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Placing the phone on its handset on the small table before them, Geraldine gathered her breath once again as she perched – if perched could be applied to her – and attempted to swivel her body toward the distraught woman beside her.

"So," she began diplomatically. "Tell me what is bothering that pretty head of yours."

"Hugo doesn't love me anymore," sobbed Alice. When the verger made to bury her face into her shoulder, Geraldine automatically raised her arms in comfort, though proximity was something of an issue.

Alice didn't seem to mind.

"Oh nonsense," she snorted. "I have never seen any two people more in love and suited than the pair of you."

"Really?" sniffed Alice coming up for air.

"Really really," she reassured her friend. She tucked a finger her chin and nudged her face up. "Hugo loves you."

"Then why doesn't he sleep with me anymore?"

Geraldine suddenly felt out of her depth. Why do I get all these conversations God? she muttered upstairs.

God must have heard her complaint about his lack of management for it was at that exact moment that Geraldine Kennedy, nee Granger, felt a God almighty pain rip across her abdomen.

"Ow," she said suddenly, gripping her side.

Looking down strangely at where her hand rested on her distended belly, she realised that she had just gone into labour.

Not entirely prepared for such an occasion (you've had nine months! the little voice in her head perked up, only to be promptly squashed), Geraldine found herself following Alice's orders as she was ushered out the door to the hospital.

Harry was there before she knew it and battling the worst pain she had ever felt – and she'd had her fair share – she didn't realise that Hugo had arrived too.

It was only seventeen hours later – after sixteen hours of screams that could be heard at either end of the hospital – that Geraldine discovered the Hortons had problems no more when the Mister and Missus shuffled in with dopey grins on their faces to see the baby resting at her ample bosom, her own husband seated beside her with exhausted features of his own.

Gushed upon, little London Kennedy yawned and slept on.