Each time my mind goes to the pregnancy it recoils. I just don’t understand why Leah would hide such a thing from me. Or how it is even possible that I have missed the changes that must have been happening in her for a while now – has her skin been particularly radiant and glowing, has a soft swell started to appear on her belly? I run these questions over and over in my mind, but she has been the same all along, I’m sure of it. Did I simply not want to see it? Did I sense it on some level, but subconsciously refuse to acknowledge it since she never mentioned it?

I take a moment to determine whether it still affects me so deeply to learn of another’s pregnancy. And – yes. Yes, it does. It hurts like hell; it hits me with the sudden, shocking force of a finger smashed in a doorway – every time. I fill my empty stomach with the hot, bitter coffee and start walking again, chasing away the image of Leah pregnant. The wind is picking up again, tearing at my hair and making my eyes sting.

Kristina, are you aware of Leah’s pregnancy?

*

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing emerges, just a sad little squawk. Vera leans forward, empathy and warmth in her eyes, her mouth set in a commiserating little line.

‘You look sad this morning, Kristina.’

‘Mmmm.’ We sit in silence for a long while – I watch several minutes drain from the digital clock above the door. Vera never prompts me, just sits there like a soothing presence. I often channel her calm, comfortable approach to silence when it comes to my own clients, something which didn’t come easy to me early on in my career. I had to fight the urge to fill any prolonged silence with a question or just a sound to indicate I was still listening and soaking up whatever the client brought to the session. Now, I think I have become more like Vera, interested in the silences and able to let them unfold and speak for themselves.

‘It’s one of my clients,’ I say, at last. ‘Leah Iverson. You know, the Swedish novelist.’

‘I remember.’