I hadn’t recognised the man who’d said he had been looking for me but he had introduced himself as the landlord of the pub.

‘I’m so sorry. One of the regulars told me a 4 x 4 had been broken into. There’s been a spate of it, I’m afraid. Do you want me to call the police?’

He had walked me over to my car, and I’d checked the contents – nothing had been stolen.

‘No. Let me ring my husband.’

The landlord had checked the other cars as I called Nick. His phone was switched off, and I’d been overcome with a wave of needing him. To feel his arms around me. I was exhausted, unnerved and longing to be at home.

‘Do you think you could patch it somehow?’ I had asked the landlord. ‘I can get it repaired properly tomorrow.’

Now, I crawl along the back roads, the wind buffeting the car; the thick layer of polythene taped to the window flaps loudly in my ear. I ease off the accelerator, even though I am only going 35 mph in a 60 zone. I rehearse telling Nick our news, but the words I practise sound too clunky, too convoluted. The constant stream of cold air seeping through a gap in the polythene stiffens my neck, making my head ache. My muscles are tension-tight. I’m going to have a baby. We are going to have a baby. I force myself to think of Nick because it has only now properly occurred to me this baby will have Jake’s genes too. Possibly Jake’s warm green eyes, his dazzling dimpled smile and, if so, every time I look at my child I will be reminded of the lover I lost. The more I think, the more uncomfortable I feel. Disloyal, almost, as though I am sullying my wedding vows to forsake all others. For the first time, I question whether this was a bad idea. Whether we should have tried adopting again. But it’s too late now, and in spite of everything, I can’t be sorry. We’re going to be parents.

It is gloomy-dark despite it being only teatime, and as traffic pours out of a nearby industrial estate, we come to a standstill. On a whim, I text Nick.

Nick’s a good cook but never bothers when I’m not there. I think it would be a nice surprise to pretend I’ll still be gone overnight and arrive home in an hour with a curry.

My thumb punches out Yes.

The traffic edges forward again. I start to plan what I’ll pick up from the Indian and, as I think about the creamy sauces, fragrant spices and tender pieces of chicken, my stomach growls. Leaning over I open the glovebox and pull out a tube of Fruit Pastilles and pop one onto my tongue, glad it’s a yellow one. The sugar begins to melt and my mouth tingles with a citrus zing that immediately makes me feel more awake than I am. Walking home from school, Nancy would often call into the newsagents and let us choose a treat. We’d always want Fruit Pastilles. I’d trade my red one for Lisa’s orange ones, and Jake would always eat his black ones first. We’d count down from three before placing a sweet in our mouths, regularly sticking our tongues out to compare how small they were getting. Lisa could never resist chewing, and by the time we reached her house me and Jake would still have a slither of the jelly sweet on our tongues while Lisa would have eaten all her packet and want mine.

* * *

Usually I park on the driveway but, with the window missing on the CRV, tonight I bypass our cul-de-sac and trundle down the lane leading to our garage. I slot the car in amongst Nick’s golf clubs, the Black & Decker Workbench, and the array of tools he never uses. Opening the door, the musty smell of the garage mingles with the aroma of korma drifting out of the takeout bag on my passenger seat.

I let myself into the house via the back door. The kitchen is gloomy except for the green glow of the clock on the hob. I flick on the light switch. The oven tick-tick-ticks before it ignites, and I place the foil containers of food on the bottom shelf to keep warm. The fridge whirrs in the corner, and jars of chutney chink together as I yank open the door. My hand reaches for the just-in-case bottle of M&S champagne we always keep in the salad drawer, but it seems wrong somehow to celebrate the life of one child when another has been lost. I’m exhausted from the day, from the drive. I bite back the urge to cry as I pull out a bottle of Pinot instead and lift two glasses from the cupboard.

I don’t switch on the landing light as I creep past the empty lounge and up the stairs, I don’t want to alert Nick to my presence. Before I reach our room, I slip into the nursery and, easing open a drawer, rummage through the pile of vests, holding each one up to the night light, before I find the white one with ‘I love my Daddy’ written in red.

Despite my sadness, excitement mounts as I pad across the landing, and it is only then do I notice the silence. No TV. No NCIS. Tucking the bottle under my arm, I picture a smile spreading across Nick’s face as I tell him Lisa is still pregnant, and slowly I push open the door. The room is in darkness, and disappointment wells as I think Nick must have fallen asleep. I hesitate, unsure whether to wake him, but I can’t hear the heaviness of his breathing. I can’t hear anything at all. Flicking on the light, I wait a few moments for my eyes to adjust but I don’t have to see to know that Nick isn’t here.

Frustration bubbles as I put down the wine and glasses and tweezer open two slats of the blind with my thumb and index finger. Our driveway, the space where Nick’s car should be, is empty. I call his mobile. I’m spoiling the surprise now but I don’t care. It rings and rings until the voicemail clicks in. I cut the call before sinking on the bed, unsure what to do.

Seconds later my mobile beeps.

My chest tightens but I tell myself I must have got it wrong. He must be watching it with Richard, but on the blank, silent TV screen I imagine I see images of the lipstick on Nick’s shirt. I punch out a reply.

My phone slips from my grasp and on the feather-soft duvet I curl into a ball, knees to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around my legs, as though I can keep my sorrow inside. As though I can keep my marriage intact.

* * *

Later, I peel myself from the bed and every muscle screams in protest. Scenarios whip through my mind, hard and fast, and none of them are good. Nick. I can’t believe he’s having an affair, I just can’t, and yet all the signs are there. He’s forever checking his mobile, he’s been distracted, snappy almost, and I can’t remember the last time we had sex. Is it my imagination or has the distance between us grown since Christmas Day? Since Lisa’s text to tell us she is pregnant, but hovering just outside my consciousness is another memory, and I pace the bedroom as I try to pull it to the forefront of my mind. Nick received a text Christmas Day. My stomach drops. Natasha.

In the mirror my reflection taunts me, my unwashed hair hanging limp, my face – pale and blotchy with tears – my body, a roll of flesh spilling over the elastic waistband of my leggings. Working from home I have stopped making an effort. I have let myself go. Loathing myself I stare at my image for so long my vision blurs, and I drift: Nick on our wedding day. His voice breaking with emotion as he took his vows. The way his hand shook as he slid on my ring. I dive into the memory. It is colourful and bright. Warm and comforting. Better than the here and now in each and every way. But reality pulls and pulls at me until, reluctantly, I am back in my cold and silent room, desperate to talk things through.

I pick up my phone, scroll through my contacts and press dial. It rings and rings. Come on. I urge Lisa to pick up but a robotic voice invites me to leave a message. I don’t. Instead, I try Clare. With every unanswered ring my frustration builds.

As though it is about to explode I hurl my mobile onto my bed. The desire to text Nick is immense but I want to see the expression on his face as I confront him. Agitation keeps me on my toes, and I find myself pacing furiously until my adrenaline ebbs away, and I fold myself around Nick’s pillow.

* * *

The sound of a baby crying wrenches me awake. I sit bolt upright. The lost baby? The bedroom is swathed in darkness, the shadow of my furniture eerie. The crying fades to an even louder silence, and I know, with certainty, I should not have gone to Farncaster today, walking around the town, shoulder to shoulder with the shoppers, as though I am one of them. As though I belong. Slowly, the ceiling seems to bear down, compacting the air in the room. I think of the rock through my window, the figure at the crematorium, eyes following my every move. I wrap my arms around myself. I can’t stop shivering and I know it’s with fear, not cold. It’s all going to catch up with me. I don’t know if I can keep it together any more.

Not again.