After eight hours, the baby’s heartbeat was faltering. Then came the alarming news, as yet another midwife came and prodded at Nula, that the baby had twisted, it was breech, it was in trouble.

By that time, Nula was almost too weak to scream any more. Everything hurt. She was drenched in sweat. When they finally called on someone who knew what the fuck they were talking about and she was wheeled down to the operating theatre to have the baby delivered by caesarean, she was so grateful that she didn’t even care if she died in the attempt. The mask came down over her face, and she was gone.

Nula awoke to a thin wail. For a moment, she thought it was her, still shrieking and crying and telling those idiots that something was wrong.

But no. She was back on the ward, and a new nurse, smiling, was placing the baby in her arms.

‘You’ve got a little girl,’ she said.

Nula looked down at the kid, who was squirming lightly. The baby blinked and yawned. Nula touched a hand to the baby’s cheek, and one of the little starfish hands grabbed onto her finger and held it. A wave of true love hit Nula then, and she felt emotional tears slide down her face.

‘What are you going to call her?’ asked the nurse.

‘Millicent,’ said Nula. It was the name she and Charlie had agreed on. ‘Milly,’ she amended.

Nula looked around. There were five other mothers in this small maternity ward. At every other bed but hers, there were flowers, big handsome bouquets of roses and lilies. And there were men standing or sitting by each bed – the fathers, all proud and smiling. And where the fuck was Charlie?

Away somewhere. On business. Nula sank back onto the pillows, weak and worn out.

She had a daughter.

But . . . she knew Charlie would be put out. She knew how much he’d wanted a son.

Next time, she would have a boy and he would be happy.

It would all work out.

Then her consultant called round at ten the following morning and reeled off lots of medical terms that she didn’t even understand.

‘Meaning what?’ she said when he’d droned on for what felt like hours.

‘Nula – this is it, for you. You’re not suited to childbirth and it would be too dangerous for you to go through it again,’ he said.

More kids? A son to delight her husband?

No.

That wasn’t going to happen.

Not any more.

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