"No, it's not really okay to call your landlord a dickhead, Angelica."

We're taking our conversation 'class' outside today as it's a warm, mild day for October. Sipping on carry-out coffees from Paola's café, I'm trying to stay serious and keep my irreverent 'student' on the straight and narrow. It's a hard fought battle to stop from bursting into fits of laughter, her humour is so dry and bluntly accurate.

From where we're sat, on one of the classic stone seats which line the border walls around Città Alta's ascending roadway, the scenery is serenity itself. Ruby and golden leaves are rustling together across the skyline and throughout the bushes surrounding the walkways. They cling behind the wall, as if they don't want to fall down the steep slope, all the way to Città Bassa far below.

Angelica sighs and stares out over the stretched out farmland below. "Va bene." After taking a long gulp of her café Americano, she scrunches up her face in mock concentration. "But, if I need to express that he is a 'testa di cazzo', what can I say that he will have understanding of significance and not the insult?"

Laughing, I try another approach. "You can't openly call him that! Unless you want him to throw you out on the street. How about this, tell him that he is a man of diminished penile potential with the cerebral integrity of a sodomizing anthropoid. That should do it."

"Oh, I don't think I can remember all the words, but I like the sound of them."

We giggle like school girls, me holding my coffee in one hand with the other unconsciously protective over my large, protruding baby bump. The pregnancy has turned out to be a blessing. I feel healthier than I have done for years - thanks to a good diet of Italy's wonderful fruit and veg, and Jack is far more attentive and loving then I can ever remember. A kind of calm has descended on me, leaving me content. Spending time with Simon is now a pleasure, hours fly by in our world of make-believe playtime.

I wonder if I should find out the sex of the baby now?

It would make things easier to have another boy, but my heart would love to be able to raise a daughter.

I think I want to know.

*****

In early November, Mum leaves Harry in charge of Gran - who is now back to her usual capabilities, and comes to join us as we wait for Simon's baby sister to make her debut into the world.

My mother arrives bursting with ideas of how to speed up the process and regales me with such gems as, "Let's go for a five mile walk." And, "I'll make you a really spicy curry." Also, more disturbingly, "You and Jack should have sex."

By the time I'm beginning to believe that this pregnancy is never going to end and I will be forever forced to live within a ten minute radius of a toilet for my suffocating bladder, the inevitable starts happening late one night as I'm getting ready for bed.

"Jack..." I whisper, "The contractions have started."

Jack, already in the sofa bed snuggled under the covers, peaks out from over the top of the cream, cotton bedspread and regards me unperturbed. "How far apart are they?"

I grasp a handful of the material of the extra wide nightshirt I'm wearing, and clench it in time to the rhythm of the waves of muscle pain. Things are moving far quicker than they had with Simon, the intensity like rapid-fire hits across my abdomen.

"I think we have to go, Jack."

"Already, are you sure?"

Another smaller wave of spasm. "Yes, we've got to go now."

"I don't think we have to be in such a hurry, Gorgeous, last time you were waiting round for ages."

Is he honestly going to sit there and let me suffer?

I snap back at him, "This is not like last time! It's much, much quicker. Go get the car out and I'll wake Mum."

Alberto has left us the car for the next couple of months because he's gone by train to spend some time with his cousin in Tuscany over the coming Christmas and New Year.

I dress quickly, rouse Mum who's sleeping alongside Simon on a fold-out camp bed, and inform her of the situation without waking the soon-to-be sibling. I hear Jack revving the engine as he struggles to reverse out of the parking spot next to our building and into the narrow street.

"Good luck, sweetheart." Mum squeezes my hand, "I can't wait to meet her."

Jack's following attempt to break the land speed record does nothing to make me feel confident about this birth. If they ever have a shortage of formula 1 drivers in Italy this year, I would definitely recommend that they employ an expectant father and tell him that he has to race the mother to be to the hospital. I have to grip the sides of the car door, praying that we make it in one piece before I'm even given the chance to deliver. We pound over speed bumps along the road on our descent down.

"For Christ's sake Jack!" I gasp, now trying to support my bump from underneath.

Jack slows down rapidly for the next set. His eyes fixed to the road , his jaw clenched. "Sorry."

We arrive and pass through the night-guard's station, hurried on after a glance in the window at my face and a sharp word from Jack.

I have to pause at the entrance to the maternity ward and grip the corner of the external wall, my fingernails and knuckles grazing roughly as I counter the effects of the raging muscle spasms. Surely it was never this powerful with Simon?

Once I'm checked and installed into the delivery room, the young female doctor quizzes Jack for my information as she completes the endless process of paperwork involved.

"Hey, gorgeous, what was the name of your high school?"

In between gasping for breath and pacing around the room, stomping out the pain, I stop and look at him in disbelief. "What?"

"Yeah, what's the name of the school and the address?"

"Where's the epidural?" I counter, in my mind I want to grab those forms and shred them through my teeth like the Tasmanian Devil.

Looking for support from the doctor, he is encouraged to continue the line of questioning.

"Uh, should be here soon. Umm, did you get a college degree or diploma?"

"Fuck off."

"Yeah, umm, they need to know this for the forms, Jill."

Gripped by pain and possessed by anger, I shout back, "Then they can fuck off too!"

Baby arrives in twenty minutes. Crying and kicking her way into our lives.

I'm finally left to rest a few hours later, in a room with two beds, with no other to share it and a pristine bathroom all to myself. Little Charlie is lying beside me on the single bed. Sweet pinky mouth opening and closing in her dreams. The dawn glow is taking its first glimpse at her through the window, softly lighting her face. She is an angel and my eyes can't lift from her for a second.

