‘Come on. Say something. I’ve been describing you to my friends as a woman with a Dorothy Parker mind in a Mills and Boon suburban world. It’s time to break free. Time to write that book. A funny, quirky, mad, original book, just like you. Come on. Speak to me. Words are what you do, Ruby Ryan.’

And yet, no words formed on my tongue. If I’d been in the mood to joke I would have called it a pregnant pause.

‘What happened to that free-spirited, fun and fabulous girl who rode me as if I was a bull at a rodeo? You told me that there was so much life to enjoy in your second act.’ He ran a hand through his unruly hair. ‘You said it was like adolescence in reverse; a lovely rebirth.’

Rebirth. Did he have to choose that particular word? It wasn’t fair to dump this dilemma onto him. I was a big girl. It was up to me to handle it. And there was something else – I didn’t want him influencing my decision one way or the other. He’d never had children, so maybe he would want to keep the baby. And then, what if I didn’t? Did he have legal rights? Cataloguing all of the obstacles we faced, I fell into a trance of indecision. When my lips remained in neutral, Brody got to his feet.

‘I’m sorry, Ruby.’ I loved the way he said my name, in that warm, velvety tone. ‘I just presumed . . . or hoped . . . I mean, nothing like this has ever happened to me before. But the timing – your mother’s just died. Our timing’s always wrong. We have the timing of a bad talk show host. Or, rather, the . . . timing . . . of . . . a . . . bad . . . talk . . . show . . . . . . . . . host,’ he joshed, trying for last stab at levity to lighten my mood.

I had to tell him. I would tell him. It was now or never. We would work it out together. But just as I made up my mind to confess all, he took me by the shoulders.

‘Unless,’ he said, tentatively, ‘you’re happy again, you know, with your husband. Or maybe you just feel too guilty about your kids? Try as I might, I can’t really imagine what that feels like. I never wanted kids, which is why I had a vasectomy.’

It was now me, not Brody, treading lightly around landmines.

‘You had a vasectomy?’

‘Yeah, in my twenties. I just knew that I never wanted to be tied down, with my non-existent bandwidth for routine and predictability. So, you can be straight with me. What the hell’s holding you back? Is it guilt about your family? Or . . . maybe’—a shadow passed across his handsome face—‘you just don’t love me as much as I love you?’