‘And when I got out, they were limiting how many people were going down to the tube, so I had to wait. I should have got a bus, really, but by the time I realised how long it was going to take . . .’ she couldn’t have cared less, really. She was thinking about Vee, Leonie, her mother, three women who made her own history, all either dead or dying. She’s tried to tell herself that when Vee described Leonie as her mother, she was just confused. It was no more than another symptom of the tumour. Erica has never had any reason to doubt her parentage. She has a birth certificate that declares in confident type that her mother is Ursula Woodhouse, her father Alec George Woodhouse.

And yet, she cannot leave the idea alone. She stood among the mass of people waiting to get on the tube and she felt – what? Something calmer than confusion, bigger than wondering. Something that, along with the little life nestling in her pelvis, was weighting her world, at the same time as making sense of it.

And why didn’t Vee answer? Was it really the headache or was that an excuse? Erica will ask again, and she won’t take no for an answer next time.

‘Erica.’ Marcus walks towards her, and she almost steps back; the shock of her reaction makes her look at him, properly, for the first time since she got home. (The first time today? This week?) He looks tired. He’s smiling. He puts his hands on her shoulders, gently, ‘Erica, it’s OK. I texted you to say to take your time. Tom and I were fine. We talked about global politics. He’s got some surprisingly radical views for a twenty-month old.’

She laughs and tilts in towards him, lets the top of his chest take the weight of the front of her shoulders. Her head sits sideways against the base of his throat. ‘I didn’t see your text. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it. Is everything set? My mum’s staying over, for the opening, so we can stay out as late as we like. Or I could book a hotel. But I didn’t want to book it without checking with you.’ She thinks of the baby she’s concealing from him. Whether she has it or not, she needs his understanding, and his support. Otherwise the two of them are as good as done.

She shrugs further into him, feels his arms wrap round her shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘I thought it was good, but now I don’t know.’

‘You know I’m proud of you, don’t you?’

She looks up at him. Before she met Vee, she might have said yes, automatically, but – ‘Actually, I don’t think I do. I’ve felt as though you’d rather I hadn’t taken it on.’

Marcus sighs, ‘I know.’