Dad drives me home, and hands over the almond croissant he bought for me to eat later. The grease has made the paper bag transparent and it looks disgusting, but after I’ve waved him off, I sit on the front doorstep and tear into it and wish he’d bought two.

Bear goes mad when I get in, and not only because of the smell of the almond croissant on my hands. I give in to his doggy devotion for a few minutes, and everything seems better.

I turn on my laptop and check the time. Just two hours have passed since the transfer. Ten endless days to go. At least I don’t have to wait a full fortnight, because our lonesome embryo spent four days developing outside my body.

Please stick around.

What happened at the clinic has changed the direction of my life. Or changed nothing at all. And if the treatment hasn’t worked, could that open up a future with Dan?

He hasn’t messaged me, but then I promised I would be the one to get in touch. Is he pissed off, hurt, worried?

Bear’s desperate to go out, so I take him round the block. Gentle exercise is allowed, but nothing strenuous. Beats me how a baby is ever conceived the natural way but, like every other woman who has had IVF failures, I now follow the rules.

As we head onto the grass, my phone vibrates with a new WhatsApp and even before I check the screen, my intuition says it’s him. My body hums when I see his name and I open the message:

Everything OK? Casey said you’ve been ill.

I don’t even know what OK is any more. But I do know I want to see him so much.

Yes, fine, a 24-hour thing.

Or possibly a nine-month thing. I stare at the message, working out what else to say.

Sorry, I did plan to message you, but didn’t feel up to it.

He types back instantly:

That’s cool.

I wait for him to say more and then realize he’s waiting for me. Before I can change my mind, I tap on the phone icon and he picks up after the first ring.

‘Hey.’

That one syllable sounds like a love song: it sends a familiar wave of heat through me. I try to bring it under control by replaying the grim part of my morning I spent in stirrups.

‘Hey, Dan. Sorry. Again. How are you? How’s Casey?’

‘Good, though she was disappointed not to see you yesterday. So was I.’ He sounds unsure of himself. ‘Were you really ill?’

‘No.’

‘Right. That’s what I thought.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Listen, Gemma. It’s OK if you wish Sunday hadn’t happened. I mean, I’ve been hoping to sweet-talk you into another date. But hearing you now, I don’t want to be that guy who can’t take no for an answer. If you’re not interested, tell me now.’

Plenty more fish in the sea for him to catch.