‘Hello, beautiful.’ It was Zac’s voice, dragging me out of sleep. He kissed my bump. ‘Hello, other beautiful.’ He slipped a hand under the back of my neck.

I was in the sitting room, on one of the fat floral sofas Zac would never have chosen for himself. I was still half in a dream as I pressed my hands against his chest, trying to push him away.

‘Please, Holly. I love you so much.’

How should I respond to this? I was thirty weeks pregnant and everything was ready. Maxine had followed through at her end. Tomorrow was the day my baby and I would disappear. I would stretch out in the back seat of the car and trust Maxine’s driver to get us to Bath safely. If I didn’t return Zac’s I love you with my own there was the potential for a raging fight that could ruin everything.

‘I love you too,’ I said.

‘It makes me so happy to hear that.’ He traced a finger over my lips. ‘Have you moved from this spot since I left this morning?’

Gently, I took his hand, which covered the fact that I didn’t want him to touch me that way. ‘Barely.’

‘Good. It’s good that you’re resting.’

‘She kicks more when I lie down. I’m worrying she isn’t moving so much. I’ve been trying to keep track of her kicks, but I was so tired I couldn’t concentrate.’

Zac put both hands on my bump. ‘Well, she has definitely said hello to her daddy. Did you feel that?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I am. So trust me. I’m a doctor.’

I tried to smile.

‘Let me show you how much I love you.’ He was pulling open the wraparound maternity dress I was wearing. I tried to grab his wrist to stop him, but my arms were caught up somehow, in my partly undone dress, from the way he’d tugged at the fabric and fiddled with the ties. He was lifting my hair from my neck. His mouth was against my skin.

‘I don’t feel like it, Zac.’ I’d got a hand free. It was against his chest, trying to hold him away.

There was that flash in his eyes, that tightening of his jaw and jutting of his chin, and the familiar pulse that vibrated out of his temple to his scalp. I thought again of my car keys held out of reach, of his magazines and objects. He had promised never to lock me in again, never to take away my phone or my keys again, never to block my car in again, though the last promise would have been easy for him to make given the likelihood that he’d put a tracker on it. Could I trust him to honour all of this, tomorrow of all days?