The picture was far more obvious, more eye-catching, than the list of health-care plans. The pouch was still top priority, that much was clear. She flicked through the rest, scanning over colour photos and well-spaced text, but there was nothing in there about Rosie Bhattacharyya. Maybe Piotr had wangled the exclusive in print as well as online. It wasn’t that she wanted him to fall apart without her, she just hadn’t expected …

The bell over the door jangled, brightly. She looked up, but it wasn’t him.

He was late, which was making her suspicious, and she was in no mood to be patient. In her mind he was definitely Quentin again, not James. She stood up and asked for her coffee to go.

It had turned into one of those bright, crisp winter days that suited London so well, the spires catching the light on their tips like beads of water on needles. The bare trees had ice on their branches. She liked trees better without their leaves, preferred frost and brittle bark to the restful greens of summer. With the same determination she’d had when leaving the cafe, she pushed the large, revolving glass door of the birthing centre and marched, eyes diverted from the tower of baby photos, straight up to reception.

‘I’m here to see Dr Quentin,’ she announced loudly.

The young man on reception had been looking at his phone, smiling – perhaps messaging someone – but if she’d waited she would have risked appearing nervous. He started clicking through the bookings to check her appointment but, of course, could find no section for Dr Quentin. The reception desk only directed people to the medical doctors who performed monthly check-ups and delivered newborns.

‘I know my way,’ she began saying.

He was flustered. ‘Just give me a minute …’

She regretted not making straight for the lift now, seeing if she could outrun him, though she had no idea how to get to the restricted research labs. She’d always avoided this building. Stupid – she should have been studying it, learning her way round for when she needed access. That’s what her mum would have done.

‘I’ll just … let me just …’ he was saying.

He reached for the phone. Well, she thought, perhaps Quentin would actually give her access – he was the one who had suggested meeting, after all. Behind the reception desk, a wall-mounted screen displayed the latest FullLife advert.

She waited. Her eyes fell to the pouch the receptionist was wearing – still small, in the first trimester. Brand new though, with all the expensive extras, audio adapter, portable nutrient feed, the smart-cover that expanded with the pouch itself. FullLife made sure their staff had the best of the best, no used pouches for them. She peered at his mobile and saw he’d been looking at an ultrasound. He’d been smiling at his baby.

‘There’s no answer,’ he said, looking up. ‘Would you mind waiting …’