‘I put the baby mat down for the babies,’ Tara says pointedly, as she stands in front of me, clutching two mugs of tea. I glance down, noticing a tiny patch of dried sick on the corner of the mat, and hold the baby a little closer.

‘I think he’ll cry if I put him down,’ I say, and Tara shrugs, passing the mug that I assumed was for me to a woman I don’t recognize. Tara takes her own seat and then starts introducing me to the other women, as I frantically try to remember names, quite unsuccessfully.

‘And this is Miranda.’ Tara gestures to the woman she handed the mug to. Miranda is slightly older, her hair greying at the temples although she can barely be forty, the bottom half of it tinted a faded greeny-blue. She wears a patchwork-style dress and a pair of battered Doc Martens, the kind of uniform I wore as a teenager. I feel a moment of kinship with her, recognizing in her an inkling of the same lost feeling I am experiencing. I give her a small smile and she looks down at the mug in her hand, before raising it to her lips, not returning my smile.

I don’t say much, as the women chatter as if they haven’t seen each other for months, rather than a few days. There are comparisons between babies at every stage – which ones are weaning, which are sleeping through the night (the majority of them, by the sounds of it), which can sit up, roll over, crawl. I lower my face to the baby’s, breathing in his soft, milky smell and thank my lucky stars he’s not old enough to be judged on any of this yet.

‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, haven’t I?’ Miranda’s breath smells like coffee as she leans forward to speak to me in an urgent whisper, as if she doesn’t want to be overheard.

‘Maybe?’ I say, sure I don’t know her. ‘I work … well, I’m on maternity leave, but I work at The Daisy Chain. I’m a florist.’

‘Yes.’ She eyes me closely, before her gaze flickers down to the baby. ‘Maybe that’s where I’ve seen you. Have you been in the village long?’

‘Allie only moved here a few months ago,’ Tara butts in, ‘with her husband and daughter.’ She has answered before I can even open my mouth to speak. She comes and sits next to me, leaning against my shoulder chummily and I realize Tara is almost staking her claim as my friend. ‘How is Rav?’

‘Oh, fine. Working. Busy, you know.’

‘Where do you live in the village, Allie?’ another woman asks, a polar opposite to Miranda. This woman is like Tara, well groomed, her hair sleek and she sports a perfect face of make-up.