‘It’s hard to explain.’ He points left as they leave the gallery. ‘I don’t know much about art, but when I come out, I feel better, bigger on the inside. Look, here we are. You find a seat, I’ll get the tea and stop talking rubbish.’

She stops in the cafe doorway. ‘You’re not talking rubbish. You say lovely things.’

He queues for the tea and teacakes, watching the butter dissolving into the teacake as the woman takes his money. As he walks towards Gloria sitting with her back to him, he plans to talk about the tutting lady; he wants to laugh with her again. He has to concentrate on the tray because the metal milk jug has been overfilled, but Gloria turns to look at him and his mouth goes dry. Laying the tray carefully onto the melamine table, he leans across and pats her arm. Her sobs are barely audible, but it must be clear to everyone in the cafe that she’s crying.

‘Sorry,’ she says, touching the corners of her eyes with the pad of her finger. William notices the two women on the adjacent table have only crumbs left on their plates and he hopes they leave soon. He sits down.

‘I’ll be all right, won’t I, William?’

‘Of course you will,’ he says, leaning towards her, ‘it only happened three weeks ago.’

‘I know I was barely pregnant,’ she says, her breath catching, ‘I wasn’t even showing.’

‘You were,’ he says. She’s staring at him and he thinks he’d probably do best to keep quiet, but she looks so eager, he carries on. ‘Everything about you was different.’

Gloria watches him for a moment, then blows her nose on a paper napkin. ‘It’s the guilt.’ She’s matter of fact now. ‘When I knew I was pregnant, I cried all morning.’ She leans towards him, so their heads are almost touching. ‘What if the baby knew I didn’t want it?’ she whispers. ‘What if that’s why I lost it.’

He takes both her hands; she pulls one away to wipe the drips from her chin but slides it back. William’s elbow is nudged by the departing woman next to him, trying to tuck her chair back under the table.

‘That can’t be right.’

‘I did feel like a mother,’ she says, ‘and that mattered more than all the other stuff – the shame, the rubbish wedding.’

‘You’d have been great.’ The words hang heavy and final. ‘And you will be great,’ he adds.

She looks at the table. ‘What if that was my only chance? I’m used goods now, aren’t I?’

‘Don’t ever call yourself that! And anyway, no one even knew you were pregnant. I did, but that’s different.’

‘Why?’ She’s waiting for him. Again.

A waitress has appeared next to them. ‘We’re closing in ten minutes.’