On New Year’s Day, I wake, a sour taste in my mouth. The first resolution I make, and will probably break, is never to drink again. The smell of stale alcohol fills our bedroom. Next to me, Nick is lying on his back, mouth hanging open, arms spread above his head. We both overdid it last night, and my memories are hazy but I remember switching BBC on and, as Big Ben chimed the start of a brand new year, I had hugged Lisa tightly, feeling her heart beat against mine, and I imagined the baby’s heart racing away too. At six weeks pregnant the heartbeat should be detectable. After Lisa’s text came on Christmas Day, I’d ordered a pregnancy bible from Amazon, and I’ve memorised virtually every single stage of the first trimester already. I had tried to tell Nick that the baby’s face is already taking shape and his circulatory system is developing, but he’d said it was impossible Lisa is that far gone despite the fact I had already told him the weeks of pregnancy are dated from the first day of the last menstrual period. As I explained for the second time, he glazed over. I’d pored over the pages, exclaiming in delight when I learned the baby would start to move at eight weeks and would be the size of a jelly bean. ‘We should call him or her Beanie, until we know the sex. What do you think? A gender neutral nickname?’ Nick didn’t answer, and when I looked up, he had left the room. Thinking logically, I know some men aren’t terribly interested in pregnancy, and it’s not the fact it’s Lisa carrying Nick’s baby that makes him seem detached, but it still smarts all the same.

I swing my legs out of bed, and pad across to the en suite, almost tripping over the pile of clothes Nick had been wearing last night. I strip off my pyjamas, dumping them in the laundry basket, and bend to scoop Nick’s clothes up from the floor. There is lipstick on the collar of his white shirt. I must put it in to soak. It’s red so it’s definitely not mine but everyone was hugging at midnight. I think I must have kissed everyone on the cul-de-sac. We had belted out ‘Auld Lang Syne’. As we sang the line, ‘Should auld acquaintance be forgot’, Lisa had squeezed my fingers so tightly I feared my bones would shatter.

Under the water, I close my eyes and massage strawberry shampoo into my hair and try to picture the faces that swam out of focus as I sang and smiled, knowing this would be the year my dreams came true. I can’t remember seeing Nick, and I know I was not the one to kiss him Happy New Year. A chasm has opened between us this past week, and I have no idea why. He’s been off work but we have hardly spent any time together and although he is only in the next room, I have a horrible sense of missing him.

The underfloor heating is on an automatic timer. The tiles are warm under the soles of my feet as I pad into the kitchen. Lisa is perched on a stool at the breakfast bar, hunched over her mobile phone.

‘Morning,’ I call, although, as I glance at the clock, I see it is nearer to lunchtime. ‘Did you sleep okay?’

‘Fine,’ she says, but the dark circles hanging below her eyes, the yawn she stifles, tell a different story. ‘Thanks for the night light!’

We share a smile. Lisa was always terrified of the dark. Whenever we had sleepovers her bedside lamp would stay switched on until day seeped through the night.

‘Breakfast?’ I ask.

‘I’m not hungry, thanks.’

‘Lisa, you must eat!’

‘I could stand to lose a few pounds.’ She offers a weak smile. ‘My stomach feels bigger already. My midwife told me about a woman who had a concealed pregnancy. I should be so lucky.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The woman didn’t know she was pregnant until she went into labour. Can you imagine that? She stayed in size 10 jeans throughout. Bitch. Apparently, some people never show at all and some end up like elephants. I can guess which way I’ll go.’

‘That’s not important now.’ But I know her too well. Know she will be worried.

‘Why don’t you use some of the expenses money to join a gym, not for the weights but you could use the pool? It would be good for relaxation too?’

‘That’s a good idea.’

I pull open the fridge door. ‘Scrambled eggs?’

‘No. Honestly, I’m feeling sick.’

