I stood up immediately and walked to the door. ‘I don’t think this is right, what you’re doing,’ I said.

‘I’m not doing anything.’

‘I think I’d like to see another doctor.’

And he simply sat there watching me go, holding his hands open in easy resignation. ‘If that’s what you’d prefer,’ he said. This man who had stitched up my scrapes, dispensed lollipops, warmed up the stethoscope before pressing it to my five-year-old back, put the earpieces into my ears to let me listen to the sound of my own heart . . .

I’d opened the door without ceremony, without bidding him goodbye, and walked straight out through the waiting room and onto the street. And within an hour I had made my plan. Before Nassim came to stay the night – for our first full night and, I’d decided, our last – I had called the hotline, had an over-the-phone consultation with the foundation that organises for medical abortion kits to be sent to women at home, given them the address of the post office nearest my grandparents’ house, paid with my debit card, and booked myself onto the earliest morning train possible.

24

The package was wrapped so tightly, so neatly, that it threw everything else in the weak light of the little lean-to room into fuzzy dishevelled relief. Including myself, I thought. It brought it all back, the feeling I’d had in Dr Honeycott’s office. It shouldn’t have hurt so much. After all, he was just some guy, some guy who happened to be my doctor. But I was in the habit of trusting him and he was the only other person who knew. It felt like what he thought of me mattered.

The kitchen noises subsided. I heard Bette pass by the bedroom door and head down to the back of the house. I touched the tightly folded edge of the package as I waited for her footsteps to fully retreat, and then, following the line of paper until I could get my fingertips beneath it, I gave it a tug and the paper tore badly, leaving a fuzzy brown edge. Neatness lost – I might as well go with it. I ripped it from top to bottom, revealing the box, then laid the contents out on the bed – the only clear spot in the room – one pill carton with five blister-packed pills in it (one separated out from the others and a different shape), a small box of painkillers and anti-nausea tablets, and a fact sheet with instructions and emergency numbers.

I’d done some research. Of course I’d done some research. I knew the pills could make me sick, especially the second lot. But they assured me when I ordered them over the phone that the painkillers and anti-nausea tablets were quite effective, and that whatever happened there was always their help line. And in turn I assured them that I was no more than an hour away from emergency medical help. I’d had no idea at the time if that was true. But I had assured them.