Vee sometimes wonders whether there’s a tribe to fit every argument. She doesn’t say so, though. She doesn’t want to talk about hypothetical babies. She needs to know more about the one at the table, midway through its second pint of cider.

‘When’s it due?’

‘In three months. I just found out last week. I can’t get a late abortion. Don’t fancy throwing myself down the stairs.’

This has to be, at least partly, bravado. ‘But—’

‘But what?’

‘I don’t know, Leonie. Would the father want it?’

‘No. And why would I give it to a man?’

‘If there’s no such thing as maternal instinct, why wouldn’t you?’

Leonie smiles, such a broad warm smile, and Vee wishes that she saw it more often. ‘I always forget you can be fun to be with, Ms Big-Shot Photographer.’

‘Thank you.’ Vee bobs her head, to show she knows this is well meant, and Leonie sits back in her chair. She’s definitely pink around the eyes. Vee squeezes her arm, smiles into her face. But Leonie looks away.

‘Would you want it?’ she asks, a moment later.

‘Want what?’

‘The baby. If you want it, you can have it.’

‘Are you serious?’ Leonie looks serious. This can’t be how it works, legally, Vee thinks, but that’s hardly the point.

‘Why not?’ Leonie lights a cigarette. ‘You’re my friend. When we first met, you were all set to marry whatshisname. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t have been up the stick within a year of the wedding.’

‘I don’t think that’s fair.’ Leonie doesn’t mean it. It’s just her way of dealing with a world that she feels is unfair to her. ‘I didn’t know any better. I’d only just met you.’

Leonie nods. After a moment of silence she asks, ‘So, do you?’

Vee was up late last night sorting out her invoices, up early this morning to get ready for the Thatcher shoot. She must be misunderstanding. Leonie can’t mean . . . ‘Do I what?’

Leonie takes a breath, says slowly, ‘Do you want the baby? You can afford it. Nannies and whatever. Or you can just take it to work with you. It wouldn’t really make an impact on your life.’