She does look pale. I’m not feeling great myself, although my nausea is self-inflicted. I shut the fridge and flap open a bin bag and start to scrape cold pizza from plates stained with tomato sauce and congealed cheese. I pick up a half-full bottle of Newcastle Brown and tip the remnants down the sink. The ale froths and the yeasty smell rises. Lisa jumps up and runs out of the kitchen, hand clasped over her mouth. The door of the downstairs toilet bangs shut, and through the wall, the sound of Lisa retching causes my stomach to lurch. To mask the sound, I switch on the radio. Our local station is playing classic Number One hits. The Beatles sing ‘All You Need Is Love’. Feeling helpless at the sounds drifting into the kitchen, I turn up the volume, and sit on a stool, my pounding head in my hands.

* * *

‘This is such a lovely house,’ Lisa says.

I’ve abandoned the clearing up and we are carrying our drinks out of the kitchen.

‘I know. Nick bought it at a really good price to renovate. The previous owners, Mr and Mrs Whitmoore, had lived here for years until they went into a home. Their son, Paul, hoped to keep it but he couldn’t afford the mortgage. Everything needed doing. Electrics, plumbing, bathrooms, kitchen. Nick fell in love with it and didn’t want to sell.’

‘You’re so lucky to live here. My flat is tiny.’

‘Do you live in the nurse’s accommodation by the hospital?’

‘No. They were all full when I started. You’ve so many books!’ Lisa crouches on her haunches at the bottom of the hallway and runs her fingers over the spines. There’s a mismatch of everything: the historical fiction I love; the crime Nick devours, and parenting books I’ve read so many times I could quote them verbatim. When we compared our book collection, I had told Nick I was the only teenager of our generation who had an encyclopaedia and I’d laughed when he said he had one too.

‘What’s behind there?’ Lisa glances at a closed door.

‘Nick’s man cave! He has his exercise stuff down there. And a sofa.’

‘Sounds cool.’ Lisa looks impressed, and I remember her flashing me the same look when I finally mastered the perfect cartwheel.

‘It is. And it’s fully soundproofed, so I don’t care how loud he plays his music as he runs, I don’t hear it.’

Paul Whitmoore came around to collect some post a few months ago, after we’d moved here, and he’d stood on the step for so long sharing his memories I’d eventually invited him in for coffee. He told me his parents had renovated the small basement for him when he was learning the drums. They couldn’t stand the noise. He’d left his drum kit down there when he moved out but always played whenever he came to visit them.

‘You’re lucky living here,’ he’d said. ‘I love this house. I wish we hadn’t had to sell it when mum and dad needed to go into a home. I have such happy memories of growing up.’

I hope our child feels the same way.

‘Can I have a look down there?’ Lisa turns to me.

‘Be my guest.’ I open the door and flick on the light switch. There is a faint whiff of damp.

‘Coming?’ she asks.

I shake my head and take a step back. A look of sympathy flashes across her eyes before she turns and makes her way down the staircase. She knows why I won’t put myself in a small, dark space. What she doesn’t know is that I still wake up in the night sometimes, sheets soaked with my terror. The feeling of a bird flapping in my chest. Even now, the honeyed sunshine streaming through the glass in the front door can’t keep my black thoughts at bay, and I fall back into a memory I don’t think I’ll ever escape.

* * *

I was trapped. Alone. Scared. I bit down hard on my lip to stop myself from crying. There was no one to hear me. I couldn’t allow myself to believe he would hurt me but panic welled again. I screwed my eyes tightly closed but when I opened them there was the same suffocating blackness and I worried I would run out of air in this tiny, confined space. I told myself not to scream, to preserve oxygen, but anxiety built and built until it burst, and I was banging against the door with my fists, begging to be set free, until, exhausted, I sank to my knees. There was nothing to be heard but the sound of my own cries ringing in my ears. I wondered how long I would spend here. It already felt like an eternity, but I thought about what might come after, when he came back, and I couldn’t help myself. I began to cry and I didn’t think I would ever stop.

* * *

The clatter of Lisa’s footsteps brings me back to now, where there is no locked door, no darkness, but the fear, it still lingers. I don’t think I’ll ever properly shake it.