Miranda looked up only as a pretty girl slipped shyly into the room. She was tall and slim, her long brown hair falling out of a ponytail. She wore a loose blue-and-white tunic, sailor-striped, over black leggings. In her late twenties, Miranda judged. A wedding ring, and a big diamond on her left hand. The woman moved delicately, as if she had been a trained dancer, once.

Flat stomach, Miranda noticed, disguised. ‘Hello,’ she said.

They smiled at each other across the quiet of the room. ‘Gorgeous day,’ said Miranda.

‘Have you been waiting long?’ The woman had a soft voice, so that Miranda had to lean close to hear her.

‘Not too long.’ A big smile. ‘Are you waiting for your results?’

‘Not really. No.’ The smile gone, the woman was staring at the lilies with solemn grey eyes. ‘At least . . . No.’

‘He’s so good, isn’t he? Dr Greystone. Everyone says he’s a genius.’

‘Yes.’ A sweet smile. ‘That is what people say.’

The woman picked up a magazine. Flicked through it, without reading the words. She jumped at a bang from the street.

‘Actually’ – Miranda dropped her voice confidingly – ‘we are thinking about surrogacy.’

The woman glanced up, eyes wide. She hesitated, for a moment. Then: ‘Yes. Actually, that is what we decided, too, in the end.’

‘How lovely,’ Miranda smiled at her. ‘When is your baby due?’

The woman’s face lit up. ‘Just a few weeks now. Dr Greystone wanted to talk over a few last things. I can’t . . . I still can’t quite believe it.’

The words were flooding out of her, the joy overwhelming.

‘How wonderful,’ said Miranda. ‘Where will you go to pick up the baby?’

The receptionist came into the room. ‘Emily Burton? Dr Greystone is ready for you now.’

The woman got to her feet, smiled at Miranda over her shoulder.

‘Bangladesh,’ she said, the joy overflowing for a moment. ‘We’re going out to Dhaka.’

17

17

Miranda and Casey watched the Burton-Smiths pick their way down the cobbled street. They were hand in hand, smiling in the light at the end of the day.

‘Thank fuck,’ Miranda whispered, ‘for that.’

They were in Bath, just next to the great Abbey. The grand old church soared above them, the East Window like a frozen dream. The Burton-Smiths paused to look up, still holding hands.

They’ve gone to Bath for a few days, a neighbour had said. A babymoon, that’s what they call it nowadays. At Elton House, or something, she said. Not long now, they say. It’s lovely news.

It had taken days and days to find Emily Burton. We’re running out of time, Casey had fretted, curved over her desk.