It’s only when the front door has closed behind him that I release the sigh I’ve been holding inside. I know he’s only being a good GP and that I should be proud of him for rushing off to be at the side of one of his patients, but I can’t help thinking that he didn’t try hard enough to see if anyone else could go in his place. I also can’t help thinking that he doesn’t seem as disappointed about this as I am, but then I’m probably just imagining that. Ross doesn’t show his emotions as easily as I do. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t have them.

“Lizzie? What’s wrong?” Catherine is coming downstairs and is staring at me quizzically. She’s still in her dressing gown, because it’s her day off today. Her skin is flushed from the shower and her hair is still damp.

I wipe a stray tear from the corner of my eye and pull myself together. “It’s fine, honestly. Ross has got to attend a dying patient so he can’t take me for my scan. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Oh, but that’s so disappointing for you both,” she says. “The mid-pregnancy scan is a real milestone. You can’t possibly go on your own. Why don’t I take you?”

I hesitate. If Ross can’t be there, I’m not sure I want anyone else. She’s right, though. It is a milestone. Why doesn’t Ross realize that? Although, of course, he was there when I had the first one, the night he took me to A & E. Not that I can remember much about it—I was so wiped out.

“Let me drive you there, at the very least,” she says.

Then again, it might be good to have her there. If they find anything they’re worried about, will they tell me if I’m on my own? I doubt they would. And I so need the reassurance this scan can give me.

Fifteen minutes later, we’re outside on the street. The sky is a whitish gray, but the air is warm and humid. Climbing into Catherine’s little red Peugeot is like stepping into a greenhouse. Hot and stuffy. Airless.

Before I can sit down, she has to scoop up a nursing journal, a pair of sunglasses, some lip salve, and an old baseball cap and toss them onto the already cluttered backseat. I’ve never seen so much junk in one car.

“Sorry about the mess in here,” she says, brushing what look like crisp crumbs off the seat and into the footwell. “One of these days I might actually clean it up.”

“Ross would have a fit if he saw this,” I say, grinning. “He treats his car like the inside of a temple.”