And she was starting to feel hungry. When Matt got back she would make something to eat. Maybe cheese on toast, with a splash of Worcestershire sauce on the top. When she and her brother, Mike, were kids that had been their dad’s Sunday speciality; she associated it with memories of sitting around the kitchen table on Sunday evenings, their dad drinking a big mug of tea as they ate his cheese on toast. He was a creative and adventurous cook – after their mum had died he had had to learn, and he had turned out to be pretty good – and during the week he made tagines and curries and a fantastic lasagne and moussaka and whatever else he dreamed up when he came back from the school where he taught physics. It meant they ate late – at around 7 p.m. – but that was fine by her. She loved ending the day around the table with her dad and brother.

You have to eat together, her dad said. Every day if you can.

Sundays, though, were not for cooking. They were for spending together, as a family of three, small and tight and independent. They went for hikes and to football matches and on canoe trips and swimming in lakes and rivers and whatever else they felt like.

And then on Sunday evenings, all time for cooking consumed, it was cheese on toast, and it was her favourite meal of the week.

She felt ready for some this evening, thank God. It might perk her up enough to try for the baby Matt had persuaded her was a good idea.

She smiled at the thought. It was so sweet how much he loved being a father. It was clear he would have as many as she would allow, but four – if it happened – would be the limit.

Her phone started to ring. She had left it in the kitchen; it could wait. She cradled her tea and sank into the sofa.

A few seconds later it rang again. She closed her eyes and let it ring out.

It rang again. Whoever it was, was really trying. It could be her dad; there might be a problem. She put her mug on the carpet and walked into the kitchen.

She felt a jolt of concern when she looked at the screen. It was Matt.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘You need me?’

‘Annabelle,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you answer?’

He sounded alarmed and her concern grew.

‘I was in the living room. My phone was in the kitchen.’

‘Good.’ He was panting, his breath short. ‘Is everything OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

There was more heavy breathing. ‘I’m on my way home.’

She noticed he had not answered the question. ‘You sound like you’re out of breath.’

‘I’m running.’

She looked up at her reflection in the window. She was frowning.

‘You’re running? Why are you running?’