In the morning the sun rises over the gas tower, over the canal. She counts his tattoos; he tells her the story of each one.

“And what’s this?” he says, catching her wrist, tracing her spider with his fingertip.

“Oh, that?” she says, pulling her hand away. “Just a nineties’ thing.”

Three months later she is pregnant. Nine months later they are married. Seventeen months later she is living in Canterbury.

It is as though life has decided for her. Has picked her up and turned her round and deposited her a long, long way from home.

Cate

“COME ON,” SHE SAYS BRIGHTLY TO TOM IN HIS HIGH CHAIR, where he sits solemnly eating a banana. “We’re going on a trip today. To see Hannah!”

Sam looks up from his phone. “It’s Saturday,” he says.

“I know.”

“Saturday is my day.”

“I know,” she says. “But I want to see Hannah, and she works during the week. I thought you’d be pleased. You can go back to bed.”

“I mean . . .” He pushes his baseball cap back on his head. “I was going to go to Mum’s, but if you’re sure. Where are you meeting her?”

“In Hampstead. On the Heath.”

“London?” He stares at her, uncomprehending. “Why?”

“Because I miss her. I miss London. And Tom’s growing so much, and she misses him and . . .”

“Really?”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, with everything . . . I just—can’t imagine that’s true.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well—if you were Hannah, would you miss Tom?”

She looks down at her hands, takes a breath. “He’s her godson. And yes, I think I might. They say being around babies is good for women trying to conceive.”

Tom giggles and she looks up. He is grinning at them both, clapping his hands together, his latest trick.

She fills those little Tupperware containers she bought, back when she thought she was going to mash and puree and blend his food herself, finds them at the back of the cupboard, stacks two with apple slices and rice cakes, fills his sippy cup with water, the changing bag with diapers, gathers the sling, a change of clothes, bundles Tom into his coat, grabs her wallet and makes for the door. Sam stands up to open it, staring skeptically at the world outside. “What should I tell my mum?” he says, scratching his beard.

“Tell her I had to see Hannah. Tell her we’ll see her next week. Tuesday. Tamsin’s arranging it. Remember?”

“Oh. Yeah. Cool.” He leans in, high-fives Tom, gives her a brief kiss on the cheek. “Look after yourselves. You sure you’re going to be all right?”

“We’ll be fine!” The brightness in her voice makes her wince.