‘There’s someone in the house.’ My whisper sounds too loud. I’m crouching in the utility room by the side of the tumble dryer clutching my boots to my chest as a child would clutch a teddy.

‘We’ve been burgled?’ Nick asks. ‘You should leave.’

‘Nothing is disturbed downstairs but the kitchen window was open. I’m sure I closed it before I left, and I heard something upstairs. Shall I call the police?’

‘There’s no sign anyone has been in?’ Disbelief tinges Nick’s voice. ‘Is this like the bin thing again, where you imagined—’

‘I’m not imagining this.’ I hiss out my words.

‘Just get out the house. I’m on my way.’

I stand. My thighs feel weak. Slowly I crack open the door leading to the kitchen. I can’t see anyone. Can’t hear anyone. But that doesn’t mean no one is here. I take one astronaut stride at a time towards the back door. I count my steps. One. Two. Three. Sweat trickles between my breasts. Four. Five. Six. There’s a scraping, a sharp pain in my hip. I’d been so fixed on the door I’ve bumped into a chair. I freeze. My instincts scream at me to get out of the house, but I’m nearer to the utility room and I don’t know whether I should dart back in there. A creak. A floorboard? Seven. Eight. Nine. I’m faster now. Not caring if I make a sound. Desperate to be outside. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Another creak. Louder this time. With a shaking hand I twist the key in the back door. It doesn’t move. I wonder if I’ve turned it the wrong way. If it’s already unlocked. It isn’t. The key slips from the keyhole and clatters on the tiles. My heart springs into my mouth. The creaking comes again and I snatch up the key and thrust it back in the lock, rotating my wrist, left, right, left. Why can’t I remember how to unlock a bloody door? There’s a click. A give. I tug open the door and step outside.

The fence sways in the wind, creak-creak-creaking. I cut across the garden, ignoring the damp grass soaking through my socks, the flowers I trample over. I almost fall through the back gate onto the driveway. The gravel crunches underfoot, sharp and jagged. My head is down as I run along the side of the house, arms pumping, hands gripping my boots. I wince as brick scrapes against my wrist. I slow. Look up. A man stands at the kerb. Dishevelled. Salt-and-pepper beard. Deep lines carved into his forehead. The same man that was here this morning. What does he want? Fearing the worst I throw my boots towards him. He sidesteps.

I sprint as fast as I can across the road towards Clare’s and pummel at her front door with my fists, looking over my shoulder at the figure. He is standing stock-still, watching. The curtains twitch a few doors down from my house: the nosy woman with red hair peering out of her window. Why doesn’t she help me? The front door opens and I simultaneously push Clare back with one hand as I step inside, slamming the door behind me. With a shaking hand I draw the chain across.

‘Kat?’ Clare’s voice is steady as I swish closed the curtains in the lounge, but the way she tosses the iPad in her hand onto the sofa and crosses the room to where Ada is playing with a ragdoll in front of the fireplace, scooping her daughter into her arms, holding her protectively against her, betrays her concern.

‘Are you okay? Where are your shoes?’

I chew my thumbnail, staring at the screen of the iPad, the picture of the Colosseum and the hotel room. Clare must be booking that holiday she wanted. I wish I were anywhere but here.

‘Dark,’ Ada says although there’s a slither of sunshine pushing through the thin curtains.

Clare crosses to the light switch.

‘Don’t.’ I stalk into the kitchen, to the back door, pulling the handle, once, twice, three times. The windows are closed. We’re safe.

Electric light brightens the room behind me and I spin around but the look on Clare’s face stops me telling her to switch it off.

‘Mummy?’ Ada’s fingers play with the ends of Clare’s pendant. Ada sounds so small. So uncertain.

‘It’s okay, Ada.’ I ruffle her beautiful curls. ‘We’re playing a game. Hide-and-seek.’

Wordlessly Clare leaves the room, and as her footsteps thud up the stairs I allow myself a peek outside. There’s nobody there. Who was that man? Was he in the house? Has somebody sent him? The last thought causes me to bite my lip and blood fills my mouth. In the kitchen I spit into the sink, turning on the taps, watching the water turn pink before being sucked down the plughole.

‘What the hell is going on?’ Clare speaks quietly but there is fury in each and every word. ‘You scared Ada.’

‘Is she all right?’ I stand, wiping my chin with my sleeve.

‘She’s playing in her room. Who are you hiding from?’

‘Someone has broken into the house.’

Clare’s hands fly to her mouth and her eyes widen. I sink into a hard wooden chair and drop my head into my hands. She touches my shoulder.

‘Have they taken much? Are the police coming?’

I shake my head. ‘Everything downstairs was undisturbed but someone was upstairs. Nick’s on his way.’

