She slammed the phone down. ‘You can go up. Floor two.’

‘And – what’s the department again?’ I asked timidly.

A frown crossed her face. ‘Gynaecology, of course.’

Endocrinology: the study of hormones and their effect on the body. Dopamine is a hormone, the chemical that makes us addicted, drives us to tap endlessly at our phones or scroll for ever through dating apps. Oxytocin is a hormone, the feeling of love that floods our brains when we’re close to someone. The conference I met you at had been on hormones, and I knew that infertility was often caused by imbalances in progesterone, testosterone. It made sense.

I managed to get myself into the lift and find the right ward among the bewildering colour-coded maps on the walls. My heart was gasping in my chest, and I could feel the baby squirm, uneasy, no doubt drowned in a flood of adrenaline. Another hormone, the one that lets us run faster than we knew we could, lift cars off children. I waited on a bank of chairs, absorbing the peculiar calm of hospitals, the rustle of sterile paper and squeak of nursing shoes. Then an administrator in a lanyard came out and called me into a small office, and the name on its door was Dr Andrew Holt.

I got to my feet, wobbly. I was maybe going to see you. In just a few seconds. Just across a few feet of hospital flooring. Maybe your face would darken, and you’d push me out. Maybe I’d cry. I brushed at the ajar door and saw . . .

It wasn’t you. The man in the room was nothing like you. He was short, around five foot seven or so, and stockily built, with a wide, smiling face, sandy hair receding on top. He wore a jumper over a shirt and tie, the sleeves pushed up. ‘Mrs Halscombe. Or Ms? Please, sit, sit. I gather you wanted to speak to me, but I’m afraid we can’t find your patient records. Was it a polycystic case? If so, I can see the outcome was good!’

‘Um . . . no, there won’t be any records.’

‘Oh?’

‘Um, this is going to sound very weird, but a while ago, earlier this year, I met someone who said he was Dr Andrew Holt. But – you’re not him.’ That wasn’t exactly what had happened, but I couldn’t think how to explain.

He frowned, but not in a nasty way. Like he was really trying to understand. ‘Where was this?’

‘At a conference. Endo – Endrocon, something like that?’

‘Oh God, that shindig? I always try to duck out if I can, it’s just a jolly really, and all in some awful airport hotel with mediocre food.’ He looked as if he cared about food, the kind of man who’d get excited when he found a new type of dried mushroom.

‘So you weren’t at this year’s?’