The man squirts gel on my exposed stomach and draws my attention to a screen by his head. As he moves a weird plastic-covered apparatus around on my belly, he points at various grainy shapes on the screen that I recognize – with his guidance – as various parts of my baby.

“Everything looks good. I’ll just take a few measurements.”

I let my breath out. “There’s nothing unusual?”

He shakes his head. “All perfectly normal. Would you like to know the sex?”

“No,” I say quickly.

He nods. “Nice to keep as a surprise.”

After a few minutes, the man removes the gel with tissues, helps me to sit up and hands me a black-and-white picture of my baby.

“All the very best, Trish,” he says, patting me on the arm.

I swallow over the lump in my throat.

Emma grins and wipes her teary eyes. “That was amazing, Trish. I’m so lucky I got to be here with you.”

She knows I don’t cope well with sentimentality.

“Certainly makes it real,” I mutter.

We head outside and I walk ahead of my friend to the car.

“You OK?” Emma asks, getting in the passenger seat.

“Fine.” I put on my seat belt.

“You don’t look fine.”

I grip the steering wheel and stare out the windscreen at nothing.

“I need to find out who the father is,” I whisper.

Emma doesn’t speak.

“I can’t pretend it isn’t happening anymore.”

Emma leans over and throws her arms around me. “I’ll be there while you break the big news if you want?”

“Thanks, Em, but this is something I should do on my own.”

11

Pete is fifteen minutes late. I’m sitting at my table nursing a second decaf flat white when he bursts through the door and scans the café. My heart gives a jolt and I want to hold something up in front of me – a book, a plate, a large piece of thick indestructible metal – as a shield. I haven’t seen Pete since we had sex five months ago and he left my house yelling. He’s different. His blond hair is clipped short and his face is so tanned it’s like he’s been living in the tropics. His grey T-shirt is tight, showing off his well-defined pectorals and huge biceps.

I’m not the only female in the room with my eyes on him.

When he spots me, his expression doesn’t alter. He strides over and sits opposite.

“Morning, Trish.”

“Hi,” I croak before clearing my throat. “How are you?”

“Good, actually,” Pete says in his familiar deep voice. “I’ve been surfing in Sri Lanka for a month.”

“That explains the tan,” I say, trying to smile.

Pete narrows his eyes. “I thought you never wanted to see me again. Why did you ask me here?”

Ah, Pete – always straight to the point. One of the many reasons I fell for him.