‘That’s exactly why it’s inept,’ said Francis. ‘I should really go back to counting breaths and realising that I can’t even do that.’

To Olivia it seemed like they were communicating in some kind of Buddhist whale song, lost on the uninitiated. Why didn’t they just move in together? She felt the weight of her pregnancy with renewed force. Her hormones were all over the place. She wasn’t an insanely jealous person by nature, or perhaps she hadn’t yet loved anyone enough to awaken her inner Othello.

Today, by contrast, after a good night’s sleep, on this immaculate morning, gazing at the butterflies on the thick, silent window, lying next to Francis, feeling the rapture and the intimacy of being pregnant with his child, Olivia was quite shocked by the violence of her emotions at yesterday’s lunch.

‘I have to go over to see the other ranches later,’ said Francis, ‘do you want to come along?’

‘I think I’ll stay here,’ said Olivia, defying her possessiveness.

She not only wanted to wash away the guilt of her jealous spasm, but she also felt, as she embarked on her third trimester, that she and Francis were no longer a couple with a pregnancy on their hands, but already a family of three. She had often seen her friends’ relationships buckle from the pressure of what was in some ways an archetypal drama, in which the mother and child were bound to be the stars, while the father, like Joseph in The Most Puzzling Story Ever Told, could only play a supporting role. At least she wasn’t putting their relationship under the unnecessary strain of claiming to have been impregnated by God without losing her virginity, but whether a mother was about to give birth to Christ or to Oedipus, or to any other child, the father was forced to stand to the side for a while, being a spear-carrier, a confidant and a dutiful provider to the new couple formed by the extinction of the old one. Poor Francis, he should be allowed to go wild in the country.

‘Okay,’ said Francis, leaning over to kiss her belly while Olivia ran her fingers nostalgically through his hair.

‘Hope likes to make fun of me for being a conservative,’ said Jim, resting his hand on the roof of Francis’s car, ‘but the word “conservative” isn’t as far from the word “conservation” as she seems to think. I may not know what an “event horizon” is – it sounds to me like a catering company out of Carmel – but I take the stewardship of this land as seriously as anyone and I don’t have to quote Chief Seattle to prove it, although he seems to have been a sensible guy and something of a conservative himself.’

‘It’s been a revelation seeing what you’ve done here,’ said Francis. ‘Thanks for showing me around.’