She didn’t ask how he was doing. How Kaz was doing. Or how Piotr felt. There was no need – she could see it clearly. And she knew how Rosie would be feeling too. Though, she couldn’t help thinking, that didn’t work both ways. Rosie didn’t know the full extent of how she had felt, wouldn’t be having to cope with the excruciating blood, the deep ache of it. Her body wouldn’t still be trying, uselessly, to mother. Would the emotional trauma be the same? She wouldn’t wish that on anyone. But she realised, as she sat not quite looking Piotr in the eye, that her plan was flimsy, to say the least. Write an article. That’s all she had. Go public. Suddenly it seemed callous. Superficial.

There had only been three hospitals left in London that catered for natural births by the time Eva was pregnant. All were private of course – the government hadn’t funded any kind of health care for years – and more expensive than FullLife. But Eva could afford it. They’d chosen the hospital together, she and Piotr, after visiting maternity wards and midwives. ‘Although there’ve been no recent medical advances,’ their doctor explained with a smile, visibly pregnant herself, ‘we women have been doing this for a long time. We have everything we need.’ Piotr had been full of questions, of course: what happens if, and how do we know, and what other options. Eva was so happy she just put her arm around his waist as he quizzed the doctors and inspected the facilities. His questions showed how much he loved his baby. He was protective, nervous. Though Eva wasn’t nervous. She wasn’t looking forward to the pain, but she’d never really believed the pain could be all that bad anyway. It was natural, as her mum said, it was what our bodies were designed to do. And to Eva it had felt right, being pregnant. She’d felt healthy, grounded – the world made more sense than it had done before. Where was the sense in the world now?

Piotr’s chair screeched back against the tiles and he stood up, exhaling loudly. He stared at the kitchen wall, his eyes resting on the unadorned paintwork before turning to her. He looked tired. Tired, and older.

‘I want to prove it’s not the parents’ fault,’ he said. ‘That there was nothing they could have done differently.’

It looked like his hands were shaking, but that must have been an illusion of the light. It was shimmering through the late mist outside, the low-lying cloud that seemed to be clinging to her home.

‘I have a contact,’ she said. ‘One of the scientists. High up. He has proof it’s happened before.’

‘And that the pouch is at fault?’

She hesitated. ‘They don’t know why it’s happening. They don’t know—’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘You believe that?’