She looked a little upset, but didn’t seem as horrified as he’d expected. Perhaps it was too abstract – the idea of a dead child is different to the reality of seeing a child, dead. Human empathy doesn’t extend that far. It needs personal experience. But even so, he began to feel a little worried she simply didn’t believe him.

‘Do you believe me?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ she replied.

He didn’t know what to say next.

‘I’ve got proof of everything,’ he tried. ‘So we can make it all public. I’ve got records of when the babies died, which pouches failed, internal reports showing that everyone knew what had happened. Standard memos sent every year reminding us that our research was confidential. It’s all on my computer, saved on the hard drive somewhere. I’ll sort through it all. I’ll show you everything.’

She shook her head.

‘What?’

‘It’s just that, well – they are trying to fix it, you said. And that’s good. They’ll work out what’s happening, and if the pouches are faulty they’ll fix them. There are thousands of healthy births every year, though. Hundreds of thousands …’

‘But people are being lied to,’ he said.

She smiled at him then, as if she found him naive.

‘People are always being lied to, one way or another. I’m sure it’s not a conspiracy.’

‘You’re missing the point.’ He was irritated now. He stood up, strode away from the sofa, then turned and sat down again. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s just—’ But how could he tell her about his fear, about what all this really meant? Because James Quentin was born via the pouch. And James Quentin’s daughters were born via the pouch. And he knew, deep down, that if third-generation babies were at risk, then his children would suffer too. It could be the body of his grandchild that would, one day soon, be delivered through a series of cleanroom hatches to the scientists working in the research lab on the fifteenth floor of the FullLife birthing centre.

‘What’s wrong, James?’ she said quietly.

She sounded like she was still trying to coax the truth out of him – as if everything he’d said about work, about the pouches, had been some kind of midlife crisis and she’d help him through it. He was finally telling the truth and she didn’t believe him.

‘I’m having an affair,’ he said.

‘No you’re not.’

‘Fine, I’m not.’

He sighed, ran his hands through his hair.

‘What is going on with you?’

‘But I was,’ he said. ‘I did, I mean.’ He took a deep breath. This was happening now. After the initial burst it was harder to continue than he’d expected. ‘I had an affair.’