This is a test. Would Vijay advise lying to the woman who has raised my daughter single-handedly?

No way. The fact I’m even considering it proves I’ve learned nothing.

But right now this isn’t about what Angelica or I think Casey ought to do. It’s about the hopes and dreams of a bright, confused kid who is in a new city, surrounded by possibility. She deserves to forget her tumour and her treatment and this whole messy situation, and be happy right now.

‘We can decide what to say later. Let me see if they can give us a table – you get an even better view from the rooftop.’

Chapter 7: Gemma

Wednesday 4 July

After the still, sanitized air of the fertility clinic, the world outside smells of summer and the sky is an unbroken blue. In another life I’d be heading to the Observatory, where I’d lie down next to Andrew on the hot grass, drunk on love and sunshine and the English sparkling wine he always packed for a picnic.

But that’s not how I roll these days. I drink elderflower cordial or – if I want to live on the edge – I get my kicks from kombucha.

And when I lie on the Downs, it’s with Bear at my side. That idea cheers me up a bit, so I walk faster, taking the shortcut that’ll bring me out on the other side of the uni campus. Despite my shocking sense of direction, I’ve been here so often I know the terrain as well as any junior doctor or PhD student.

My phone rings: Dad, wanting an update after my appointment. He loves understanding how things work, whether it’s a circuit board or my uterus. There’s no such thing as TMI in his world.

‘So it’s the same plan as last time?’ he asks, after I’ve told him what happened.

‘Yup. I’ve been given hormones to take, but it’s a natural cycle, so the less they mess with it, the better.’

‘Right, right. I suppose they are the experts,’ he says, though I can hear the doubt in his voice.

‘It wasn’t their fault last time.’

‘No. But you were pregnant. I can’t help but think that if they’d given you the right drug or something, you might have stayed pregnant.’

‘Dad. We talked about this. It was a chemical pre—’ I’m too superstitious to say the P-word out loud, ‘a chemical result. Not a real positive. There was no other way it could have ended. And the time before that was the luck of the draw.’

He sighs. ‘I’m sure you’re right. But I so want you to get what you want.’

My throat tightens and I don’t trust myself to say any more. ‘I know. Got to go now, but I’ll see you tomorrow.’

I slip the phone into my pocket. Tomorrow. How many hours are there to fill between now and then? I’m in limbo till the end of the month. What I should do is focus on work. The deadline for the bank commission samples is Monday, so I should ditch the Downs walk and get back to my drawing board.