My alarm wakes me on Saturday morning and last night’s discovery hits me once more. What could it mean? There are so many thoughts swirling through my mind. But I can’t let my imagination run away until I know for sure whether or not Fisher actually was my doctor the night my babies were born. Bloody Scott, taking the twins’ files and trying to make me see a therapist. How dare he hold me to ransom like that!

I fling the bedclothes back and get out of bed, automatically heading to the window and peering through the curtains to see how many press are out there this morning. It’s dark outside, the street lights still glowing. I can’t see anyone. Perhaps they’re in their cars, getting a last bit of shut-eye before making my life hell again.

As I shower and dress, I decide that I’m not going to allow Scott to dictate to me. I don’t believe he wants me to see a therapist out of concern for my well-being. If he was really worried about me, he would have phoned when he first saw my name splashed across the headlines. He would have come over when he discovered the press were harassing me. He would have been there for me when I told him someone had lobbed a brick through my window. No, the only thing Scott is concerned about is keeping me away from him and his perfect new family-in-waiting. I pull my jeans on and stomp over to the chest of drawers to get a pair of socks. It’s the last clean pair – I’ll have to do some washing tonight.

I think the only reason Scott wants me to see a therapist is so he can palm me off onto someone else. He’s trying to get rid of me. I sit heavily on the edge of the bed and pull on my socks. I don’t suppose I can blame him, but it still hurts to be cast aside like an old handbag with a broken strap. Stop it, Tessa. Don’t get maudlin. I know what I’ll do, I’ll call the hospital. They’ll have records of who delivered whose baby. Surely.

I have my hire car for seven days, so I decide I’ll drive to work to keep the press at bay. Forty minutes later, I pull open the front door, preparing to do battle with the horde. But the pavement outside is empty. Silent. A puddle of morning light spreads out behind the houses opposite. Do I dare to even hope? I step out onto the frosty path and glance up and down the road: they’re not here, the press have finally gone. I exhale and experience a momentary feeling of lightness.

No need for the hire car today, then. I walk to work with a nervous sense of freedom, trying to stop myself from holding my breath every time someone walks towards me, or past me, or when a car drives too close to the pavement, or I hear laughter, or someone talking louder than a whisper. Rolling my shoulders back and forth, I tell myself to calm down and enjoy it. They’ve gone, they’ve actually gone. I think I had convinced myself they would be with me forever. But I guess with no new elements to the story, no new angles to dissect, they’ve lost interest. My story is finally today’s fish-and-chip wrapper.

I reach work fifteen minutes early, and the pavement outside is as blissfully clear of journalists as the road outside my house was. Despite everything else on my mind, I almost skip through the gates. I didn’t realise quite how much the media presence was dragging me down. I wonder if they’ve left Cranborne, too.

‘Morning, Tessa.’ Ben crosses the front yard and walks towards me.

It feels like weeks since I last saw him. Time playing tricks again.

‘Good day off?’ he asks, doing his crinkly-eyed smile thing.

I smile back, relieved that he seems pleased to see me. I’d made myself believe he was mad at me because of all the disruption my life has brought to Moretti’s.

‘It was… different,’ I reply. ‘But at least the press have gone.’

‘Sounds like something that needs to be discussed over dinner and a drink,’ he says. ‘You up for it after work? My treat. To celebrate the media finally leaving you alone.’

I pause. Ben is great company, but I need to call the maternity clinic at lunchtime to see if I can find out any information about Fisher. And, depending on what they say, I may need to keep this evening free.

He must have noticed my hesitation. ‘No worries if you’re busy,’ he says. ‘We can always catch up another time.’

‘Do you mind? I’ve got a few things to sort out.’

‘Sure, no problem. I might need you to help out in the shop this afternoon,’ he says, switching to boss mode. ‘Now the sun’s out, I’ve a feeling it’s going to get busy today.’

‘Of course,’ I reply.

‘And with the press gone,’ he adds, ‘you shouldn’t get any more hassle from the customers.’

‘I can live in hope,’ I say.

