The midwife, with three deft circles of her hand, removed the umbilical cord from around the baby’s neck.

Three.

That’s the number of times it was wrapped around Kate’s neck.

And Brendan holding her in the cups of his hands afterwards.

Placing her on my belly with a gentleness that was potent, wiping the tears from my face with the pad of his thumb. He said something to me. I think he did. Whispered it. I don’t remember what it was.

But I remember the wonder. Across his face. The like of which I never saw before. Nor since.

“I’m hungry.” Dad’s voice makes me jump.

“Are you sure?”

“What?”

“What I mean is...” Of course he’s sure. All he’s had is a cereal bar. And it must be lunchtime. Or past it. “Could you wait?”

“I’m hungry,” he says, sitting forward so that the seat belt strains against the narrow bone of his chest.

The thought of getting off the motorway is glorious. But I don’t have time. And if I get off, will I have the nerve to get back on?

“Is there anything to eat?” Dad asks, tapping me on the shoulder in a way that will prove most distracting if he persists, which he most certainly will.

“No, I don’t think so...” And then I remember the cake.

Iris’s birthday cake. It’s still in the boot.

But there’s no place to pull in. Except the hard shoulder. Which is a dangerous place to be.

And only supposed to be used in emergency situations. Dad’s fingers drum against my shoulder.

I indicate, check my mirrors, and pull in.

Now we’re on the hard shoulder. It seems much narrower than hard shoulders should be. Each time a car roars past, my fillings vibrate. I grip the door handle.

From behind, I feel Dad’s eyes on me, wondering what I’m going to do next. I open the door and a blast of wind, whipped up by an articulated truck thundering past, throws the door wide open. I think I scream. It’s hard to know for sure because of the noise of the traffic. I grab the handle, pull the door closed. The quiet inside the car is beautiful. I close my eyes and breathe it in, like it’s a scent.

“Where are we?” Dad asks.

“I have cake,” I say.

“I like cake,” he says.

So I get out of the car and get the cake. The box is at the back of the boot, underneath the raincoat I keep there, just in case. The box is displaying signs of wear and tear. Inside, the icing has come undone. The stick figure that was Iris has merged with the rocks and the sea so that the top of the cake is a lumpy mess of concrete gray. Below this congealed surface, the chocolate-biscuit cake itself is edible.

In fact, it is delicious. I break it with my fist. I ring Iris’s phone.

This is Iris. Leave a message but not a long one.