When I told him my period was late yesterday, his reaction was to warn me again about gun-jumping. I tried to believe it was because he was trying to protect me from more disappointment. But...I can sense lies. I’m good at detecting the telltale signs. More often than not, it’s concealed in the barely perceptible shift of a gaze.

Ben’s eyes betrayed relief. He does not want to have a baby with me anymore; he just hasn’t got round to telling me. I down the contents of my mug and make myself another.

By the time Ben’s key turns in the lock, I’ve come up with a plan: avoidance. Plus, a mental pact not to lie in future (at least not big ones), and I’ll do all the things Ben’s asked me to, like spend less time at Stuart’s, talk about things other than Nina or our future baby, be more fun. I figure that if I weather this particular relationship storm, things will naturally settle down. My dad always says that. Most of the time, it’s true.

“Hi,” I say.

We hug, but don’t kiss.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

There’s no point in trying to hide my red eyes. I look like a frog. I shrug.

Ben knows what it means. He holds me tight and I give into grief again, my eyes shut tight, my face buried against his chest so I don’t have to deal with his reaction.

There are practicalities to deal with in the aftermath of a big lie; enough of a reversal in order that I don’t have to confess outright. There is an art to it: a mix of weaker lies, a dash of truth, a deflective comment, until I come up with something decent enough to let me off the hook. I enjoy it in a twisted way and almost take pride in my creativity. There’s painful pleasure with the release of fear, the underlying panic at being caught out obliterated like a downpour after a dry spell.

I start with Deborah: a phone call. My period came, a hint of an early miscarriage.

Tamsin is next with a text outlining a similar fib.

I tell Stuart in person.

“I made a mistake.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he says. “Nina thought she was expecting twice before Emily came along.”

Betrayal is a hard emotion to conceal because it twins with the physical symptoms of sickness. Sometimes, I used to think that I was being a bit paranoid or oversensitive when I felt left out of Nina’s life. Each time I’m confronted with evidence that it wasn’t my mind, it’s bittersweet.

“I hope it happens for you soon,” Stuart continues. “You’re so great with children. Can I make you a coffee? Tea?”

“No, thanks, I’m on my way to work, a sixtieth birthday celebration,” I say. “I just popped by to tell you and get it out of the way so that I can move on without any...” I struggle for the right word “...misunderstanding.”