A package arrived, addressed to me at the hospital. Since Christmas, I had developed a habit of visiting the post room as soon as the internal mail was sorted. Unlike the card that Zac delivered to me personally, the seal on this was intact. I took it into the loo, ripped it open and found a book I hadn’t ordered. It was a journal. Each blank page had a different motivational slogan at the top. It seemed that Maxine had not gone quiet after all. It wasn’t so much a thank-you present as a message, and I imagined her ordering it with a curled lip on her usually expressionless face.

Do more of what makes you sparkle! That was the extra-special encouragement reserved for the journal’s cover. It was Maxine’s sardonic version of a pep talk, telling ‘sparkly’ little me that I had done well to find Jacinda Molinero and Albert E. Mathieson’s names. Given that Maxine was Maxine, she wanted me to ‘Do more’. Those two words were emphasised in gold shimmer, and while the rest of them were inked in a mere flat silver, the purple ‘sparkle’ was fittingly glittery too.

At work, the red smock with the ugly white polka dots strained to cover my twenty-weeks-pregnant lump. Milly gave me her usual wry smile, and touched my hand when we passed, or put a brief, protective arm around my shoulder if she found me in the supply cupboard, but there was a new reserve.

Two days after Zac and I discovered that the baby was a girl, Milly passed me a drawing she had done, her own version of the Mermaid of Zennor, honouring the original’s folk art style, but with a touch of her own whimsy. ‘In case you’d like it for the baby’s room,’ she said, and I threw my arms around her. Mostly, though, she sneakily watched me, like someone with a crush, hoping not to be caught stealing glimpses.

Whenever the nurses clustered for a group talk, whether in twos or threes or fours, and they saw me approach, there was a hush so obvious it made me blush. On one occasion, I heard Zac’s name before they saw me and clammed up.

One of the nurses, Joanne, only wore make-up during Zac’s shifts. Crimson lipstick, foundation, a fresh wash of dark brown to hide her grey roots. My guess was that she was ten years older than I was – maybe about thirty-five. She was forever finding excuses to put herself in Zac’s path. She laughed loudly at his jokes but no one else’s. In fact, she hardly spoke to anyone else. She was constantly touching Zac’s arm when she said hello or goodbye, as if to a close friend at a party.

‘I hate women like that,’ Milly said, taking me by surprise.

One morning, Zac swanned in post-nightshift to check the ward before going off.