Tom had suggested that maybe they should book a few days away, a mini-break. But she couldn’t raise so much as a flicker of enthusiasm for the idea. There was nowhere she felt the need to visit. Nowhere. I just want a baby! she had screamed inside her head as Tom proposed a few days in Florence, or maybe Venice, or what about New York, a return to where they’d got engaged in Central Park?

Now, and watching the pigeon fly off to gather more twigs, and at the thought of Tom trying so very hard to please her, to show how much he loved her, her hatred for herself multiplied. Her arms folded across her chest, she thought how vile she had been to Willow on the phone yesterday evening. She had known it the moment she’d spat out the words – ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake stop going on and on about Rick being such a tidy freak! Count yourself lucky he’s not a slob who leaves his toenail clippings on the carpet and empty pizza boxes under the bed!’

‘I wasn’t going on and on,’ Willow had said.

‘Yes you were, and before that you were boring me senseless about the cat you’d lost and how relieved you were that Simon and Lucy weren’t as upset as you’d dreaded because Lucy was pregnant and that’s why they’d come home earlier than planned. Well, whoopty-doo!’

That, of course, was the real cause of her anger and frustration, hearing of somebody else’s ability to conceive. Not that Willow had actually gone on about her friend being pregnant; in fact Martha had had to drag that out of her sister.

‘So why did they come home earlier than expected?’ she’d asked Willow, sensing her holding back on something. She always could pick up on when her sister was keeping something from her.

Eventually Willow had said that Lucy was pregnant. The way she’d said it, a sort of mumbled apologetic admission she’d rather not share, because she was worried it would upset Martha, only added to Martha’s irritation. It was Willow’s obvious desire not to poke at her weak spot that was the worst of it. That her sister could be so sensitive made Martha feel a hundred times worse.

Why had she forced the admission from Willow? Why couldn’t she have left well alone? As their mother used to say – ‘Martha, sometimes you really are your own worst enemy. You need to learn when to stop digging yourself into a hole.’

With Rick at work, Willow was alone in his flat still in her pyjamas. A hand playing with the gold four-leaf clover necklace he had given her, she was browsing baby clothes on her laptop.

It was a stupid thing to do, but she hadn’t been able to stop herself, and the more things she looked at, the more adorable they all seemed. Initially she had only wanted to find out what might be in store for her, like when the nausea would pass. But before she knew it, she had been sucked down a black hole and was scrolling through Bugaboo prams that came with eyewatering prices, and then teeny-weeny bodysuits and sleepsuits, and the cutest wrap-over jackets. Oh, and then there were the mittens, hats, leggings and tights and funny little bibs.