Her face dropped. ‘Fine.’ She stood up, picking her umbrella up. ‘I would wish you good luck but I think you can handle it.’

Mairi was wrong. I couldn’t handle it. That was how it felt at first, anyway. As I walked home, I made a resolution to make the call straightaway. But when I picked the phone up, I couldn’t face it, and quickly placed it back down again. My heart hammered in my chest and pulsed in my throat. I wasn’t sure if I was even going to be able to speak, but I knew it had to be done. So I quickly picked the phone up again and dialled the number Mairi had given me. It rang a few times. ‘Hello?’

I closed my eyes, immediately recognising his voice, imagining him on the other end.

‘Dylan, it’s Gwyneth.’

There was no answer, just the sound of his breath.

‘Dylan?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, voice wary. ‘Just a voice I haven’t heard in a while. How are you?’

‘Good. I’m calling for a reason. It’s something I’ve wanted to tell you for a while but—’ I paused, struggling to speak. ‘There are complicated reasons why I didn’t. But you need to know.’

‘Is everything okay? Are you okay?’

I could hear the worry in his voice. I looked up at the ceiling, blinking back tears. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, so I just will: you have a daughter.’

‘What?’ The shock in his voice was palpable.

‘She’s called Lumin and she’s nearly five. I got pregnant in Iceland.’ I realised I was hammering out the facts but it was the only way I could stop myself from breaking down.

I think he stood up as I could hear motion, maybe the sound of him pacing up and down. ‘Jesus Christ.’

‘I’m so sorry, Dylan. As I tell you this now, it feels even more cruel. How could I keep this from you?’ My words were tripping over each other. ‘I know you must be very angry, but it was never meant to be a vindictive move on my part. I just couldn’t bear the thought of—’ I stopped talking before I said something stupid that might upset him further. I didn’t want to hurt him more than I had already. ‘Will you say something, Dylan?’

‘Tell me about her.’

Relief flooded through me. ‘She started school last week,’ I said. ‘She’s beautiful and brave and wise for her age. Her teacher tells me she is exceptional at art. She has your high cheekbones and my light hair. She’s everything to me and I hate myself right now for depriving her of a father.’

‘When can I meet her? Where are you based now, London still?’