‘Are you sure you’ve been burgled?’ Her words are tinged with doubt, and I close my eyes. I had been sure. But now I question myself. What had I seen? Heard? An open window and a noise. ‘You’ve been under so much strain lately. I’m worried about you.’

‘There were footprints.’ I remember. ‘There was a man…’ I trail off. It’s all so cloudy but still. ‘There was somebody there,’ I insist as Clare fills the kettle, drops teabags into mugs. But I don’t sound as convincing as I’d like.

‘Here.’ Clare spoons sugar into dark brown tea, and picks at the top of a packet of digestives with her nails as though this is a social call. I shake my head.

Clare slides into the seat opposite me and, as she moves, the sun glints against her pendant casting miniature rainbows on the duck egg walls.

‘Tell me about the baby,’ she says.

It’s the distraction I need. ‘Beanie is practically twenty-seven weeks and the size of a head of cauliflower. He gets hiccups. Sleeps and wakes at regular intervals, opening and closing his eyes. Lisa has another scan booked for Friday. I’ve been looking at those 4D ones – they look incredible, expensive though. I’m going to ask Nick whether we could afford one. We’d be able to see all his features. By now, his face is fully formed, with eyelashes, eyebrows and hair. There’s no pigment yet so it will still be white but soon it will develop a colour.’ I wonder if he will have black hair like Lisa. Like Jake. Like Nick. ‘I say he but it might not be. I can’t decide whether we should find out.’

Thinking of the baby helps me relax and we chit-chat until her mobile vibrates, skittering across the table between us. Clare grabs it and stuffs it onto her lap, her cheeks blazing, but not before I have seen Lisa’s name flashing up on her screen. Their relationship must have progressed beyond the odd text. Before I can question Clare the doorbell rings. We glance warily at each other. Clare places her palms on the table and pushes herself to standing.

I follow her into the hallway, steeling myself for the worst as she unlocks the door. Shoulders sagging with relief when I see it’s only Nick, my boots in his hand.

He looks pale, tired. I step forward and hug him, releasing my grip when I feel his body stiffen.

‘What’s happened?’ I study him, expecting bad news. The upstairs trashed.

‘Nothing. No one’s been there.’

Frowning I push past him, striding towards home, almost not believing him.

‘I definitely heard something,’ I say but he doesn’t answer, and I turn.

He’s still standing on Clare’s doorstep, and it hurts as I notice them hug. Notice he doesn’t pull away from her.

‘I don’t understand.’ I’m standing in the doorway of the nursery, reluctant to step forward wearing only socks. The ‘Together We Make a Family’ picture is lying on the floor, the frame splintered. Shards of glass imbedded in the carpet; there’s some in the cot. I thank my lucky stars, for the first time, there wasn’t a baby in it.

‘The nail can’t have been strong enough to hold it up,’ Nick says. ‘I should have used a picture hook.’

‘But…’ I look around the room. Nothing else has been disturbed. ‘There were footprints outside the kitchen window.’

‘I was weeding at the weekend around the rose bushes and thought I might as well do all the borders. It hasn’t rained since. They were probably mine.’

‘There was a man.’ I cross my arms around my waist. ‘Hanging around outside the house. I’ve seen him before.’

‘Perhaps he’s visiting someone. Look, Kat,’ Nick places his hand on my shoulder, ‘it’s been a horribly stressful time, moving house, the adoptions and now the surrogacy.’

I shrug him off. ‘I’m not cracking up.’

‘I didn’t say you were. I’m just… worried. Your boots were in the middle of the road, for Christ’s sake.’ He runs his fingers through his hair. His curls have got so long. He looks gaunt, and I feel terrible that I’ve only been thinking how this affects me. But I count the things that have gone wrong lately and paranoia pounces again.

‘Nick, I think someone has been in the house. Yesterday, my purse—’

‘There’s a message on the answerphone,’ Nick says before I can bring up the missing money from the safe. ‘The community centre rang. A workman found your purse in the toilet. He was in there fixing the faulty lock.’

‘But I didn’t even open my bag,’ I say, but even as I speak, I remember pulling my hairbrush from my handbag.

‘What’s going on, Kat? Talk to me.’ He looks despairing and everything seems broken between us, and there’s a big part of me that wants to fall against him, let it all pour out, but I remain silent.

You mustn’t tell, Kat.

I’m a keeper of secrets, a guardian of the truth.

Nick crouches and begins to gather the large pieces of glass and, quietly, I leave the room.

