I turn the alarm off and reach deep within me to find the strength to get to my feet and into the shower. I am, ironically, on my hands and knees.

It’s probably not the last time I’ll find myself in this position today.

I cannot think of anything my poor, broken heart and exhausted body is less capable of this morning than having to be someone’s sex toy. No matter that Brendan is objectively drool-worthy, or that the dynamic between us has been supercharged and, dare I say, intimate since we “worked” from his home. Yesterday, I gave everything I had to ensure my child survived the night, which means that today I am broken, broken, broken.

The good news is that, after depositing Mark at the office and grabbing some files, Brendan heads out on a site visit for most of the morning, buying me some breathing space. Elaine, bless her, is very solicitous, bringing me a delicious double espresso and a pain au chocolat from the fancy, overpriced café across the square. She enquires after Tabs and is endlessly patient while I spew out all my worries. After all, I can’t vent to my parents. I sent them home when I got to the hospital yesterday evening. If nothing else, I needed them well-rested to look after Tabs today.

‘Just take it as easy as you can this morning,’ she tells me. ‘There are some beds in the basement by the doctor’s surgery. You could take a nap there?’

‘I’m good, thanks,’ I tell her, hoping that my layers of concealer will do their job and conceal the purple bruises under my eyes, even if they can’t do much about the reddened puffiness. ‘I want to get through as much as possible before we fly.’

She nods, mouth pursed. ‘Okay, but just look after yourself. You’ll be no good to that little girl of yours if you’re an exhausted shell.’

The bad news is that Brendan texts me from the building site he’s visiting.

Got us a suite at the Kingsley Canary Wharf

I’ll be there at 1

I want you naked and waiting for me in that bed

Fucking excellent.

Holy crap, this suite is gorgeous. Not to mention vast. I can’t even imagine how much it costs. Thousands and thousands, probably. What a waste of money to use it for an hour. Usually, I’d be drawn to the incredible west-facing terrace that looks out over the iconic chrome-and-glass skyline of Canary Wharf to the Shard and beyond, but today there’s only one siren’s call in this room, and it’s the bed.

The huge, white bed with its fluffy-looking duvet and its mountains of plump pillows.

Oh my dear Lord. I may not be religious, but someone up there is answering my prayers.