‘My study,’ says Saffy, from behind her. ‘We haven’t got around to decorating it yet. I don’t think this wallpaper has been changed in fifty years!’

Lorna turns back to her daughter, a smile plastered to her face. A sewing machine. Her mother never had one in the Bristol house. ‘It’s cute,’ she says. ‘It’ll look lovely when it’s painted.’

Saffy throws her an uncertain smile as though sensing something has unnerved Lorna. ‘And then upstairs,’ she indicates the staircase – bare boards: were they like that before? – ‘there are three bedrooms. The master bedroom at the front, then a small double and a single overlooking the back garden where we’ll put the ba–’ She She stops, a horrified expression crossing her face.

‘The what? Were you . . .’ It suddenly dawns on Lorna. The roundness to Saffy’s face, the slight weight gain. ‘. . . were you about to say baby?’

Saffy’s cheeks turn fuchsia and she nods, looking guilty. ‘Yes. I’m pregnant.’

Lorna reels. Pregnant. Shit. She’s still so young. Still her baby. Lorna feels a thud of disappointment. Saffy’s only twenty-four and has barely lived. Has she learnt nothing from Lorna? She was always telling her to wait until she was older and had her career established before marriage and kids.

‘I . . . Wow, that’s wonderful news, honey,’ she manages to say, swallowing her true feelings. ‘Congratulations.’ She wraps her daughter in a hug although Saffy feels tense in her arms. Is she that unconvincing? She pulls away to address Tom, who’s standing awkwardly by the front door, still clutching her suitcase, Snowy sitting at his feet, his head cocked to one side looking up at her. ‘You too, Tom. Wow.’ She turns back to her daughter. ‘How far along? Have you had the three-month scan yet?’

Saffy nods, a blush creeping down her neck and towards her blue and white striped T-shirt. ‘Yes. I’m seventeen weeks now. The baby’s due on the thirteenth of October.’