I went upstairs to look at the nursery. I had been a woman on a mission all week, working full days in the office before racing home to nest like a mother hen. The five vests from Petit Bateau and ten sleepsuits from the Little White Company were folded neatly in a drawer of the dresser I’d ordered from John Lewis, with a few outfits for ‘best’ hanging in the small matching wardrobe. A ‘family’ of soft, brown, cuddly bunnies sat in height order down one side of the cot. It was all extremely satisfying. If this were the backdrop for a celebrity’s baby photoshoot in a glossy magazine, the reader would think it all absolutely idyllic. But how misleading first impressions can be.

I flicked on the light switch, then stopped and caught a glimpse of myself in the large mirror I had somehow managed to successfully hang over the cot earlier today, using a row of ten tacks bashed into the wall. Miraculously, it was straight. I hadn’t noticed until now that I had flour down my black dress from cooking earlier. My hair had nearly all fallen out of its ponytail.

I stroked my large bump. I had been lucky with the pregnancy, suffering no morning sickness. The lack of alcohol had done wonders for my complexion and I loved my new curves. I found myself dressing to accentuate them, wearing dresses far tighter than I would have dared before. Before, I’d always considered my figure ‘boyish’ rather than voluptuous, and I’d never had much of a waist to speak of, but now that I had curves in all the right places, I wanted to make the most of them; I really wouldn’t have minded staying this shape forever. But it wasn’t just about the curves, it was far deeper than that; it was everything – I just felt so grateful to be having a baby at last.

Once I had got over the initial shock of finally falling pregnant, the planning had kicked in and I had embraced every moment of it. I was barely two months gone when I began obsessively checking out cots from Mamas and Papas and covertly shopping on the Petit Bateau website when I should have been preparing pitches at work. As the weeks passed, I relished any opportunity to discuss my growing foetus around the coffee machine when someone politely enquired how I was feeling at work. Sometimes I would catch myself sounding like the baby bore I once swore I would never become. Could this be the same Lucy Raven – the ambitious PR professional on a trajectory to Managing Director? I barely recognized myself some days, having never guessed I’d be in this situation.

I stared at my reflection.

Can you really do this? I asked myself internally.

I didn’t have the answer, but I knew that I was getting closer to finding it.

Chapter Twelve

Aisha

The day after the breastfeeding class, my phone buzzed with a message: