At first he liked the idea. Then we ran into difficulties with the guest list.

‘This is hopeless,’ Mark said eventually. ‘They’ll want to bring their babies with them. Or they’ll get a call from the babysitter before dessert and have to rush off. And the women either won’t be drinking or they’ll be off their faces after a couple of glasses, and all they’ll want to talk about is mastitis and nappies and stretch marks and…’ He pulled a face. ‘You know what I mean.’

And I did.

I looked at Mark, at the good shirt he was wearing and the glossy black top of the dining table he was leaning on and the outline of the transparent chair behind him, and suddenly I knew for certain that he wasn’t enough for me and never would be.

There was someone missing. I could almost see her, sitting in the chair next to me: a small child with the big presence that all small children have, soft-skinned and plump-cheeked and slippery-haired.

I said, ‘How would you feel if I stopped taking the Pill?’

He froze as if I’d just threatened him and he was working out how to hit back. But I wasn’t about to backtrack. That little girl, the child at the table, was too real for that. And this was the only way to conjure her into existence.

He said, ‘Have you stopped taking it?’

‘No. I would never do that without telling you.’

‘Do you want to?’

If he was to believe that we could do this and it could all turn out all right, I had to stay calm. I couldn’t allow it to turn into an argument. The minute you start arguing with your husband about having children, you’ve already lost.

I looked into his eyes. He was frightened, that was all. He needed reassurance. If I showed him I could cope with this, he’d relax and it would all be fine.

‘OK, I admit it,’ I said. ‘I want your babies.’ And then I lied: ‘But not if you don’t want them too.’ Then I reached for the coffee pot and said, ‘Would you like any more?’

He shook his head. I poured myself another half-cup, added milk, stirred. I didn’t look at him. I could sense him wavering between reluctance and resignation, about to come down on one side or the other.

Then he exhaled. ‘You’re not suddenly going to make me start wearing baggy boxers and eating oysters to improve my sperm count, are you?’

He was smiling. I smiled back. I’d done it! And it had been so easy. Why had I even been so worried about it? In the end, all I’d had to do was come out and say it.

‘I thought you like oysters,’ I said.

‘I do,’ he conceded. Then, almost plaintively: ‘I do love you, you know. I can’t think of anybody I would want to do this with, other than you.’

It occurred to me to say, I hope not – I’m your wife. But it was no time to be snide, and anyway, I knew what he was trying to say.