* * *

My mind tick-tick-ticks as I stalk into our bedroom, my eyes scanning everything. Did I leave the decorative cushions on the bed at that angle? Didn’t I smooth down the patchwork throw before I left? I’m perturbed. Something is off – I can sense it. The air feels thicker somehow. I slide open our storage unit, and lift out my jewellery box. Popping open the lid I run my finger over necklaces, rings, bracelets. Nothing is missing. My handbags are hanging where I left them. My shoes all lined up. I am sliding the door closed again when I notice Nick’s leather messenger bag. I bought it for him on our first Christmas, and I feel wistful as I remember the turkey I cooked. Nick didn’t complain once that it was dry and tasteless, or that the Brussels sprouts were like bullets. He drenched the unappetising food with lumpy gravy and ate every single mouthful. How young we were. How hopeful. We thought we’d effortlessly have it all. The family. The happily ever after.

Emotion gathers inside as I lift the bag off the hanger and draw it to my nose, breathing in the leather. Almost smelling the fir tree that had stood in the corner of our lounge. The mulled wine that was warming in the kitchen. A family. That’s all I ever wanted but at what cost? Lisa coming back into my life has been like uncorking a bottle of memories, and I can’t jam the stopper back in. The truth is a black swirling mass with a pointed tail and snapping jaws. I’m tired of running. Permanently stressed and edgy. Nick looks exhausted and unhappy. He never really wanted children, did he? He wasn’t bothered when I told him I couldn’t have them. At once I feel the burden of everything heavy on my shoulders. Have I ruined us? Pushing. Wanting. A few more months and we’ll be a three and yet, even now I’m looking further than that, wanting us to be a four. But in my mind a baby cries, needing a mum, and I know I cannot lose one again. I release my grip, the messenger bag thuds to the floor and a piece of paper flutters out. A bank statement. I frown. Nick keeps all the paperwork in his study but this account is in his name solely. Inside the bag are more statements. The same amount going in each month. The exact same amount being paid out to an account number I don’t recognise.

I pace the room. Struggling to make sense of it. What is Nick paying for? What is he keeping from me? I reach the back window. Turn. A rat in a cage. The front window. I glance outside. Clare is closing her front door. Ada in her arms.

Ada.

I drink in her black curly hair, so like Nick’s. Her fair skin. Think of the way Akhil disappeared. Not paying maintenance. The papers flutter from my hands. Clare manages in that big house all alone in this cul-de-sac Nick was so desperate for us to move to. Oh God. My stomach churns and churns. The flowers from ‘N’. His scarf in her hall. The overnight trips. The text message. Could Ada be his daughter? Are these maintenance payments? Clare comes from Cornwall where Nick’s grandad, Basil, lived. Could they have known each other as kids? Reconnected as adults? Had an affair? The carpet seems to sink below my feet as thoughts streak through my mind, and none of them are the things I want to be thinking. I have to be wrong, don’t I?

All at once I don’t know who to trust. Nick. Clare. I long to talk to Lisa. The person who knows me better than anyone. The person who won’t tell me I’m going mad.

Lisa’s phone rings and rings until reluctantly I cut the call. I pace the room, tapping the handset against my chin. I shouldn’t ring her at work, I know. Hospitals are busy and she won’t have time to chat, and yet just hearing a familiar voice, a friendly voice, would calm me. Perhaps I can arrange to meet her after her shift. I google the number for Farncaster General and ask to speak to Lisa Sullivan.

‘I can’t find her on the staff list. What ward?’

‘Stonehill,’ I say, and the ringing tone starts once more before I am connected to the right department.

‘Lisa Sullivan,’ I repeat for the second time.

‘I am sorry,’ says a harried voice. She sounds anything but sorry. ‘No one works here with that name.’

‘Are you?—’ I begin but the call has been cut.

I dial again and this time I speak to a different receptionist who confirms what I’ve already been told. There is no record of a Lisa Sullivan.

* * *

Agitated I return to the nursery, as though to convince myself it’s real. There is a baby coming. As the soft pile swallows my feet a slither of glass pierces the skin of my big toe and I crouch down and remove it. Under the changing table is a green box I store nick-knacks in and seeing it sparks a memory. With a sinking feeling I slide the box towards me. There’s a thrumming in my ears growing louder and louder.

My hands rest on the lid. I don’t want to open it. I don’t want to see what I know is inside, but almost mechanically, I remove the lid. Lift out the contents slowly, reluctantly, until I find what I am looking for. A silver picture frame I’d bought from Mothercare last year; inside rests the stock photo of the baby in the pink polka dot sleepsuit starfishing in her cot. A baby familiar to me.

Gabrielle.

The baby Lisa showed me on her phone. The baby Lisa had for Stella. The tug I’d felt on my heart when I first saw it wasn’t emotion. It was recognition.

This can’t be Gabrielle.

The child Lisa said was her baby.

Stella’s baby.

Except she isn’t, is she?

She’s a stock photograph.

Only as real as the baby that now cries in my mind louder and louder until I clasp my hands over my eyes and fold myself in two.