Last time she held a baby was when she gave Erica to Ursula. They’d managed the whole deception pretty well, staying in Norfolk for the six weeks after the birth, so the health visitor could do her thing, and Leonie-as-Ursula could have her check-ups. Leonie wrote, and Ursula looked after the baby, and kept her out of Leonie’s way most of the time. Alec came down at weekends, and apart from one awkward thank-you to Leonie, was soon behaving as though he had forgotten that the child wasn’t, technically, his. (When the sisters had first talked about Ursula taking the baby, Leonie had asked what Alec would think. Ursula had responded with a tart, ‘Since when did you care what a man thinks?’ Which was both unfair and true. So she never asked again, and she never really found out. She assumed that he would be happy if Ursula was happy. And he was probably sick of being prodded to hell in Harley Street, too, as the campaign against their childlessness gained pace but no ground under Ursula’s command.) After the six-week checks, they had moved back to a London readying itself for Christmas. Ursula registered with a new GP and showed up with her daughter, and that was it. Ursula’s pregnancy after a history of apparent infertility was easily explained, it seemed, thanks to the still unsolved mysteries of the female body, and the fact that pregnancy after giving up on ever having a baby was a frequent anecdote in fertility circles.

When they returned to London, Ursula had surprised Leonie by insisting on a physical handover of the baby, so that symbolically, as well as legally, Erica was Ursula’s child. Feeling slightly awkward, Leonie picked Erica up from the Moses basket in Ursula’s front room – it was in the bay window, as though Erica was an aspidistra, and required light to grow – and stood opposite her sister, whose tired face was solemn, as though waiting for sentence to be pronounced. Like Leonie was going to suddenly decide she wanted a kid, now.