The next morning I woke just after six. The early-morning sun was pouring through my windows and the room was already warm. I kept my eyes closed tightly, not ready to face the day. I’d slept heavily and seemed to have stayed in one position all night. My limbs were stiff and aching, but I was too tired to move. I lay on one side and for a moment it felt as though there was a weight on the bed, as though someone was lying behind me, just inches away. In that half sleep I thought of Harry and how I’d slept in his arms that weekend we were in Paris. I’d never slept so well. Now in the dark warmth of my bed I moved just an inch backward, desperate to find him there. As I pushed back I felt something blocking me and my eyes snapped open. I sat up with a lurch. The pillows from the other side of the bed had moved down while I was sleeping and had been pressing against my back.

In the pale light I saw the door was shut tight, a dining chair wedged under the handle. It was just as I’d left it the night before, when I was too frightened to sleep without protection. I tiptoed out of the bedroom and peered over the banister at the hallway below. There was another chair pressed against the front door. Last night I had been determined that nobody would get in without disturbing me. I felt stupid now. Paranoid.

I was so grateful I didn’t have to go in to work and took a mug of coffee back to bed. As I sipped my drink I thought of Harry and wondered whether he was doing the same thing right now. I knew he’d be thinking of me, feeling guilty that I hadn’t known he was staying with Emma. I knew, too, that as he saw her that morning, saw her belly start to swell with their new life, he’d have no real regrets. Unlike me.