What had happened at the time was I was still unmarried, although I was with the man who would become my husband and the father of all of my children, but I was only about eight weeks pregnant, barely pregnant, I think, as any woman would confirm, and that my husband and I -- my partner at the time and I were out shopping when I was involved in a sort of medical emergency, if I can put it that way, and I thought I was possibly miscarrying. I was rushed to my GP, who then made an immediate appointment with me to go for a scan in Harley Street to see if the pregnancy was still intact, and the technician in the scan told me that the only thing to do was to -- it was it still there -- to go home and literally lie down and hope that the pregnancy hung on in there. Within an hour of me getting home and putting my feet up, we were telephoned by a News of the World journalist, who said, "We know you're pregnant and we're going to run the story. Confirm or deny." And I found myself in an impossible position. To confirm would have been -- as Charlotte said, in the same way, to confirm would have been to tell the world before I'd even told my parents and I couldn't do that. And also I just didn't feel safe enough yet to tell anyone that I was pregnant because I may well have not have been by the end of the evening, and so I chose -- and it was no choice, really -- I chose to deny. It was the only thing I could think of saying: "No, I'm not pregnant."