‘Thanks, love. I hate to be a nuisance. It’s a bit of a shock.’

‘Are you . . . are they going to operate?’

Linda laughed, and started coughing again. ‘Sorry, Chris.’ One more big hack, and in a wheezing voice she said ‘It’s a bit late for that, I’m afraid. Look, come and see me, right?’

Christine walked back into Lincoln’s Inn Fields, sat down before her knees gave way, and stared at the dead leaves, feeling the cold creeping into her bones.

Linda is dying. I must phone Andy.

But Andy was away again, and there was no one else she could talk to.

‘Christine?’

‘Oh!’ She jumped. ‘God!’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.’ It was John Ferguson, bending slightly at the waist to peer down at her, briefcase in one hand, neatly rolled umbrella in the other, one of hundreds of identical men on their way to work. ‘Are you okay?’

‘John.’ She couldn’t think of anything to say. He had found her sitting on a park bench nursing a cardboard cup of coffee, looking as if she’d lost her mind.

He probably thinks I’m not going into chambers any more . . . That I’ve turned into one of those people who sit on park benches all day . . .

‘Sorry.’ She pulled herself together, forced a smile. ‘I’ve just had some bad news and . . . Well, it’s rather upset me.’

‘Ah.’ He sat down beside her, apparently in no hurry.

‘It’s Linda.’

‘Oh dear. What now?’

‘She’s . . .’ Christine felt her chest go hollow, felt pressure building in her head, demanding release. ‘She’s got cancer.’

‘Ah.’ John folded his gloved hands in his lap, stared down at his shoes.

Of course . . . His wife . . .

‘Sorry, John. This is the last thing you need. It’s hit me rather hard for some reason.’

‘Yes. It does.’

She blew her nose, took a sip of coffee, stood up. He remained seated, looking across the park to the bare trees. ‘How is Sue?’

John looked up at her. With a shock, she realised that his eyes were full of tears.

‘She died last week.’

Victoria dragged herself out of bed, feeling as if she had been run over by a bus. Every limb ached, and her stomach was doing cartwheels. It felt exactly like a hangover, but she’d hardly touched a drop for weeks, telling everyone she was on detox. She crept to the bathroom, taking care not to wake Leanne, knelt by the toilet and vomited as quietly as possible.

Nearly four months gone, and I’m still getting morning sickness. It’s not fair . . .

She stood up, rinsed her mouth at the sink and spat. It was cold in the bathroom, and she pulled her dressing gown around her.

How long before I start to show?