‘Liv,’ Robin says, holding her hand tightly between both of his. ‘The main thing is we get that little boy out, and he’s healthy and happy. And that you’re okay.’ He reaches over and moves a strand of sweaty hair out of her eyes. ‘You know that, don’t you?’

She pauses. Then she nods slowly.

Things happen quickly. A rush of more people in scrubs, paperwork, needles and discussion. A cannula is inserted into Liv’s hand. Robin is hurried away to get changed.

Nobody has asked who he is. They must have assumed he’s the father – something he doesn’t try to correct. He’s caught in a tide of people who know what they’re doing. Procedures honed to a fine art. Doctors and nurses in a perfect choreography of movement.

He’s shown back to Liv’s side. She’s in an operating theatre now, blue drapes blocking their view of anything below her chest. She seems calmer but holds his hand tightly as he sits next to the bed. She even manages a smile at his get-up: full scrubs, his hair covered.

A doctor sits by her side, monitoring numbers and read-outs on the screens. The anaesthetist, Robin assumes. A team of people are on the other side of the drapes, a surgeon in the middle, scalpel in hand.

Robin leans forward to Liv. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Hmm.’ She closes her eyes and Robin can see she’s breathing out slowly through her mouth. The doctor asks a few questions – basic stuff: her name, date of birth – and she answers. He ducks back behind the blue screen. Robin feels helpless in the face of all this proficiency, not knowing what on earth is going on. There are murmurs, movement, an exchange of equipment. Not long passes, maybe five minutes, and then Robin hears a tiny cry.

Liv opens her eyes at the noise. ‘He’s out?’ she gasps.

A masked face appears. The eyes smile. ‘He’s out. And he’s fine. A strong, healthy little boy.’

Robin feels a flutter of excitement. And the exact moment he’s ready to be a father is the moment he realises he isn’t one.

The tiny baby is held in the surgeon’s hands; blood and goop and all manner of indescribable body fluids cover the boy. He’s screaming reassuringly loudly.

Robin watches as the baby is handed quickly to a midwife, who attends to him for a moment with another doctor. Liv’s eyes stay on him the whole time, watching as he’s swaddled up, a tiny yellow woollen hat placed on his head, before being passed round to her. He’s bundled up with Liv, skin against skin.

Liv looks down at the boy and manages a groggy smile.

‘He’s gorgeous, Liv,’ Robin whispers. And he means it.