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Summary
Penelope hauls ass through Kensington, pushing past yummy mummies and tourists, yanking her phone out of her bag haphazardly as she fast-walks. Diving through a group of Italian tourists trying to take a photo outside of Harrods, Penelope opens up her period tracker app absently. Her vision fuzzes and focuses on the little red blobs hover over the dates.
Huh. She's late. By five days. Which — she's not exactly dedicated to remembering to mark down her periods in this stupid app (Eloise told her not to use it anyway, says the company is probably selling her data onto advertisers so her personalised ads can sync up with her cycle). And her periods aren't particularly regular.
She is so busy staring at the red blobs she almost walks into a posh old lady wearing a Chanel jacket coming out of Harrods. She apologises and hurries on, opening Whatsapp.
Pen: period's late. what if I'm pregnant
Edwina: haha. with whose sperm? you can't get pregnant from masturbating to pictures of pedro pascal
Penelope swallows, a lump in her throat. Because — right. She never told Edwina about Colin, did she?
OR: the one where Penelope gets an abortion