I rehearse what I’m going to say to Ben: I’ve sensed he’s had doubts, that I have them, too (I don’t). That Nina’s death has hit me so hard that I wake up feeling winded (true). However, the most effective thing will probably be if I tell him that I love him more than I’ve ever loved anyone.

“It’s too late,” according to Ben. “It sounds clichéd, but we’ve been drifting apart for a long time,” he says. “It’s easy to blame external things, like the amount of time you spent at Nina’s, how low down your list of priorities I feel, but I know I’m not perfect either.”

I sip the freshly ground coffee he made me before he instigated our talk. He’s made it exactly the way I like it, full-fat milk, not too strong. I wonder if this is the last nice thing he’ll ever do for me.

“I’m sorry if this sounds cruel, but I’m glad we couldn’t conceive after all,” he carries on. “It makes it easier for us to part amicably, without complications.”

“Talk about kicking someone when they’re down.” I stop. There’s a gentle art to applying emotional pressure. If I pile it on too heavily, too soon, he’ll feel cornered. “A baby wouldn’t be a complication,” I say. “It would be an extension of our relationship. It would cement us, give us more common ground.”

“I...” He stops. He turns away from me and looks out of the window before looking back again with an added air of determination about him. “This is hard, harder than I thought it would be to say, but I’m going to be honest. No more lies.”

“Lies?”

Oh my God, please no. I know what he’s going to say, it’s so painfully obvious, I bet even Judy’s guessed. I try to block out the words that will make me hate him, force me to agree to us splitting up, upend my whole life, my dreams.

The words, when he says them, are even worse than I feared. It’s not just that he doesn’t want a baby. He does want one. Just not with me. He’s been seeing someone—no one I know apparently—and he’s desperately sorry, didn’t want me to find out from someone else (thoughtful of him) but...she’s pregnant. Only just found out last night apparently! Unplanned, unfortunate, unexpected.

Un-fucking-fair more like! On and on the excuses, justifications and apologies stream from his mouth: a mess; he didn’t mean to be weak and cruel; he should’ve addressed the issues between us earlier, blah blah blah.

None of this helps me because I can’t fight something as catastrophic as this. Truth is a painful bastard. Lying to yourself is a much better option—it’s the purest form of deception, the best protection there is.

“How long?”

“I told you. She’s only just found out.”

“How scary for you, potentially two pregnant women at the same time! You know very well that what I mean is how long have you been sleeping with her?”