She swiped at tears in the empty metro carriage and booked herself a space on the first available Eurostar at the station. She didn’t want to tell Flynn she was losing the baby; telling him would only make it more real. But he had a right to know, didn’t he? She felt almost like she was making a point to herself; Ted hadn’t deserved to know, and that’s why Nina had never told him, but Flynn did and Nina responded accordingly.

She sat alone in the terminal, ever so slightly shaking. It was a Sunday morning, so she couldn’t contact her GP. Who could tell her if her baby had died? The hospital? Would she need an ultrasound? Could it detect something so tiny? Would it matter to anyone else but her? Her face felt hot but her fingers were cold. She typed in the name of her local hospital and asked for the maternity department, which rang out and out, clicking and transferring to unknown departments and receptionists, until eventually someone answered and in an uncertain voice suggested she go to A & E.

She couldn’t bear that. To wait in a busy A & E department for hours, only to be told that her baby had died. She’d read the statistics on early miscarriage, knew instinctively that the best thing to do was to go home, to have the miscarriage there, to process the happenings of the last forty-eight hours. She had transitioned from shock to blossoming acceptance and now it was gone. Sadness enveloped her as she waited for her train.

She texted Luca to let him know she was coming home early, and explained she wasn’t feeling well. His cousin had been staying in Nina’s room that weekend and she wanted to crawl straight into bed and cry unhindered.

So this is what it feels like to lose a baby, she thought. So this is what it feels like to want a baby.

Her phone beeped with a text from Flynn: ‘Hey, just checking in, you okay? What time do you get back later? I can come over if you want to talk, or we can catch up in the week, whatever suits?’

Her heart sunk further in her chest, the weight of her sadness pulling her deep into her chair. How could she have been so foolish, just a few days ago, on Friday, to think that everything was a mess when really it was exactly as it should have been? When things were working out?

She held her hands flat against her abdomen, felt a need surge through her to protect the baby in her stomach for as long as it was there, whether it had died already or not.

She stared up at the huge black clock, beneath which passengers flurried, ticket inspectors gathered and disseminated, friends greeted each other and departed, and she waited.

*

Alice

The apartment was silent when Alice woke, a door banging in the hallway waking her. There was a hazy memory, struggling to untangle itself from the others: winning at the casino, Jules doing the She-Ra, and the Firework, and the Wild Cat, oh Lordy, the Wild Cat. She grinned, remembering Jules on all fours on a leather banquette, flicking her glossy blonde hair, a gaggle of wide-eyed French men around her. There was flirting, she remembered, flirting with the man on the dance floor, and then more champagne – with extra sparklers! They’d screeched and then… Oh no. She groaned, the rest coming back in a rush: stumbling through Paris singing, collapsing into bed, the message to Mr Hough. She moved her head to the left, staring at her phone, as if it might spontaneously come to life and tap dance over to her. The message. She pulled the spare pillow over her face and groaned into it, fearful of waking her friends.