The doorbell rang. Suddenly, she was out of bed, pulling on her green silk kimono, the one that, many years ago, she had worn to stride into the sea with Paul but was now wearing to stride towards the front door, her heart hammering in her chest, like a horse on the final furlong. The apartment was silent, no sound coming from Nina or Alice’s rooms.

‘We need to talk,’ was all Paul said when she opened the door, the middle of her dressing gown clutched in one hand.

‘Hey,’ she said quietly, shyly, as she stood back to let him in. ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered, leading him into her room. He stared at her disbelievingly.

‘I’ve been trying to get in touch with you all weekend,’ he said.

She felt nervous then and opened the blinds and the window, suddenly self-conscious that her room might reek after her boozy evening with the girls. As light flooded in, she saw Paul surveying the scene, her laptop on the dressing table, the two phones strewn on the bedside table. They met each other’s eyes and a wave of cold fear rushed through her, like being submerged in icy water.

Paul shook his head and she saw sadness rocking his eyes, like waves through a porthole. She stepped towards him but he moved back, swallowing, clearing his throat as if trying to avoid a rush of tears. His eyes kept falling to the two phones. She had promised him she had only one. For a time that had been true.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, but it sounded too small against the weight of emotion in the room. She had been sure she could fix things with Paul when he was in London and she was here in Paris, the idea of it seemed possible, but now he was before her she wasn’t sure. ‘I… I need to explain. I’m going to tell you everything. And…’ She stopped, trying to make eye contact with him, but his face, his beautiful face, was drooped towards the floor. She placed her hands on his jawline, flecked with stubble, and gently lifted his face to hers. He was crying. He flinched at her touch and she dropped her hands, his eyes remaining on hers. ‘I’m going to change,’ she said. The ‘change’ was anguished, her voice stretching and rising as she struggled to contain her emotions. She’d kept them so tightly locked all weekend but with Paul in front of her they threatened to overspill. ‘I mean it this time. I promise,’ she said fiercely, a sense of self-preservation kicking in.

He opened his mouth to speak but words deserted him, buckling under the force of his distress, as though sadness was filling him up. He shook his head.

‘Paul, please. I…’

He drew in a jagged breath. He was drowning in his sadness and it was because of her.

Eventually, he spoke. ‘I came to tell you.’ He swallowed. ‘I can’t do this any more, Jules.’ His tone was flattened with grief. ‘I can’t go ahead with the IVF. I’m done.’