Jamie twisted the wire and popped the cork, watched it bounce off the ceiling, stuck the foaming bottle-top in his mouth then poured himself a glass. He kissed Kirsty with champagne-flavoured lips. She held out her own glass.

‘It’s apple juice for you, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, it’s so unfair. Nine months teetotal. I can’t believe it.’

‘Longer if you breastfeed.’

‘God. Don’t remind me.’ But as she said it, she grinned. She hadn’t stopped grinning since the test confirmed her instincts. Apart from five minutes on the way home, when she had sat on a wall on the edge of the park and pondered the enormous changes that were about to happen in their lives. She thought about money, work, sleep, her social life, her figure, and then she dismissed it all and the grin returned. This was what she wanted, more than anything else in the world. She was going to be a mother. What’s more, she was going to a be a damn good mother. And she was with a man she loved, and she knew Jamie would make a fabulous dad. He had always talked about wanting a daughter, a little girl who would look up to him for love and protection, until she became a stroppy teenager, and if she was anything like Kirsty – who made her parents’ lives a misery for about four years – she would be a nightmare. But that was a long way off. And anyway, Kirsty and Jamie were going to be friends with their kids. They would be proud to bring their friends home; they wouldn’t have any secrets; they would talk openly about sex and drugs and all the other things that drove wedges between parents and children.

Kirsty smiled at her own naiveté. And then, sitting on the wall with football-playing boys looking on, she burst into tears. Big, fat, tears of happiness and relief. She could forget about Lucy and Chris now. She could forget about all the bad shit in her life (apart from Paul – she would never forget about Paul) because she had something wonderful to focus on.

‘I guess a son would be cool, as well,’ said Jamie now, guzzling champagne. ‘We could play football, and computer games.’

‘You can do that with a daughter too.’

‘Yes. Actually, I don’t care what we have. Hey, maybe it will be twins. One of each. That would be excellent.’

‘Don’t push it.’