The thought of just the two of us—and the baby-to-be—makes me smile. I pick up the baby book. Maybe, I’ll read a bit before I make lunch for Sid. He might come back hungry, he’s working so hard. I go into the drawing room and settle down into my usual place—the sofa next to the window. As I flip open the book, the doorbell rings.

I open the door and find no one there.

‘It’s me, just parking the car, someone’s parked a bloody motorcycle in our space, need to move it first,’ Sid yells out.

He’s home! I quickly run into our bedroom to check my appearance again. I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on—I love my new electric kettle—and put out some biscuits on a plate.

Sid comes in looking—absolutely fresh! He is in jeans and a navy polo shirt and he has shaved.

‘Hi, are you all right?’ I ask.

Sid picks up a biscuit, takes a bite and starts shuffling through the Sunday newspaper kept on the dining table.

‘Yeah, yeah I am—why’re you asking, though?’ he asks, still looking at the paper.

He finishes the first biscuit and picks up another.

‘Your message last night sounded rather urgent and I thought—but I guess you’re all right then,’ I say.

‘Yep. That I am,’ he says, frowning at something he’s read in the business section.

‘New shirt?’ I ask.

I haven’t seen this shirt before. I should know since I give his clothes for washing and put them away as well and realize that I haven’t seen the jeans before either. He’s also wearing a new aftershave and not his regular Old Spice. Where did he get all this from?

‘Nah, not new, I’ve had it for a while,’ he replies, picking up a third biscuit.

‘But that cannot be—I haven’t seen it in the cupboard and—’

‘Is this some sort of a bloody Inquisition? Can’t I have a shirt that you don’t know of? Are you keeping tabs on me now?’ Sid snaps at me. The biscuit in his hand breaks and falls to the floor.

‘No, no, I am not—why should I—what I meant was—I didn’t mean that,’ I finish lamely, quite stunned by his sudden, vehement response.

He picks up a fourth biscuit.

I don’t want to spoil our Sunday with some misunderstanding over a stupid shirt. I move closer to him, wanting to touch him—

‘Don’t eat biscuits, I can get breakfast ready for you,’ I say putting my hand on his arm. ‘Why don’t you go and—’

‘Can I read the bloody paper in peace?’ Sid says jerking my hand away.

Why is he behaving like this? He was so sweet yesterday—