‘You’re OK.’ I began to rub her back, in a way that seemed to be handed on in female DNA. Cavewomen had rubbed each other’s backs in just this way, even though Jodi and I were never that close, even though we rarely hugged or touched each other’s arms or kissed cheeks. Her back was in spasm, the muscles roiling in some disturbing way that made me think of a snake swallowing an egg. She was wearing a shirt, blue and white striped, and it was easy to see it was Callum’s. Why? A self-conscious gesture, to show how much she loved him? To be close to him now she was in labour and he was gone? Or because she really did love him and always had? I thought about how long Jodi had waited for this moment, which Karen and I had experienced sixteen and eighteen years ago. We never knew why it had taken them so long – mutters about fertility problems, references to ‘trying’, followed by a small wry grimace, Callum’s occasional little jokes about Mike being ‘all man, mate’. Jodi’s careful questions about acupuncture or diets, a group trip to Cornwall – 2007 maybe, or 2010? – stopping off at a Co-op and Jodi palming a small box, her face tight. A jumper tied tight around her waist. Refusing to swim although it was so hot, 27 degrees, and the sea blue and purple and green. The things we don’t know about our friends. The things we don’t ask.

‘Where are the nurses?’ I said, glancing about for a phone or call bell. ‘They should give you something for the pain.’