Back in the house, I laid my two charts on the kitchen table and looked at them, my brain tingling uselessly. I took my notebook out of my bag and stared at the two addresses. What should I do now? The phone rang and I didn’t answer it. I waited to hear the message but there wasn’t one. Then it rang again, but still I didn’t answer. It rang yet again. It was like a game of chicken. Finally I gave up and answered.

“I knew you were there.” It was Fergus.

“Sorry, I was tired.”

“I wanted to ask you for supper. Jemma’s put a chicken in the oven, I’ve lit a fire.”

“As I said, I’m a bit tired.”

“If you don’t come, we’ll put the dinner in the car and drive over to you. And if you don’t let us in we’ll eat on your doorstep and embarrass you in front of your neighbors.”

“All right, all right, I’ll come.”

“I’ll come, thank you.”

I laughed. “Sorry for being so rude. Yes, thank you for asking me.”

JEMMA WAS VERY, very pregnant. Every so often she winced as the baby kicked her. At her invitation, I put my hand on her belly and felt it writhing and jabbing. She told me it kept getting hiccups.

“There are so many things people won’t say to me,” I said, after two glasses of wine.

“What do you mean?” Fergus leaned forward to top up my glass but I put my hand over it.

“Well, for example, you two don’t talk to me about the baby unless I press you. You think it might upset me—because of Greg, because we never managed it and now it’s too late. And of course it upsets me, but it’s not as if I forget about it until you remind me. It’s much better to say things, otherwise I feel shut out from life. Mary used to go on about Robin at every hour of the day—his snuffles, his nappies, the way his fist closed around her finger—and now she barely mentions him. Gwen used to tell me about her love life. Joe would regularly complain to me about having a cold or some bloody rich client. Not anymore.”

“In that case,” said Fergus, glancing sideways at Jemma for her approval, “we wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Will you be its godmother?”

“Godmother?”

“Yes.”

“But you don’t believe in God.”

“Well, that’s not really the point.”

“Neither do I.”

“Is that a no?”

“Of course I’ll be its godmother! I’d love to.” I was crying, tears sliding down my cheek and into my mouth. I wiped the back of my hand across my face and held out my glass for more wine. “Here’s to whoever-it-is.”

“Whoever-it-is,” they echoed.