I saw as Nick’s face twisted that he genuinely cared for that idiot creature, more than he did for me it seemed, since he hadn’t even asked how my ankle was, just was the baby alright. I found myself unexpectedly sad as well. The house was too quiet without Poppet’s barking and panting, dashing across the floor avid to see me, even when I’d just been in the loo for two minutes. Surely he was just lost. He’d come back to us. ‘Those will help find him, I know they will.’ I nodded to a stack of Missing Dog posters on the table, which Nick had already printed up; a grainy phone shot of the dog, his eyes turned red by the flash, his tongue out. Idiot.

Nick rounded on me. ‘There are gangs, you know. They steal dogs to order, sell them on.’ He’d even rung the police. From the mood he’d been in when he hung up, I gathered they hadn’t been as responsive as he’d hoped.

I could hardly countenance the idea of someone stealing Poppet. ‘He’ll be OK. Someone will have him.’ Or else he’d been hit by a car, dying even now on some cold road, confused and frightened. I didn’t want to think about that.

‘Christ, it’s late. I need to go to bed.’ Nick ran his hands over his face. His dorky nylon rucksack already stood packed by the door. Water bottle, packed lunch, carry cup – he was such a model citizen. ‘You’ll be alright looking for Poppet on your own tomorrow? Wear proper shoes. You have to be more careful, you know – it’s not just about you now.’

I shrugged. I didn’t know the answer to that. It turned out there were varying degrees of alright.

That night, in bed, I found myself once again brooding about the first time we met, back in May. Not even that long ago, but it felt like years. The moment when a normal person, a happily married person, would have finished her drink and gone to bed, alone. So many choices I’d made that night, sending things one way and not the other. Ending up here, pregnant, afraid, stricken by a loss I couldn’t even tell anyone about. Having the second drink that you offered me, for example. I was quite drunk by then. It was like being Shoreditch Suzi again, slumped over the table jawing about something, rubbing my leg against Damian’s where no one could see, smoking outside in the cold and grasping his wrist to light my cigarette. She’d been fun, Shoreditch Suzi. In the end, after what happened, I’d hated her.