I steer the jeep left, and there’s my block, in unlovely 1980s brick. The window to my flat is open: to disguise a month’s worth of skunk-smoking or to disperse evidence of a fire? I reverse the jeep into my parking space and let myself into the communal hallway: tidier than usual, if anything.

I’m used to seeing this place critically, through my father’s eyes: is this the best you can do? It’s time to leave his twisted world view behind. What I care about now is how this would look to Gemma if she shows up.

I climb the two flights of stairs with my first suitcase and hesitate before putting the key in the lock. OK. Moment of truth.

When the door opens, I smell nothing but disinfectant and . . . flowers? Walking inside, I can’t quite believe it. All the surfaces are shiny and on the counter there’s a bunch of yellow wild flowers in a jam jar, plus a bottle of wine and an envelope. Inside, there’s a thank-you card: We loved your place.

I love it too. Because it’s home. Not a penthouse, but it’s mine and I bloody earned it.

The bottle of wine glints in the sunlight, but I’ll settle for tea. Ah, they’ve used all my teabags. I can forgive them that. Plus, they’ve left some herbal teas: mint, camomile.

Perfect for Gemma.

If she turns up.

If she’s pregnant.

I fill a glass with tap water instead and sit on the new sofa bed I bought so I could let the flat out to four people. How will it work if Casey comes to stay? She can have my room – I can paint it whatever colour she wants. Except pink.

Screw it, if she wants pink, she can have it. I’ll paint myself pink, and the jeep too.

I can’t settle. Something is different about the flat. Something seems to be missing, but I can’t work out what.

It’s half-past nine. I consider messaging Gemma, but I have to let her be. If the test is negative, it is easier. We could pick up where we left off.

But if it’s positive?

I remember another flat, another day, another girl: Angelica on my doorstep, with news of a baby that resulted from a weekend when two lonely kids found each other in a muddy field. A baby neither of us wanted, but who, it turns out, was exactly what we both needed.

If Gemma has a kid, it’ll happen because of love and science. I can imagine her as a mum, and it makes me smile goofily because I can imagine myself as a dad, with her. Does it matter that any child would carry Andrew’s genes, not mine?

Not to me. I could do this with Gemma. If she wants to do it with me.

As the flat is spotless, there’s nothing I can do now except unpack, buy teabags, then wait to see if she calls.

The message appears as I’m putting my trainers back in their right places: