‘It’d be better than living here,’ my niece spits and bounces out again.

‘Told you,’ Edie says.

‘I don’t want a big, grumpy one. I want a small, cute and cuddly pink one.’

‘They all start out cute and pink and end up big and grumpy like that.’

‘Have another baby,’ I beg, ‘and give it to me.’ I think it’s the wine talking.

‘No. You have a very unrealistic vision of life as a mother,’ my sister informs me. ‘Black cashmere and milky sick don’t make a great statement. You’d hate it.’

‘You must think I’m very shallow.’

‘I think you’re very idealistic,’ she says. ‘And slightly obsessed with the idea of having a baby. The reality of it is generally very sticky and expensive.’

She can tell that I’m not convinced.

‘If you really think you want children, take all of them—for just twenty-four hours. And the husband too. It’ll be doing me a great favour. You’d bring them back begging for mercy and rush straight out to have your tubes tied.’

‘I would not!’

‘Your life’s fantastic compared to mine. Why ruin it?’

‘I wouldn’t go through all this emotional trauma if I wasn’t absolutely serious.’ I sound indignant.

‘Your life and your figure are perfect,’ Edie insists. ‘You have fabulous holidays—plural. You go to the cinema, the theatre, out to dinner. You know what happens at cocktail parties. You’re all glossy and gorgeous. You never have a hair out of place.’ Edie pulls at a strand of her own wayward locks. ‘And yet you want to be me. Haggard and harassed.’ She looks suitably amazed. ‘It’s very overrated, Lyssa. Raising children is crushingly boring. Believe me.’

‘Yes, but you keep doing it. You’re so lucky. Six kids and I can’t have a measly one. Grief, you must be at it like rabbits. Can’t you watch more telly?’

‘There’s nothing on worth watching,’ Edie says. ‘And we’ve no money to go out. You have to do something to make the long winter evenings pass.’

‘So the BBC is responsible for your contribution to the St Albans population explosion?’

‘Yes.’ Edie is adamant. ‘And for the fact that I have a vagina with all the sensitivity and size of a galvanised steel bucket.’

We both laugh.

‘A hundred quid for a TV licence proved to be a false economy.’ Edie gestures around. ‘Is this what you want for yourself?’

‘No.’ The wine is making me giggle and some of the knots of tension are creaking out of my neck. ‘I just want one baby. Or maybe two. At the most. A matching pair would be nice. I don’t want a shed full or the entire lineup of American Idol. You’re a freak of nature, Edie. No one has six children these days—unless they’ve had IVF and it’s a multiple birth.’