‘Oh, that’s a good idea. I’ll forget all about it—right this minute.’ I give them a vacant stare. As if I wouldn’t if I could. No one in their right mind would go through the gruelling process of artificial insemination if they could avoid it. I’ve taken so many damn forms of hormones—I’ve popped them, I’ve sniffed them and I’ve shoved them in my bum—that I’m a walking mass of puberty, PMS and menopause. I’ve been counselled about my ‘Inexplicable Infertility’ until I’m blue in the face and aching in the heart. I’ve had my fill of sitting in bleak waiting rooms in clinics stuffed with tearful women who avoid eye-contact in case talking might mean addressing their worst fears. I’m sick of reading in the daily press that, despite the emotional and physical trauma that women like me endure in their quest to satisfy their maternal urges, the majority of IVF attempts just don’t work. I can’t bear to think that I’m one of the statistics in the box marked ‘Failed’. Who would put themselves through this torture if a pet poodle were an adequate substitute?

How can I explain that my cocktail of hormones is making me feel as if there’s some madwoman locked inside of me? My progesterone is in deadly combat with my oestrogen. My body is screaming at me to get pregnant! I have taken to looking at babies in prams and being tempted to take them out and give them a cuddle. I’ll swear that some days my breasts leak milk, but I think it’s wishful thinking. If I don’t get up the duff soon, I’ll become like some sad old bitch—the canine variety—moping around with a phantom pregnancy.

‘You need to get things right between you and Jake.’

‘You think this is all my fault, don’t you?’

They do that how-do-we-tell-this-crazy-woman-the-truth? look again.

Charlotte clears her throat and puts on an understanding face. ‘Perhaps Jake thinks that having a baby is more important to you than he is.’

I don’t know what to think. Is it? What if I could have a baby and not Jake—or Jake but not a baby? Which would I choose?

Monica is losing interest. She glances over at the clock. It’s getting towards time for the sandwich run, and her growling stomach is starting to take precedence over my life falling apart. ‘Maybe you should just try to give yourselves a break. Get this back into perspective.’

‘Yes,’ I say. Is this what Jake thinks too? Is that why he’s gone to Pip’s? ‘You’re right. Maybe I should.’