We turn off the A3 and head down a quiet country road for a few minutes before Roger curses softly. With a heavy sigh, he puts his new Mercedes in reverse and backs up a few meters. A short while later, I spot the discreet entrance to a well-kept driveway that's surrounded by a tall stone wall that seems to go on for miles

When Roger had gotten a bee in his bonnet about us needing more space, I'd imagined a larger flat in London. When he'd come home from the studio saying that one of the fellows had told him about the perfect spot in nearby Surrey, I'd imagined a modest cottage. Now, driving down the longest, poshest driveway on Earth, I get the feeling that what I'm about to see is anything but a cottage.

The gravel crunches beneath the wheels as we approach the end of the driveway. As the car slows to a crawl, I stare at the imposing brick facade for a moment before turning to glare at my boyfriend's profile. Today he looks like a rock-n-roll dreamboat: all short tousled hair, jeans with a half-buttoned plaid shirt, and a fur coat thrown jauntily over his shoulders. And, of course, sunglasses.

Swiveling back to look at the house -- castle?-- in front of me, I feel underdressed and as if I need to be a viscountess to gain admittance. Roger cuts off the motor and, suddenly, it's quiet. Birds chirp and, I swear, a cow moos somewhere in the distance.

"Well, this is it!" he says, finally looking over at me. His eyes dance, the half-grin on his face sheepish.

"I thought you said you wanted something bigger," I respond dryly. "Not a shabby little bungalow."

Roger lets out a little laugh and absentmindedly shoves some wayward hair off his forehead. I'm still not used to it being this short, not that I'm complaining. He looks over at me, raises his eyebrows comically, and opens his door to scurry over to my side of the car. He eyes me dubiously, perhaps wondering if I'd be able to make it out on my own this time.

"I can get in and out of cars!" I say with mock defiance.

"Well, love, there was that time last week--"

"--oh, fuck off--"

"--it's not your fault that your center of gravity has shifted--"

"Oh, so now I'm fat, am I?"

"I don't think anyone would ever use that word to describe you--"

"--I'll remember this next time you're looking for a shag--"

"--let's not go quite that far--"

"No, we shan't go far at all, as a matter of fact--"

Amid our playful banter, I manage to heave my heavily pregnant body out of the car, only slightly out of breath by the end. Roger leans over to close the door and then drapes an arms over my shoulder. For a moment, we stare at the enormous country house in front of us.

"Roger," I say, trailing off, not even sure what to say.

"You're going to love it!" he says. He has the air of a little boy about to open an enormous pile of Christmas presents. "You promise to keep an open mind?"

"I promise to keep an open mind," I swear dubiously.

We walk hand-in-hand to the entrance and politely greet the real estate agent. She excitedly begins to talk about the history of the house, the seven bedrooms, the six-car garage, and the goddamn stables.

"I don't even know how to ride a horse," I whisper to Roger.

"We can learn," he whispers back, nudging my shoulder with his.

"Will we also learn to make candles and weave our own clothes? That's not very rock-n-roll," I retort. Roger stifles a snicker and makes a point of listening studiously to the agent for a long while I gaze at a kitchen that's roughly the same size as our flat.

After we've walked what feels like 5 miles around the property, Roger finally asks for time for us to look at the house alone. He grasps my hand and gently tugs me up the oak staircase into an enormous master suite. He leads me over to an oversized bay window. The window panes--originals dating back 5 million years ago--have the slightly wavy appearance that modern windows don't.

We stand in front of the window, and, after a moment, I lean back into him.

"That's the guest cottage," he says, pointing to a rather grand brick structure that could easily house an entire family. "I thought that our parents could stay there when the baby comes."

"And that," he says, pointing further away to a small pond and another large building, "used to be a water mill. I thought that I could kit it out as a recording studio to work on a solo album one day."

"What solo album?"

"The one that I could work on if I had my own recording studio," he counters. I roll my eyes before turning my head to softly kiss the spot the underside of his chin.

We stand there for a long while, the light beginning to fade. Roger sighs softly next to my ear and tightens his arms around me.

"What do you think, love?"

I ponder for a moment before responding. I don't need a huge, fancy place. I'm happy with what we have. But I know that it's a big deal for Roger to afford something like this. He and the boys have busted their asses for years, and they're finally getting everything that they've always wanted.

"Do you really want to leave London, Rog?"

"It's only a 45-minute drive," he replies. "We'll get a driver to take you to and from work."

"But do we really need all of this?" I ask softly. "There are only two of us."

Roger makes a scoffing noise and indicates the rather prominent bump currently housing our baby.

"Fine, three of us," I concede.

"And the nanny," he adds. "And your mum. And my mum. And the cook."

"Oh, so, now we'll have a cook? How very la-di-da."

"Love, you can't cook to save your life. You literally almost burned water the other day."

"You're not much better," I counter. "Are you forgetting the roast beef incident? Or the pork pie debacle?"

"You're proving my point," he says, a twinkle in his eye. "We're both useless in the kitchen and, if we hope to feed our children, we'll need to hire a cook."

"Children?" I ask, pulling away to turn towards him. "Why do I get the feeling that you're trying to turn us into the Von Trapp Family?"

Roger just waggles his eyebrows comically as he begins to hum My Favorite Things. He glances out the window again before placing his hands on my shoulders to gently turn me towards the sunset over the hills of Surrey. He pulls me against him and drapes his arms across my collarbone.

"It's not a bad view," he murmurs. 

I'll admit, it's a glorious sunset.

"Say yes, Sky," he says, his words mirroring what he said the night that he proposed. I lean back further, and his arms tighten even more, likely to keep his balance since I'm like a beached whale right now.

"I'll think about it," I reply. "I was more convinced before you sprung on me that you want a whole mess of Taylor kids running around."

"At least four," he counters half-seriously.

"You'll be lucky to have the one," I grumble. "She kicks me all day while I'm trying to work. She's kicking me right now, in fact."

Roger untangles his arms and stoops down so his head is level with my belly.

"Stop kicking your mum," he commands sternly. The baby doesn't listen and continues to kick, likely a preview of years of not listening to either of us. Roger places a kiss on my stomach before rising.

"Look," I start, "If we move here--"

Roger begins to interrupt me excitedly, but I raise my hand to stop him.

"If we move here, you promise that you don't expect me to become Betty Homemaker?"

Roger nods, his eyes shining.

"And you promise that I won't have to learn to ride a horse?"

Another nod.

"And you won't take up hunting? I don't think Brian would stand for that."

"Why would I take up hunting?" he asks with a furrowed brow.

I pause for a moment, pondering it all. "And we don't have to learn to forge horseshoes or churn butter or--"

"Holy shit, you're saying yes!" he exclaims triumphantly, grabbing my hands. "Wait, are you saying yes? For real? You're saying yes?"

I am saying yes, but he doesn't need to know quite yet, so I pretend to mull it over. Walking around the room, I make a big show of inspecting the ceiling's moldings and the brass faucets in the en-suite bathroom. Roger doesn't move a muscle, he just watches me from his perch by the window. 

"Yeah, alright," I finally say nonchalantly, fighting to keep the grin off my face. "Let's move to the countryside."

Roger lets out a loud whoop and runs over to me, somehow managing to lift me off my feet and do a half-spin. Once I'm safely back on the ground, he races out of the room and down the stairs. I walk back to the window, looking out while I listen to Roger excitedly talking to the real estate agent downstairs.