I look again at the fitness tracker circling my wrist. My heart rate is climbing so fast I can scarcely believe it. 142, 144. What if I need to get away suddenly? 146, 148.

I can see George’s mop of thick blond hair, flopping over his brow. He probably thinks this is a charming look. Dark grey tracksuit bottoms. A loose black T-shirt. Navy trainers. I take all of this in as he dashes from his car and disappears from my sight through the door and into the building.

My heart rate is increasing still more. 150, 152.

It’s dangerous to put your heart under strain, Holly.

You can’t think of yourself, Holly. You need to think of our baby.

Maybe I’m wearing the tracker too low, so it isn’t accurate. I try to push it higher up my wrist but there is nowhere left for it to go. It is snug enough. There is no doubt.

A minute later, George is on the next treadmill, barely a metre between us, foppish hair bouncing. He smiles and nods hello, as if what he did is so normal he has already forgotten it. His eyes are blue. George blue should be in the OED to signal the brightest blue ever seen in organic human form. They crinkle in the corners as he continues to smile. He puts the speed at 12 kilometres per hour and runs with the ease of someone on a gentle walk.

His mouth moves. I can read his lips. ‘Good morning.’

I give him a small nod of acknowledgement, continuing to look in front of me as if my lab-rat motion requires absolute concentration. Despite this, I am still aware of him in my peripheral vision. I grab the hand towel I laid over the console and wipe my forehead. My black-framed spectacles have slipped down. I push them back in place, wondering if I will ever get used to them, and swipe at the sweat beneath them.

George is motioning for me to turn off the sound on my earphones.

I touch my phone to pause the music. ‘What?’

He is studying my wrist and looking worried. ‘Something wrong, Helen?’

‘What could be wrong?’

‘Your heart rate’s a bit high. Do you think you should slow down? I’m only concerned.’

I’m only concerned, Holly.

I look again at the tracker. 165. The number practically gives me a heart attack. ‘My heart rate was fine until you blocked me in with your car.’

‘I park like that when there are no spaces – lots of people here do that. I’d move it as soon as you asked.’

‘I don’t want to ask. I don’t want to have to search for some arrogant stranger.’

‘Sorry.’ His expression manages to be a smile, an embarrassed grimace and an apology all at once.

‘I don’t want to have to spend time interrupting people – men – during their workouts.’

‘Why men?’ He ducks his head slightly.