If you still want to see me, can you send me your address? G

I send it. I wonder if she’s gone on Google Maps to check the area out on Street View. I barely breathe till her reply comes back:

I’m getting an Uber now. If that’s still OK?

I type:

I’ll put the kettle on. PS: it’s not the Ritz.

She doesn’t reply to that.

The kettle boils and turns itself off. I work through the pile of post from my basket downstairs, wincing at my credit card bill that itemizes the treats I bought for Casey. But I can do extra hours to pay it off. Nothing seems impossible today.

My buzzer goes. Instead of picking up the entryphone, I walk onto the landing, down the stairs. Will I be able to tell right away if the result was positive or negative?

I want whatever will make her happiest.

When I open the door, I can’t read her face. ‘Welcome to my non-penthouse,’ I say. ‘No Bear?’

‘I came straight from the clinic.’

Without thinking, I hold out my hand and she takes it and squeezes. ‘Two flights up – sorry, no executive lift.’

‘Stop apologizing, it’s annoying,’ she says.

We take each step together: her movements seem slow, dream-like. I get her to go in first and watch her closely until I realize I’m coming over a bit intensely, so I switch the kettle on again.

‘Camomile tea? Or something stronger? I’ve got wine or—’

She turns to me and I can see she’s trying not to cry.

Shit. It hasn’t worked.

Usually when I’m near a crying woman I want to run. But Gemma needs someone and, right now, I need to be that someone.

‘Gemma, I’m so sorry.’ I step towards her, my arms open, and she leans against me and lets herself be held. And while there’s a tiny part of me that might be relieved, I also feel her loss. ‘I’m here.’

She’s sobbing now.

‘Dan, listen.’ She moves back slightly and her eyes are bright. ‘It worked. The treatment. I’m . . . I am pregnant.’ Her lips stay open after she’s said that word, as though it hasn’t sunk in.

‘For real?’

She nods. ‘For real. My hormones are sky-high.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘No. It’s brilliant.’ She steps back further and touches her flat belly. ‘I can’t believe it, though. It doesn’t seem possible.’

Now we’re apart again, I don’t know what to do with my hands. Is this the end or the beginning? ‘Wow. Congratulations. Camomile tea then?’

But before I can turn away, she reaches for my hand and leads us both to the tiny sofa bed. When we sit, side by side, it’s like we’re on a train, setting out on a journey together. ‘You seem shocked,’ she says.

‘No. Well, yes. But not bad shocked. I’m thrilled for you. What does your family think?’

Gemma pulls a face. ‘I haven’t spoken to them yet. I wanted to tell you before them, because . . . well, I just did. Whatever happens, don’t ever tell Laura she wasn’t the first to hear the news.’