I note that it was the year Emily was born, a year in which I felt almost permanently despondent at my inability to conceive. Conscious that I’ve gone silent for too long, I come up with something polite to move the conversation on and so as not to dwell on now redundant, sad times.

“Where did you move from?”

“Devon. And, before you ask, it was for love.”

We both smile.

“It didn’t work out in the way I thought it would,” he continues. He sounds mournful? Bitter? Wistful? I can’t quite put my finger on it. “But I like the area, so I’ve settled, made it my home.”

I type his name into a search engine after he’s left. Nothing immediately untoward leaps out. It’s funny how I’ve sat next to him so many times in book meetings and never given him or his background a moment’s thought. Until recently, in my mind, he has always been just book-group Greg.

I distract myself instead by staring at the images of our house entrance and immediate surroundings, watching cars, cyclists, ponies and pedestrians pass by. It’s reassuring, and I’m grateful for the fresh focus it has given me; a practical approach to divert my fears.

Yet, come morning, impatience and disappointment strikes again with more uneventful footage. Whoever it is, they aren’t going to make it easy for me to unmask them.

Twenty-Nine

I will soon be forced to take a break from therapy because the countdown to my due date is turning into weeks, no longer months. The thought of losing my emotional crutch is disconcerting. When I sit down opposite Christian for one of our last sessions, I can’t get comfortable. It’s not just my size, it’s the unsettling atmosphere at home, Nina’s shadow and the secret.

“I haven’t just made one mistake, I’ve made loads because one invariably leads to another.”

Saying it out loud makes it real and true.

“I don’t know why I ever thought I wanted what I’ve now got,” I say. “The kids are beginning to pick up on the atmosphere because they’re playing up. The place is a mess. We don’t have a cleaner at the moment.” I realize how that must sound. “I know that this isn’t a problem in itself, that I’m very lucky,” I say. “But all the little things keep adding up. For example, Ben, my ex, had a baby girl a few weeks ago.” I pause. “I saw pictures—online, of course. There’s no escape, however hard I try to avoid them.” That is the truth, we still have mutual friends. I continue, “He looked overjoyed and proud. When my baby is born, Stuart won’t feel the same.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because he’s done it twice before.”

“In my experience, that’s not how it works. This is a new life, one you chose to create together.”

“Only, he didn’t choose, not really.” I take a breath. “I chose. I knew what I wanted and I went for it. I was angry with Nina, fed up with always feeling like she’d got one over on me. I appreciate how that sounds, but it’s how I felt. I thought that if I had her life, I’d understand things more, that I’d feel better. Whole. No, that’s not what I mean either.”