Oh God, I thought, and here I am, wanting some sympathy over my break-up with Jacob; desperately wanting to talk to Isla about the obstacle that tore us apart. How can I ever get Isla’s empathy in the face of this?

‘I feel awful, Ol.’ She slumps her head into her hands. ‘I am a fully trained therapist – and a good person, I hope – and yet there I was, judging this other woman so severely for her choices. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone back to work so quickly.’

I swallow my own queasiness. ‘But you weren’t to know. Yes, you’re a therapist, but you’re not superhuman.’

‘And I obviously don’t have any issue with abortions. It’s just, all I can think about is my own body right now.’ She awkwardly moves her glasses up her nose as she talks. ‘I’m a monster.’

‘No, you are not.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t be a therapist any more,’ Isla says.

‘Isla. No. No amount of training can make you become immune to your own open wounds.’

‘Hmm. You know, I can’t treat her now, but when Marnie left she shook my hand and thanked me for a brilliant session. Through my pain, I guess I still managed to help her in some way. She said she felt so much better. Then I closed the door, smiled, waved, went back indoors and sat on the sofa. I stared at the wall, then I cried and cried and cried into a cushion until my face hurt,’ she says, and starts to cry again.

‘Oh, Isla.’ I move and sit next to her, wrapping both my arms around her.

‘I just want my own fucking baby so fucking much,’ she says, this time with a snot bubble coming out of her nose.

We sit in silence, me holding her. She feels so small, her shoulders so petite. She has lost weight. She is closing in on herself.

So, this is what it must feel like to really want a child.

I close my eyes tightly and try and imagine it for a second. To imagine wanting it. To imagine that feeling in my own body and mind, of wanting to create a new life.

Still nothing.

The more I hide it, the heavier it becomes. Each woman I know carries it – shame – but it’s a different shape for us all. There is always a hidden shame related to motherhood; whether you want a baby, or you don’t, or whether you hate being a mother or whether you love it more than anything else in your life. I know what it’s like to want something, to pine and long and cry for something. I have longed for boys who didn’t love me; I have longed for a new version of myself, longed for a dream job, longed for my cosy bed after a week of camping … But this lack of longing for a baby feels so lonely. And not having Jacob in my life any more seems like some kind of punishment for my decision.