Not if this morning was anything to go by. She’d been so distracted by the twins fighting, she’d given Cormac milk that was far too hot. On top of that she’d begun firing questions at Marcus, blocking him from leaving the front door. A human barrier, as tall as him, long fair hair a wild tangle around her face.

When are we putting up the Christmas tree?

Who’s coming?

What outside lights shall we put up?

When are you going to give me a list of what you want for Christmas? And shall we get the twins the same presents or different? We’ve got to get them soon or they’ll all be gone.

‘I’ve got to go – later, please, Claire. OK? Friday’s my morning in theatre – and I have an emergency ectopic – everyone will be gowned up and waiting, they know that I’m never late for knife to skin.’

‘Come on, you always have an emergency something. Later isn’t a time! Later is never! Is that what you tell your patients when they ask you when their baby is due? Later?’ She shook her head. ‘No, you say June 11th or July 16th. Or, knowing you, you probably say at 3.34 p.m. precisely.’

When he had finally left the house, he was eleven minutes behind schedule. Time he was never going to make up on an eighteen-minute journey.

The joy of kids! All those pregnant women he would be seeing in his consulting room this afternoon. Smearing on the gel and moving the ultrasound scanner around their expectant bellies. Showing them the shadowy silhouette of the little lives inside them, on the screen.

Watching their happy faces. Their own worlds about to change.

Do you know what’s ahead? Months of sleepless nights. And for some of you, the end of your life as you know it. All the sacrifices you’ll both make over the years to come? Will you produce geniuses who’ll change the world for the better or ungrateful little bastards who’ll turn you into an anxious mess? The gamble of life. A good kid . . . or a waste of space? Nature, nurture; good parents, crap parents. You needed a licence to keep certain animals, but any irresponsible idiot could have kids.

He knew he should be more positive, change his mindset. But he couldn’t help it, that was how he felt. Increasingly. Day by day. Working all hours in the hospital. Frequently on call, working weekends. He’d kept in touch with a few of his old friends from his time at boarding school. One had gone on to become an insanely rich hedge-fund manager, and was now a tanned, relaxed hedonist with his super-rich hedge-fund manager wife and retinue of white-suited acolytes. They proudly called themselves the TWATs – only working Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. What a life!