Once I’ve weeded around the camellias and tidied the roses, I’m feeling better. I even say a few words to my baby, who becomes more active as a result, shifting and rolling about as if to say, well about time you remembered I was here.

My stomach growls and I pause to eat sliced banana on toast (something I’d never eaten before I stayed with Grammy Rose and which has now become a staple in my diet). Then I drink a large glass of water and return to my garden until the light fades.

After returning to the house, I run myself a bath, adding rose salts, and lie in the water with my hands on my belly, feeling every ripple, every nudge beneath my fingers.

“Hello, little one. You are having an active day today, aren’t you?”

My baby replies enthusiastically by performing what feels like a forward roll. After my bath, I defrost a chicken breast, roast it in the oven, and eat it with grilled tomato and some French beans – the only vegetables I could find in my fridge that hadn’t begun to rot.

Then I devour a bowl of vanilla ice cream, change the sheets on my bed and go for a walk.

In the early days, Pete always insisted on coming with me when I headed out on one of my “midnight strolls”, as he called them. He was bemused and alarmed I’d want to go walking in the dark on my own. I’d let him come with me on the proviso he wasn’t allowed to talk. Talking spoilt the atmosphere. I was relieved when his boredom at the walks overcame his perceived danger of a woman out at night alone.

As I walk, my senses heighten. My footsteps are rhythmical, fast-paced and steady as my shoes land and lift, land and lift. Dew already glistens on the grass running alongside the path and the cool, damp air laced with that familiar scent of wet grass enters my nostrils, travels to my lungs and is absorbed into my cells. A bird makes a muted call as the last of the evening light disappears. Crickets and electricity lines create a background hum. In the shadows between each street lamp, I look up at the few flickering stars. The moon is a thin crescent with a black halo. My tongue is coated with a milky film from the ice cream and it’s making me thirsty. Pivoting on my heel, I head for home.

I’ll go into work in the morning. Head to my boss’ office first thing. Tell her the news I expect she knows already. It’s time to pick myself back up. Again.

14

“How far along are you?” snaps my boss, Tash.

She wasn’t surprised in the slightest when I told her I was pregnant, just resigned.

“A little over five months.”