Mum and Jack bring Simon in to meet his sister later that afternoon. He's shifting a bit dubiously as I place her in his arms while he sits in a visitors chair next to the bed. "She smells funny." I can see that he's not impressed.

"Don't be daft, Simon." Mum's thrilled at being grandmother twice over. "She's just new that's all."

Jack can't stop smiling. He sits next to Simon and gently strokes baby's cheek with his large, rough finger. "She's gorgeous.... Gorgeous."

I glance up to catch Simon watching Jack jealously, so I flash him a smile and a wink. He has to know that he's still number one.

Bursting through the open doorway arrives a whirlwind of flapping black woollen cape and streaming windswept red hair.

"Hello lovely English people! Where is the wonderful new one?"

Angelica.

She's breezing into the room, swooping up little Charlie from the somewhat grateful Simon and blowing baby talk into her tiny ears. Handing her over to Jack, she then reaches in her enormous black handbag to fish out a bottle of expensive champagne. "And this..." she gestures, waving the bottle, "Is for you my dear Jilly for when you get home."

I'm home in three days. My furry member of the family, Sissy, starts playing nursemaid and never leaves the baby's side. Anytime Charlie begins to whimper, the little dog comes to find whoever's on duty to call them to action. She even ignores Simon's efforts to tempt her away from the cot-side with offers of games and treats. Poor Simon, he must be feeling neglected.

"You have to share your time with them better." Mum's giving me pearls of wisdom in the kitchen this afternoon. "Jack has to give him more attention too. Can't he take him out with the dog more, or go for a trip to that zoo he loves?"

"I think it's closed for the winter, Mum."

"What about going to the cinema? Or he could even take him to the café with him one evening when he's working?"

"I don't think Simon would appreciate that. In fact, I don't suppose Jack would either."

"Well, what about you and Jack having sometime to yourselves then. Let me think, why not go for a walk together with the dog? Make the most of me while I'm here. You've only got another week to put up with me."

I grab and hold her hand, pulling her away from her frenetic dishwashing. "We don't want you to be our slave mum! Ruby said he was going to take you to that designer shop you wanted to see. He knows the owner and I'm sure you'll have a laugh. Probably get you a good discount too. You got on well with him the other night didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, he's a lovely man. I prefer him to that other friend of yours - the nurse right? She's a bit loud for my taste."

"Come on, let's have the tea on the sofa, there's still a couple of hours before Simon finishes school."

We settle down with steaming mugs, the radio playing old Italian classics from the kitchen that we left on while doing the chores.

"When does the school break up for Christmas?"

"Next Thursday, I think. The Christmas show's on Tuesday night."

"Oh, what a shame I'm going to miss it."

"Yes, it is, I'll make sure we film it on the phone and send it to you, that way Gran can get to see it too."

"And Harry sweetheart. Don't forget him."

"Sure, Mum, how could I."

Mum changes the subject. "By the way, did you find out from Ruben, I mean Ruby, who sent those flowers to you?" We instinctively look at the beautiful display of white orchids which take pride of place in an old glass vase, on the center of the dining table.

"No, it's still a mystery. He said they were delivered by the lady from the flower shop who said that she was under the strictest instructions not to say who'd bought them. Ruby thinks they're from this crazy customer we have who pops up now and again. He keeps telling me that this bloke - who's actually a bit of alright, has got a thing for me."

"Oh, nice. Do you think they're from him?"

I shake my head, "No, he doesn't know me, Mum. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even know what day it is let alone how to send expensive flowers to dowdy shop assistants who think he's completely bonkers."

"Well, what about that other one?"

I stay quiet for a while. I've never mentioned the American's name since that night two years ago and I don't want to bring the memories back. "I don't think so."

"Why not? Maybe he's here visiting again and wants to meet you again?"

Shame has nestled alongside my recollection of the affair. After my second pregnancy I realised my mistake of giving into lust for a loss of self-respect. "No. I can't see that happening."

"Why not?" Mum insists, then struck by a bigger idea says, "Maybe he's seen you with the pram and thinks that the baby is his!"

"That's ridiculous. He wouldn't be that stupid to think I've been pregnant for two years."

Mum shrugs and shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "I've known men to believe things far more stupid than that."

"Like what?"

"Well, for example, your father believed that I never dyed my hair for years. It was only on our tenth anniversary, when he looked at the photo of our first date, that he realised I wasn't a real brunette but blonde."

"That's easy for men to miss, Mum. Jack has no idea that my hair's been turning browner every other time I go to the hairdresser's either."

"Is he paying you enough attention elsewhere though still?"

"Mum! Yes if you must know, everything's as it should be. Up until the birth of course."

"That's good. Do you think it could have been him who sent the flowers? You know, to keep the interest going?"

"You know what, I hadn't thought of that? That would be nice." And yes, it would be nice to know that my husband wanted to be romantic for a change.

"I guess we may never know, dear."

"Hmm." At that moment I'm convinced to weed it out of the flower shop lady, by hook or by crook.

The next morning I pay her a visit with my best 'make you an offer that you can't refuse' look about me and hound the poor woman down till she eventually gives in.

On my way home, I stop in at Paola's café, reminiscing.

Walking up to the barman, I lean over the counter, standing on tip-toes and pull him roughly by the shirt to kiss him passionately. The customers sitting at the tables whistle and cheer, delighted at the display.

Letting go I slink off calling back to the stunned barman, "See you at home, Jack."