Walking is about breathing in the air, checking out what’s growing in people’s gardens, smiling at the dog running in crazy happy circles in the park. When I walk, stray thoughts come and go and instead of dwelling on them, I just let them sit in my brain until they decide to move on.

Even my muscles react differently. When I’m running, my legs and arms, even my neck, are tense. But when I walk, my body stretches out and relaxes. Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones making me feel more flexible and less wound up. Which is fine by me. The stretchier I am when forcing a baby through my vagina, the better.

I stop walking as another Braxton Hicks kicks in. It wasn’t that long since the last one. The tightness passes quickly this time, perhaps because I’m focusing on the sparrow dancing around at my feet.

“Trish!”

I turn and spy Scott jogging towards me, sweaty and, well, sexy as hell.

Heat rises to my face. “Hey,” I say, instantly wishing I wasn’t the size and shape of a baby elephant.

“You look ready to pop,” he says, coming to a stop. “It can’t be long now.”

“Three weeks.”

Scott lifts up the edge of his T-shirt and wipes his brow. Of course, this exposes his well-defined abdominals, plus the narrow line of dark hair from his belly button to his…

“How are you?” I blurt, averting my eyes to a spot behind his head.

“I’m good. Been thinking about you, actually.”

There’s a moment of awkward silence.

“Don’t let me stop you,” I say. “If you want to keep running.”

Scott shakes his head. “It’s fine. I was about to run out of steam anyway. Are you heading anywhere or just out for a walk?”

“Just walking.”

“Mind if I join you?”

I hesitate. “Ah, sure.”

We continue along the footpath.

“I’ve been wanting to apologize for being short with you on Christmas Day,” I say. “When you asked me about the baby’s father.”

“It’s fine. I figured you were dealing with stuff. How did the potential dads take the news about the DNA results, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Not that well.”

“Bastards,” he mutters.

I smile. “It’s fine. I’m happy neither of them are involved.”

“So they aren’t… I mean, you’re not…” Scott trails off.

“Pete has disappeared – I expect never to be seen again. And Elliot, the biological father, is… Actually, I don’t know what he’s up to. He’s been staying distant. Which, again, is fine by me.”

A middle-aged man on a fancy road bike and head-to-toe Lycra flies towards us and Scott grabs my hand to pull me out of his way.

“Slow down,” he yells as the man shoots past. Scott squeezes my hand. “Idiot. You OK?”