There were only a few women in the waiting room. Miranda smiled around the room, and then sat down to leaf through piles of Country Life and Good Housekeeping and House and Garden. Not Mother and Baby, though. Not here. There were more lilies in the waiting room. The sofas were a soft pink, with framed watercolours of flowers on the wall.

Miranda sat down, and waited. It never took long to learn a routine.

The receptionist came for the women, some of the appointments taking just a few minutes. Only one of the women was accompanied by a husband. He was awkward, not sure quite where to look. Several women were pregnant already, touching their bumps self-consciously. Not them, thought Miranda. Not them.

Miranda began chatting to the women as they arrived. Have you come far? Aren’t the lilies lovely? I’ve heard he’s brilliant, Dr Greystone. You hear such encouraging things.

And then gently: It’s just not working, not for us. No matter what we do. You too? I know. It’s devastating.

The receptionist popped in. ‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Lancaster. It’s just such a busy day that I haven’t been able to squeeze you in earlier.’

‘There’s really no rush,’ said Miranda. ‘I would have to wait somewhere else anyway, and it’s much nicer here. My husband and I are getting the train home together, you see.’

‘Of course.’ That gleaming smile. ‘Another cup of tea?’

‘Thank you.’

Just then, a woman came out of Greystone’s office, crying. She stood on the landing, tears trickling down her face. A sound like an animal in pain came from her throat, as she stared blankly at the stairs. And the other women in the waiting room looked away, because this horror was too raw.

Miranda’s heart twisted for this woman, crying outside an anonymous waiting room. She stood up sharply.

‘Are you all right?’

‘It’s failed.’ The woman could barely speak. ‘It’s failed, again.’

It wasn’t fair, talking to her. Not here. Not now. Not ever.

But Miranda hugged the woman, because she was there. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. She felt the thin shoulders shake, the despair physical.

The receptionist had her routine. She patted shoulders caringly. She handed out tissues. She called a taxi. Don’t cry, Mrs Abbott. Next time. Next time. Next time. And the woman was ushered away, still crying, out of sight.

Forgive us our trespasses.

Miranda sat there for a long time, staring at the white lilies in a silver bowl, orange stamens stripped, seeing nothing at all.

‘Another cup of tea?’ the receptionist asked.