His forehead creases into a frown. “But…but how could this happen?”

I raise my eyebrows. “And you a GP,” I say, my voice light and teasing, my heart hammering in my chest. You’d think it would be easy having this conversation with the man you love, but it isn’t. For some ludicrous reason, I feel like I’ve tricked him into something he doesn’t want, even though he was the one who didn’t wear a condom, who promised me he’d be careful.

He runs his hands through his hair. “Fucking hell.”

My stomach plummets. Coming home on the bus today, I was scared, but happy. I’d convinced myself that this was a good thing. A good thing for both of us. But Ross doesn’t want this baby. That much is clear.

Finally, he notices the expression on my face. “Oh, darling, I didn’t mean…”

He comes round to my side of the bed and perches on the edge, takes my hands in his. “I was just thinking about what it all means, in terms of your meds and everything.”

“It’s okay, I’ve already discussed that with Dr. Ahmed.”

He looks surprised. Hurt. “You’ve been to the doctor’s already?”

“Yes, I wanted to be sure before telling you.”

Only now I realize that that was a mistake. I should have told him straightaway. After all, we’re in this together. At least, I thought we were.

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“Of course I’m pleased. Oh, Lizzie, sweetheart, I’m sorry. It’s just that…I was so sure I’d pulled out in time.” He laughs then. A short, incredulous laugh that gives me hope. “I just didn’t expect this to happen so soon.”

“You’re not the only one who’s surprised. It’s come as a bit of a shock to me, too.”

He gathers me up in his arms and squeezes me tight. He kisses the top of my head and that horrible dead feeling in my chest, the crushing disappointment of the last few minutes, disappears.

“Bloody hell, Lizzie,” he murmurs into my hair. “When’s it due?”

“Dr. Ahmed said the tenth of December.”

“A baby,” he says at last, his voice high with emotion. “We’re going to have a baby.”

I laugh through my tears. “I know! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

—

The first thing I see when I open the front door the next morning is a large bouquet of flowers and a pair of black-trousered legs sticking out from underneath. The bouquet moves to one side to reveal the chubby, pink-cheeked face of the delivery man.

“Someone’s a lucky lady,” he says. “Lizzie Molly-Nex? Is that you?”

“Yes,” I say. “How lovely. Thank you.”

I close the door and take the bouquet into the kitchen, beaming like an idiot. I’ve been wondering if he might do this.