In the immediate days after she arrived back in Dartmouth Park, she feigned a list of errands that would allow her to get out, to breathe, to scream into her own hands.

The GP’s waiting room seemed smaller than she remembered and she struggled to focus on the out-of-date magazines, finding herself standing and pacing the room while she waited for her name to be called.

‘It says here you have struggled with insomnia before,’ the locum GP said as she scanned through her medical history.

‘Yes, but I’ve never taken medication. Usually I’ve tried other things and they’ve eventually helped.’

‘What sort of things?’

She thought of the late-night glasses of wine, the over-the-counter antihistamines that had in the short term done a job of sorts in numbing her mind.

‘You know, cutting down on screen-time in the evenings, less coffee …’ she said, her voice fading out.

‘OK. What do you think is different now from last time?’

Briefly she pictured her previous trip to this same surgery, the conversation with yet another locum doctor who didn’t know her from Adam, in the weeks after she’d walked out of the FCO, when the churning of her own thoughts had first started to keep her awake at night. In another snapshot, she saw her baby, screaming for her mother on the other side of the city.

‘I don’t know, really. I suppose things got better. But recently things have become … stressful again.’

‘Stressful how?’

‘Family things. I’ve done everything I can. I just really think I would benefit from a few good nights’ sleep. I don’t want to take medicine long-term, really … I understand the dangers. But if I could just have something to help me get over this phase, then once I’m back into the rhythm I can continue the lifestyle adjustments you recommended …’

The doctor held her eye for a moment before conceding. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’

Her belly, which had been so protruded for the first three weeks after Layla was born that she worried it would never return to normal, had flattened so that she was not much bigger than she had been when she left. Still, as a defensive move, she wore loose-fitting shirt-dresses and made passing comments about the immense portion sizes in Russia, and the lack of exercise. If Tom noticed the extra flesh, he thought better than to mention it.

Gabriela felt her cheeks burn, though she knew the question was nothing more than protocol. This was not a test. Even if the doctor had noticed her recent pregnancy with Layla registered on her notes, there was no reason for her to believe anything was out of the ordinary. There was no way of her knowing who the father was, and she had no reason to ask, or to care.