By the time Harry came up to bed, I was too agitated for a massage. While the shower was running I’d saved Tom’s number to my mobile, using the name Anna. I was so glad I’d canceled the landline; I couldn’t cope if he called on that when I was out.

“Who was on the phone?” asked Harry when he came into the bedroom minutes later.

“Oh, no one.” I smoothed moisturizer over my face, closing my eyes so that I didn’t have to look at him. “Just a call center.”

“I didn’t think they were allowed to call at this time of night.”

I went into the bathroom. “Yeah, well, it might have been one from another country. I didn’t stay on long enough to find out.” I started to brush my teeth, knowing that conversation would be impossible now, and by the time I went back into the bedroom he seemed to have forgotten all about it.

I turned down the massage in the end, saying I was feeling a bit sick, but Harry then held me for an hour, talking about the baby, what we’d call it, the holidays we’d have, how we’d decorate their bedroom, when I thought she would stop calling him Daddy and call him Dad instead.

I felt like my heart was breaking.

While he slept quietly by my side, one hand still lightly protecting my stomach, I gently turned away and took out my phone, angling it so that even if he woke, Harry wouldn’t see the screen. I went onto private browsing and filled in a form so that I could find out who on earth was my baby’s father.

Once my payment was accepted, I was able to access their instructions. I read them religiously. I had to provide a blood sample myself. That was easy enough to arrange through the site. Then I had to collect Harry’s DNA and since I couldn’t ask him for a swab, the only way I could do that was to collect some of his nail clippings. I guessed that Tom would have happily provided swabs for me, but I didn’t want to involve him. And then he’d want the results: What if they weren’t what I wanted?

•   •   •

So the next day I replaced the bin liner in the bathroom bin and scrubbed the nail clippers. When he had a shower before bedtime, I called through to him, “Harry, you scratched me in bed last night. Cut your nails!”

He came out of the bathroom looking all apologetic and I felt like such a bitch. When he was asleep I crept back into the bathroom and replaced the bag with a new one and hid the evidence in my study. The next morning, after he’d left for work, I put the nails into the bag provided.