---

The morning passes quickly. Most of my time is spent helping customers and netting Christmas trees. Ben was right, it is busy. Usually I prefer to work in the background, with the plants, away from actual people, but I don’t mind the demands on my time today – it takes my mind off everything else.

At one o’clock, I grab a cheese roll from the café and take it to my favourite spot in the far greenhouse. The place where I’m least likely to be bothered by anyone. I only take a half-hour lunch on Saturdays, so I’d better make this quick. I call the Balmoral Clinic, the number still stored in my phone from before. A woman answers almost straight away.

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘I have a query. I wonder if you can help.’

‘I’ll try my best,’ the woman replies.

‘Thanks. A few years ago, I gave birth to twins at your clinic and I was wondering if you could give me the name of the doctor who was on duty at the time.’

‘A few years ago?’ the woman echoes.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, yes, I suppose we would have that information on our database.’

‘Oh, that’s great news,’ I say. ‘The date was the third of March—’

‘But we can’t give that kind of information out over the phone,’ she interrupts. ‘You’d have to put your request in writing.’

My heart sinks. That will take ages. ‘How about if I email you?’

‘No, I’m afraid we would need a signed letter from you.’

That could take days! I can’t wait around that long. ‘I really need the information today,’ I say, trying my best to sound like a nice person she might take pity on.

‘Even if we could answer your enquiry, there’s no one from admin here at the weekend,’ she says. ‘If you’re local, you could always visit in person. You’ll need to bring two forms of ID, though – something with your address, like a utility bill.’

‘Brilliant. Today?’

‘No. Like I said, our admin staff don’t work weekends. Pop in on Monday between nine and five thirty.’

‘Okay,’ I reply, deflated. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’

This is so frustrating – I’ll have to wait a whole two days to find out what I need to know. How will I be able to wait that long?

I split the rest of my day between the shop and the garden, with barely two seconds to breathe, let alone think about James Fisher. By the time six o’clock rolls around, Carolyn, Janet, Ben and I are all on an exhausted high.

‘Great day, everyone,’ Ben says, cashing up at the café till. ‘Thanks for all your hard work.’

‘No problem,’ Janet says as she heads to the door. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘Bye,’ we all call.

‘I’m off, too,’ Carolyn adds with a wave, walking across the café.

‘Oh, Carolyn,’ I call out, catching her up. ‘Can I ask a quick favour?’

‘Need another lift?’ she asks. ‘You know those newspaper people have gone now?’

‘Yeah, thank God. And thanks for the offer, but I don’t need a lift. No, I was wondering if you’re able to swap a half-day. I’ve got an appointment next week, so I was hoping I could work Sunday morning for you if you’ll do Monday morning for me.’

‘You want to work tomorrow morning?’ she asks.

‘If that’s okay?’

‘It’s more than okay. My feet are killing me, I’d love a lie-in tomorrow. You’re on, if it’s okay with the boss.’ She raises her voice so Ben can hear that last part.

‘If what’s okay with the boss?’ he calls back over the chink of coins being poured into banking bags.

‘Me and Tess are swapping. She’s in tomorrow morning, I’m doing Monday.’

‘As long as someone’s here, that’s fine by me,’ he replies.

---

On the walk back home, I text Carly. If she’s going to see Fisher on Monday, I need to keep her up to date with everything I’ve discovered.

Hope you’re having a good weekend. I’ve got some pretty big news about Fisher.

???

I found out he used to work at the same maternity clinic where I gave birth.

No. Fucking. Way.

I know. It’s pretty mental.

Which clinic? Was he your consultant?

The Balmoral. Don’t know if he was on duty that night or not. Am going to the clinic on Monday morning to find out.

Cool. You go to clinic. I’ll go to Cranborne. Let me know if you find out anything else. Something ‘fishy’ going on here – geddit? Sorry, crap joke.

I smile grimly at the phone screen. Yeah, something fishy is definitely going on here. Something that’s making my stomach feel like there’s a writhing worm in it, slithering about, cold and uncomfortable. And I suspect this feeling will stay with me until I’ve worked out exactly what it is.