It’s the night of the housewarming party and the guests should be arriving any time now. The last three weeks have flown by. The spring weather has been glorious—it’s been the tenth-warmest March on record. There haven’t been any more of those strange phone calls, thank goodness, and the papers have at last moved on from the Elodie Stevens story. Plus, I’ve unpacked the last of the boxes and filled in the application form for Greenwich University. The only fly in the ointment is the nonappearance of my period.

I think of the impulse purchase I made in Boots yesterday, the pregnancy test that’s still tucked at the bottom of my handbag. We had sex without a condom a few weeks ago and it’s been playing on my mind, along with everything else. Ross withdrew in time, I’m sure he did, but still, I’m usually as regular as clockwork.

I don’t want a baby. I mean, I do, one day. I’d love to be a mother. But not yet, not when my options are finally opening up. It’s been wonderful these last two years. Not having any major seizures. Falling in love with Ross. Living a normal life at last. Something I never dared believe would happen.

I’m not pregnant, I can’t be. I’m just a few days late, that’s all.

Ross points the remote at the stereo in the living room and the mellow tones of John Legend singing “All of Me” float out of the speakers. We slow-dance, my head resting against his chest.

“The house looks incredible,” he says. “I feel bad that you’ve had to do everything on your own. You’ve worked so hard.”

“It does. You should. And I have,” I say, enjoying the moment of closeness and gazing over his shoulder at the fairy lights strung around the mirror over the fireplace. I really panicked this morning when he had to go out on two emergency calls. But somehow, I’ve accomplished every task on my list, and most of the ones on his. It took me ages to get those lights looking right, and what with all the candles twinkling away, the living room now has the feel of a magical grotto. Housewarming. It’s an apt name. The house does indeed feel warmer. Must be all those candles.

When the doorbell goes, we spring apart and into action—Ross to the front door and me into the kitchen to start cutting the bread. I feel awkward all of a sudden, wooden and unnatural, as if I’ve forgotten how to do something as simple as walk into my own kitchen. By the time Ross reappears with a well-dressed couple in their late thirties bearing wine and flowers, I’ve managed to drop one end of a baguette into the washing-up bowl. I whisk it out, hoping they haven’t noticed.