’It’s me,’ Shona said to Parvez, over breakfast some months later. Having been persuaded by the gynaecologist to relax the restrictive diet she had previously forced Parvez to adopt, she had made his favourite dish the night before, lamb koftas, only slightly burnt this time, and maybe with just a bit too much garlic. Shona’s cooking had not greatly improved, although Parvez was always uncomplaining and even complimentary at her efforts in the kitchen. As a result she had begun to think that her cooking was now quite acceptable, and for a special treat she gave him a couple of the less burnt koftas on the side of his fried eggs, with plenty of the juices from the pan to moisten his toast.

‘Mmm, smells great, Goldie,’ said Parvez insincerely, looking sorrowfully down at his quite acceptable sunny side ups ruined by the addition of burnt meatballs and black charcoal bits swimming in oily juice. ‘I really don’t think it’s you, it’s probably me.’

‘It’s me,’ Shona disagreed stoutly, Took at my parents - they couldn’t have any kids after me. I remember Mamma used to drag me off secretly to a clinic sometimes, but whatever they did, it didn’t help. I must have inherited their infertility.’

‘Well, if they were infertile, how did they have you?’ Parvez asked.

‘They were both very young, Mamma was only eighteen. Maybe they just got lucky.’

‘Well, I was the one who got lucky, wasn’t I,’ said Parvez, reaching out to stroke Shona’s forearm, so gently that the little hairs shivered under his palm. ‘Really, Goldie, it’s much more likely to be me. You’re doing everything right. You eat like a Saint of Good Nourishment and they think you’re responding to the medication. I’m the one with the lazy swimmers.’

’And I’m the one with the lazy ovaries.’

‘If we’re both that lazy, we should be spending a lot more time in bed. We could start after breakfast …’ He traced an equally lazy line up Shona’s arm to her bare shoulder, and back down again to her fingertips.

’It’s not the right day yet - we have to hold off until the day after tomorrow,’ Shona said matter-of-factly, pouring herself another cup of decaffeinated tea.

‘Arré, when did you get so businesslike …’ Parvez said regretfully, returning his attention to breakfast. Realizing that there was no way he could avoid eating the koftas in front of Shona’s watchful gaze, he made a manly attempt to spear some with his fried eggs.