I looked up. Luckily, along with her other perfect qualities, her model height meant she was still visible. There she was. Calmly bobbing along. No concept of what she was doing to me. I ran to catch up with her. When a few metres away, I stopped. Heaved again. Covered my mouth with my scarf to muffle the noise. No sick. No time for sick. I carried on.

Oblivious to my presence, she turned the corner into a residential street. Though we battled the same wind, my hair resembled Medusa’s, whereas hers blew gracefully behind like Diana Ross’s.

This road was quieter. I crossed to the pavement opposite. Walking as fast as I could to get in front. I planned to return to her side. Pass her. Stare at her.

As I sped up, I couldn’t maintain a straight line. Blaming my sways on the gusts.

She slowed. I crossed the road. Changed direction. Flowed against her. Towards her. Talking on my phone to an imaginary person. Laughing. Playing the part. Supposedly unaware of her coming towards me. Of our nearing each other. Within an instant I altered the plan. I’d knock her. Just enough to make her stop, look at me. I’d apologize. And in true British style she’d apologize back.

The moment came. My shoulder was in line with her chest. I did it.

But it went wrong. It was too hard. I’d gone too far.

She was on the floor.

I dropped the phone into my bag and held out my slippery hand for her to grab on to. ‘Sorry . . . I . . . I didn’t see you . . . I was on the phone . . . I’m so sorry.’

If she was angry, she didn’t show it. I’d say she was more upset, fearful.

‘I really am sorry,’ I said. I was. I am. For the monsters you created inside me. The things they made me do.

She didn’t respond. I no longer expected the quintessential Brit apology, of course. She attempted to stand. Making it hard for herself by only using one hand. The other remained on her abdomen as her coat flew open. I pulled her up off the ground.

‘Thank you,’ she said, once upright. But then she folded. Winced. Her palm made circular motions over her stomach. Her stomach that didn’t match her elongated, lithe body. Her stomach that protruded slightly.

Her pregnant stomach.

‘You should watch where you’re going.’ Her eyes were heavy with tears. She bent forward again, pain-faced.

I was disgusted at what I’d done, what you’d made me do. It became impossible to suppress. I was crying.

‘I’m so sorry . . . Are you OK . . .? Please tell me you’re OK.’

She appeared taken aback by my anguish.