With Rory nearly twelve, David had given up hope. He took Angelina’s change of heart on trust and put in an offer on the house.

Eighteen months later, having secured it with a huge mortgage, not to mention undertaking a programme of works that had wound up costing three times what he’d originally planned, David’s reserves of cash had all but dried up and there was still no sign of a baby.

Then the economy began to falter. All around him in City bars, the talk was not of how many bottles of Krug one could down in a night, but of a bear market and which firm would be next to wield the redundancy axe.

And still Angelina wanted more. The money she spent on soft furnishings began to resemble the GDP of a small Third World country and they absolutely had to put a pool in the walled garden so Rory could bring his friends round to swim.

After increasingly stomach-churning days in the office, David dreaded getting on the train to go home to a house that had become symbolic of the fact he was out of control, as well as to a wife who seemed discontented whatever he gave her.

So, rather than facing reality, he had taken to drowning his sorrows in bars after work. With five or six pints inside him followed by a whisky chaser or two, listening to Angelina’s demands and giving in to them became less painful. He took out a bank loan to cover the swimming pool, then another to cover the costs of resurfacing the tennis court and landscaping the garden.

With the added pressure, his work had suffered. His usual, careful eye was not so firmly placed on the ball as it had once been, and David had made the odd mistake. Nothing serious enough to get him sacked, but with things as tough as they currently were, it was enough for him to be surplus to requirements when the firm decided to downsize.

His boss had finally called him in and told David they were letting him go. He was unemployed as of that moment. He’d get a year’s salary but had to clear his desk and leave immediately.

David had spent a long, long evening in his favourite bar, just managing to catch the last train home.

When he’d got back, Angelina was already in bed. David had staggered into the kitchen, head already pounding, poured himself a large glass of tap water, then went to the cupboard in the pantry, where Angelina kept her first aid box, to find some painkillers.

He lifted the box out, then managed to drop the contents on the floor. Falling to his knees, he began putting the assorted creams, plasters and pills back again. One box, however, caught his eye. It contained the contraceptive pills that Angelina had taken before they’d started trying for a baby.

Then, heart racing, he saw the date they’d been dispensed: two weeks previously. David had opened the box and seen that half the blisters were empty.