Accepting defeat, I stumble to the bathroom, empty my bladder and crawl back into bed. Sun is streaming through a crack between the curtains onto my bed. Sighing, I get up to try to eliminate the offending bright light, but once my hands are gripping the curtains, I can’t help but poke my head between them, just to check on my garden. Then I discover it’s a glorious day outside and that’s it – I might as well get up.

Putting on a light cotton dress over my swimsuit, I decide to have breakfast before my swim, as baby and I are ravenous. I make my coffee, a bowl of fresh berries, and an oven-toasted ham and cheese croissant, arranging everything on a wooden tray and adding a few roses I’ve gathered from the garden for an extra flourish – it is Christmas Day, after all. Then I carry my tray outside and sit in the small patch of shade at one corner of the porch. It’s already meltingly hot and barely past nine o’clock.

Being on my own is good, I say to myself eating a strawberry. Pete is gone (again), but I can deal with that – I’ve had practice. And I don’t feel as heartbroken as I thought I would. A part of me is almost relieved. Also, I won’t be on my own much longer. Soon, I’ll have a child to care for.

There’s a light breeze but even so, by the time I’ve finished breakfast, I’m dying to cool off in the sea. Throwing a towel around my shoulders, I slip on some sandals and walk to the beach.

When I arrive, I waste no time peeling off my dress and running into the water. Lying on my back, I close my eyes and feel the heat of the sun on my eyelids.

*

I stay in the water for ages, then eventually I towel off, walk slowly home and have a cold shower before heading to the City Mission, my elf hat firmly on my head.

“Trish! Check you out,” yells Lucas, charging towards me. “Bloody hell, you’re pregnant.” He grips my shoulders and plants a wet kiss on my cheek. “Congratulations, sweetie.”

Lucas has been running the Christmas lunch for as long as I’ve been volunteering and is the most enthusiastic person I’ve ever met. Everyone loves the guy, me included. He’s happily married with seven kids and nine grandkids (at last count), most of whom are setting out cutlery, napkins, and Christmas crackers on the round tables in the cavernous hall. Soon, he’ll greet every single person who comes through the door and will find them a seat, introduce them to their neighbour, make them feel visible and welcome.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” asks Lucas, steering me towards a chair and insisting I sit.

“Some random,” I say with a shrug. “We’re not together.”