And it got worse. Or I got worse. But not deliberately so, I swear. The catalyst for the horror that unfolded occurred before we'd even met Christina, about a month before. I'd had a terrible bout of food poisoning, courtesy of some dodgy prawns in our local Tandoori, and Hugo had held my hair as I'd lost the contents of my stomach down the toilet at his flat. It meant, I was later to learn, that the Pill lost some of its efficacy, something I'd genuinely been ignorant of at the time.

I was so shocked, so horrified, as I watched the stick turn blue in the toilet at my communal studio in Clapham some weeks later, that I ran, still in my overalls, still with oil paint all over my hands, to the phone booth down the road to avoid using the one in the office. Hugo was at his desk in the City. My voice, when it came, was strained, my breathing shallow.

"Oh Hugo, I'm so sorry. I've totally messed up. I'm a couple of weeks late and I've just done a test. But don't worry, don't worry, I'm going to sort it out."

I heard him gasp at the other end of the line. Then there was a certain amount of crackling and confusion as he clearly tried to take his phone elsewhere.

"Are you sure?" he whispered eventually.

"Positive. I've done it twice and it's as clear as anything. But I'm not panicking because Lily, who paints next to me, literally had one a month ago, and it was fine. I mean — not fine, but — you know. There's a place in Soho in Whitfield Street, the Marie Stopes clinic. I'll book it this lunchtime, promise."

There was a long pause. "I'll meet you this lunchtime. That bar in Maiden Lane. Don't do anything yet."

"OK." I put the phone down. Panic briefly subsided and I felt love and relief flood through me that he wasn't cross and would, I was sure, come with me. That I wouldn't have to do this alone.