I widen my eyes. Never in a million years did I think Pete would offer to join me.

“Did you hear what I said?” My voice is high-pitched and breathless. “It’s an antenatal class. Where they talk about labour and birth and you do those stupid breathing exercises.” Blood is pumping around my body now so fast I feel sick.

“Trish, calm down.” Pete takes my hand and squeezes it. “You don’t always have to act like it’s you battling the world.”

“I don’t.”

“I want to come, support you, learn about this stuff. You’re possibly carrying my baby; surely I’m allowed to be involved. Please.”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Please, Trish. I genuinely want to be there.” He takes my other hand and holds them both against his chest. “With you.”

I let him lean in and kiss me, softly at first, then harder. After a long time, he pulls away.

“Is that a yes?” he says, his voice gruff.

Oh, how I’ve missed him! When we were together, I felt a part of something. I belonged to him and he belonged to me. Since he left me, I’ve felt untethered, adrift. Chances are he is the father of my baby. Maybe I can risk letting him back in. Maybe my heart can take it. Maybe this is the sensible, logical thing to do.

“OK,” I state firmly, as if to convince myself.

24

The antenatal class is being held in a small community hall next to the local library. It’s an unattractive square brick building set back from the road behind a patch of weed-filled grass. I never knew it existed until Google Maps led us here. I stare at the row of dirty windows and sagging front porch lit by a harsh white light that illuminates the scuffed and worn double doors. One of the doors is closed, the other propped open with a squat brown stool.

“Interesting,” Pete says, turning off the engine.

A car pulls up across the road and a couple step out. The woman is petite, blonde and pregnant. Begrudgingly, I have to admit her rounded stomach looks perfect as it juts out beneath her tight crop top. The man is short, squat and at least ten years older judging by his balding hair and sagging pot belly. The man takes her arm and they hurry towards the hall. I watch him pull the door wider and give a slight bow, then as she moves past, he places a hand on her lower back and ushers her inside. He glances at us sitting in the car, smiles briefly – probably hoping Pete is admiring his attractive younger partner – and disappears, letting the door swing back and rest on the stool once more.

“Better get it over with,” I murmur, reaching for the door handle.