Jonathan had his appointment too, that morning, his sample to give, although in a different way. He’d flashed her a cheeky grin, a question, answered by her with a scowl. She had been reluctant to help out and wondered why. It had felt strange somehow; there was no romance here, no love or passion or understanding. Just wanking into a pot, and a hasty rush to get to the hospital in the allotted time for the test. She had heard him upstairs: the rhythmical sound of skin against skin, and had gone further away to block it out. She should have made an effort to turn it into something they could do together, to make it fun, but nothing about this feels like enjoyment. Just wave after familiar wave of resentment and anger.

In the kitchen, she gets a short, squat tumbler out of the pristine glass cabinet, holds it up to the light, then wipes a smudge off the side with a tea towel. She adds sugar and a generous dash of bitters, mixing them together. Ice next, then a large measure of Jameson, just how Jonathan likes it. No water.

She gets an orange from the fruit bowl and a knife out of the block. The knife is heavy and reassuring in her hand and she weighs it up for a second. How long would it take, she wonders, for him to bleed out on their bedroom floor? She could take him by surprise, press it to his neck and pull. Watch the look of astonishment on his face as the blood flowed. She’s heard thirty seconds, if you cut the jugular. Would that be long enough for her?

But instead she presses the tip into the thick rind of the orange. It resists at first, then digs in and she cuts off the end, then a thick slice, chopping it in two and placing it in the glass.

Suddenly she stops, her breath catching. She rests both hands on the work surface, her head lowered, paralysed by the enormity of what she might be told as a result of the tests. Maybe they’d know why, after three years of trying, she is still not pregnant, when around her all her friends produced bumps and babies seemingly at will. She thinks about the smiles she’s forced onto her face, all the tiny dresses and sleepsuits she’s bought as gifts, while part of her withers inside.

Every month she cries, silently in the bathroom, sticking on another pad, inserting another tampon. Every month Jonathan tries to be sympathetic, but he doesn’t understand. Not really. He doesn’t get the yearning. The desperation to feel a tiny person squirming inside.

But she can’t think about that now; she has bigger things to focus on tonight.

She picks the glass up and carries it to the bedroom, the ice cubes rattling.