She does not visit the restroom again. She holds on for the rest of the day. She works on the report. She takes a conference call with the States during which she smiles and nods and takes diligent, copious notes. There will be no more blood. It is nothing, it is normal, it has worked. Everything is fine. Itisnothingitisnormalithasworkedeverythingisfine.

On the tube journey home every bump of the train makes her wince, and there is pain now, deep in her abdomen, a claw tracing its way along her womb. By the time she reaches home she can hold off no longer. Her knickers are soaked with blood. It is over. It is done.

“HEY.” HE KISSES her.

“I’m bleeding,” she says to him.

“What? Oh god. Oh Han, I’m sorry.” He does not sound surprised.

“You’re sorry?” Her voice is dull. “Who for? For me? For you? For our child? Who doesn’t exist?”

“All of it. You mostly. Han.” He lies on the bed behind her, fits himself to her back, laces his arm around her waist. “Are you OK? How long have you been here?”

“An hour. Or two.”

“You’re cold,” he says, holding her closer.

And she is aware of her body suddenly, of how he is right—how cold she is, how it has grown cold.

“Oh, Hannah.” He puts his cheek on her shoulder. “Oh Han, my love.”

THE NEXT MORNING she is hunched at her computer before Nathan wakes.

“What’s going on?” he says, coming into the room, dropping a kiss on her head.

“I’ve found a clinic. Harley Street.”

She feels his fingers grip her shoulders. “Hannah—”

“Please,” she says. “Just look.”

“No.” He moves away, over to the window.

“Nathan—”

“No, Hannah. You promised. You promised this would be the last time.”

“This man is the best. He’s—”

“Hannah. I’m not listening to this.”

“Why?” She is standing, fists clenched. “Why?”

“Hannah? Can’t you just. Just let me. Can I hug you? Please?”

“Why? Why do you want to hug me?”

“Hannah. God, Han. Why do you think?”

“I’m going,” she says. “I’ve made an appointment. I’ll pay for it. Come with me. Please. Just—come.”

True North

1987–92

THEY ARE SUSPICIOUS OF EACH OTHER. THEY KNOW OF EACH other’s existence because they got the first and second highest grades in English last year, and these things are talked about. But they have not shared any classes together, until now. And here they are in the same classroom. Top English class, Miss Riley. They are twelve years old.

Miss Riley has long curly hair and glasses like Su Pollard from Hi-de-Hi! She passes around a poem by Thomas Hardy. “Who would like to read first?” She looks over the faces. They are in one of those prefab classrooms, the moldy ones built after the war.