Pete grins. “That’s the spirit, Trish.” He leans in to kiss me again on the lips and we make our way inside.

It’s worse than I’d imagined – and that’s saying something. There’s a small raised platform at the far end of the room with a lectern and a couple of old wooden benches. A thin black curtain hangs pathetically to one side. Scattered about the hall are a few trestle tables and faded blue plastic chairs stacked against one wall. Some of the blue chairs have been placed in a circle and sitting in those chairs, staring at us with matching polite smiles, are the antenatal group.

There are four couples and a middle-aged woman in a loose linen dress with a clipboard in her arms. She stands and quickly moves towards us.

“Welcome,” she says loudly. “Are you here for the antenatal classes?”

I’d have thought that was fairly obvious.

“Yes,” I mutter. “I’m Patricia. Trish.”

The woman surveys her clipboard. “Ah, yes. Patricia Kirkpatrick. Excellent. My name is Margot.” She squeezes my hand hard as we shake. Then she turns to Pete. “And I take it you’re Trish’s partner in crime?” she says, laughing at her own joke.

“Absolutely. I’m Pete.”

Easier for me to let that one slide for now, rather than try to explain the whole sordid story.

They shake hands, then Margot shoves the clipboard under one arm, grabs one of my hands in her left hand and one of Pete’s in her right. She pulls us towards the centre of the circle.

“Everyone, this is Trish and Pete.”

There are murmured greetings and I’m pleased to see everyone is as uncomfortable as I am right now. It feels like any minute Margot is going to start chanting and throwing our arms in the air. I want to snatch my hand away and make a dash for the door, but Margot’s grip is ferocious.

“Trish and Pete missed the intro class last week, which is a shame, so let’s go around the room and you can all say your names and tell us a little about yourselves. Why don’t you go first, Becky and Ben?”

An extremely young, pimply, skinny girl with a flat stomach stands and pulls a gorgeous dark-skinned boy, who surely can’t be out of school yet, onto his feet

“Hi, Trish,” she says, her voice wavering with nerves. “I’m Becky and this is my husband, Ben. I’m six months pregnant and still don’t have a thing to show for it.” She pats her surfboard stomach. “But I am feeling movements and the doctor assures me there’s definitely a baby girl in there.”

“Course there is, babe,” whispers Ben, leaning in to kiss her shoulder.

“A girl?” Pete blurts, and I stare at him, shocked by his outburst. “I didn’t realize you could find out,” he murmurs.