers later in life.

“Aye, well…” Jessica looks doubtful. “T’be honest, I don’t know many people here, in fact, you’re just about that only one and isn’t that silly?” Thus proving it’s not only Diane who can babble at high speed. “I suppose I know the people I’m living with a bit but none o’them are exactly the celebrating type. Unless they’re celebratin’ the downfall of government or something, ah dunno.” They’re nice enough but seem to spend most of their time speaking French, which leaves Jessie feeling a little bit out of the loop.

“Ah mean, it would be kind of forward of me to ask you if you wanted to come out for a glass of wine with me, wouldn’t it?” She looks sideways at Diane, hoping Diane is going to be of the opinion this is not forward behaviour at all, and that going out for a glass of wine with a woman because she’s the only one who’s been nice to you in your current country is a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

She realises this is unlikely.

So she adds: “which is a pity, because ah think Fate is saying we should hang out together more.”

"Are you asking me to fall off the wagon? Again?" Diane asks, grinning wickedly. She has been "on the wagon" for a total of forty-eight hours. Since she woke up on Sunday morning with her head feeling like it had been split down the centre with a chisel, in fact. She'd been out painting the town red. Just because in the end, there was nothing left to do.

"Well, I s'ppose I can't really deny Fate can I," she adds. "If I can piece together the change to buy a glass of wine."

She's pretty sure she can. Not that she should, but she can. It's a crucial difference. Plus, it's really economising. Alcohol, she reasons, will distract her from supper. Which is always useful when you're on that last-ditch end of the month crash diet.

“Oh, if you’re –”

OK, so maybe Jessie is a little gullible. At least she caught herself in time. Not many alcoholics – even high-functioning ones – will make jokes about falling off the wagon. So while Diane is a bit…racy, going out for a glass or two isn’t going to seriously endanger her health. Nor is it going to endanger Jessie’s so long as she sticks to the proper wine instead of the Buckfast. She’s a bit hazy on how many units a week the doctor said she could have, but she’s quite certain she’s owed a few.

“Well, if yer can’t, there’s always the tits option,” Jessie reminds her in a helpful voice. A few of the customers who were looking round earlier at the loud laughing now look round again. It’ll probably be best to get out of here quickly. “Which ah can’t use any more what with the babby, but I’m sure you’d have no problem.”

"Oh, don't even say that," Diane admonishes, giggling. "Saturday night... Gawd. I don't even know what I did. But I got plastered without spending a cent, so it must have been something awful. Not that I remembered in the morning. So I suppose it's all okay."

Yeah, that's the right attitude to life.

She doesn't think that Jessica's old enough to drink legally, not even in the U.K. On the other hand, Jessica's wearing a low-cut dress, is pregnant, and will be with Diane. It seems unlikely anyone will be bother to card her. Mostly they're more interested in selling drinks.

Jessie giggles along with her for the international sisterhood bonding experience that is getting drunk and doing something stupid. Because she’s done it herself more often than not, although she knows she shouldn’t any more now she’s going to be someone’s mother.

Considering that Jessie is under the full impression Diane lists her occupation as ‘whore’, her getting drunk without spending any money doesn’t come as that much of a shock.

“Come on,” she suggests, “let’s get out of here before we’re thrown out.” She glances round again at the people who’ve been tutting and smiles a semi-apologetic smile.

"Away we go," Diane says. She turns to get her coat, leaning over. The strap of her shirt slides down a bit further and the shirt with it. There's a tatoo diagionally across her shoulder blade. Arial Narrow font, simply reading 9-10. "Before we give some poor old lady a heart attack," she adds. Her wicked smile suggests she's pleased to be thought of as scandelous.

Pulling on her coat - which is still damp - she does up the buttons with her left hand, and hooks her left arm through Jessica's. Then, having sucessfully fastened the buttons, she blows a kiss to one of the other patrons - a worried looking gentleman with a drooping mustache.

He turns an interesting shade of red.