‘I can’t imagine life without Elise, if that’s what you mean,’ she says. ‘I know she’s not my daughter, and we’ve had our differences in the past, but when I fell pregnant we bonded. Though I think I know what you’re trying to say.’ She pulls her phone from her bag, and taps the screen. ‘Here,’ she says, thrusting it towards me. ‘It’s the latest scan of baby Green. It was taken yesterday.’

I gulp back tears as I take in the tiny image.

‘If you look closely,’ she says. ‘You can make out his toes.’

I make a weird noise, as I force back invading tears.

‘Are you OK?’ she says, pressing her hand on my arm. ‘I’m so sorry if I’ve upset you.’

‘No, no you haven’t. I’m fine.’ I hand the phone back, and turn away from her, fumble a spoonful of coffee into a mug. I pour on boiling water. Add a splash of milk. ‘Sugar?’ I say, glancing over my shoulder.

She shakes her head.

I take a breath and hand her the mug, before splashing wine into a large glass.

And then it hits me.

The scan she just showed me. The one she said was taken yesterday. It was dated 10th October. ‘Did you say you had the scan yesterday?’ I ask, to be sure.

‘Yes, why?’

Is she lying? Or perhaps she showed me the wrong photo. But I recall her reaction when I mentioned the coffee – it was as though she’d been caught out. And now a memory invades of her at Drummondale House, tears rolling down her cheeks as she looked at a photograph of a scan of her baby.

I stare at her. It’s as though I can see into her soul, sense a terrible loss, feel her suffering as though it’s mine. She’s lost her baby.

But that can’t be right. Her body tells me otherwise.

‘Do you want to talk?’ I say. It’s a gamble. If, and only if, she’s lost her baby, she’s pretending she hasn’t – going as far as wearing a fake pregnancy bump – a good one too. She doesn’t want to be found out. ‘I understand.’

She shoots me a startled look, and I take a deep breath.

‘I lost my baby too,’ I say, my voice cracking. ‘I know how painful it is to lose your unborn child.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She’s flushed, and tears fill her eyes.

Mentioning my baby has left me vulnerable – exposed. Rosamund is the first person I’ve told, and I hadn’t factored in my own need for comfort.

And what if I’m wrong about Rosamund?

No. I’m right. I’m sure I’m right.