I jump as I feel the weight of Nick’s hand rest on my shoulder. I hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen.

‘Are you okay?’ I twist my head around. My eyes drawn to the bruise on Nick’s forehead. It was blue yesterday, today it’s purple, and somehow that looks worse.

‘I’m fine. Stop fussing. I’ve told you it was hot in Richard’s office and I was a bit stressed that’s all. I fainted. There’s nothing wrong.’ He nuzzles my neck.

Reassured, I dip my cloth into the bowl filled with warm water and lemon multi-surface cleaner, wringing it out, wiping the worktops until they are so clean they squeak. Lisa is coming and I want everything to be perfect. The air is citrus fresh, and my hands are pink and raw. The copper pans hanging over the Aga shine as the sun streams through the trifold doors. Swinging open the fridge, I pull out peppers and celery, and after shutting the door I wipe my fingermarks off the handle.

‘Just think,’ I say to Nick as I rub the stainless steel until it shines, ‘one day this could be covered in drawings from our child. What do you think? A fridge covered in gaudy magnets?’

Nick doesn’t answer, and as I turn around I am shocked to see the anger plastered over his face. ‘Nick?’

‘Sorry, I was miles away. Let me help.’ Nick rinses the vegetables under the tap before I shake them dry, cool droplets of water speckling my forearms. I’ll chop them into crudités to have with humus. Spotify streams a pop playlist; Little Mix threaten ‘Black Magic’.

Nick usually laughs and tells me I’m too old to like them, but we all have them, don’t we? Guilty pleasures. And although he says he hates pop music, often we bop around the kitchen together while we wait for dinner to cook. Stupid, over-the-top dance moves from an era that doesn’t fit with the music at all: The Mashed Potato; The Twist. Today, though, there is no singing or dancing. We are both on edge.

‘Are you getting changed?’ I ask Nick. ‘You look too casual.’

He’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his hair shower-wet. His bare feet have left dull marks on the floor I’ve mopped twice.

‘It won’t make any difference what I wear. I wish you’d just—’

I step forward and silence him with a kiss. His stubble grazes my chin, and I taste peppermint.

‘I’m sorry.’ I wrap my arms around his waist. ‘You must be nervous too.’ I snuggle into him. Sometimes I forget how hard it must be for him and, once again, I am grateful he chose to stay with me and didn’t leave me for someone who could give him babies. I never could understand why Nick chose me in the first place. Why he pursued me so hard, with my hair that hangs limp and my bottom that strains my jeans at the seams. As he holds me, my mind drifts to the memory of the night he proposed.

* * *

He had taken me out to dinner but he barely ate; fiddling with the corner of his napkin, refilling his glass more often than usual. I had convinced myself he was going to break up with me as I pushed my chicken breast, oozing with garlic butter, miserably around my plate. Over the strains of classical music, I’d drunk in every last detail of his handsome face over the flickering candle. The black curls I loved to run my fingers through. The scar on his forehead.

‘Marry me, Katherine.’ His words sprang out of nowhere, and my hands rose to my chest to hold his question close to my heart. ‘I’ll look after you. I’ll be a good husband. I promise.’

‘Yes!’ I didn’t take a second to think about it. I loved him, I did, although it wasn’t with the all-consuming, flame-hot love I’d felt before, it was real. Solid.

We had toasted: bubbling champagne tickling my nostrils. Later, we’d lain in bed, sheets tangled around our legs, his fingers rhythmically stroking my hair; I had thought I had never been so happy. But as I was nodding off my subconscious whispered I had been this happy once before, and the last thought I had, before sleep tugged me under, was of Jake.

* * *

There’s a squeal of brakes. The crunch of metal. It’s dark. So dark. I cannot see and panic tornadoes through me.

It’s hot. Unbearably hot. Acrid smoke seals off my throat. I cough and cough, my lungs burning with the effort of trying to drag in air. My ribs feel as though they will shatter. ‘Jake’. I’m calling his name over and over but I think it must be in my head because I can’t hear. Just for one solitary moment there is perfect, perfect silence before my senses roar back to life. Someone is screaming, anguished cries my ears will never forget but I don’t think it’s me. I can’t move. I can’t think. I’m trapped and I’m scared. So scared. There is something warm and sticky running down my face and, as it trickles down my nose, I can smell the blood. Every cell in my body urges me to move. To run. But I can’t. Jake!

* * *

I was drifting on the edge of consciousness. One foot in the past, one foot in the present, not able to step fully into either, not entirely sure where I wanted to be. When the roaring in my ears began to subside and my pulse rate started to slow, I became aware of Nick’s steady breathing as he slept beside me. The sheets were damp with sweat, my pillow damp with tears. I scrubbed at my cheeks with the sleeve of my pyjamas, mopping up my guilt. Even in sleep I couldn’t reach Jake. Even in sleep, it was too late. And it was always, always, my fault.

The sound of the doorbell breaks Nick and I apart. Lisa must be here. Feeling sick, excited, scared, I rush down the hallway, skidding to a halt in front of the telephone table, tugging a brown, curling leaf from the pale yellow roses Nick bought me yesterday. I hope Lisa can sense this is a happy home, despite the increasing strain we’ve been under trying to expand our family. A perfect home for a child. Strip away the polish, the bleach, the lemon cream cleaner and underneath there’s love and laughter, and that’s what matters the most really, isn’t it?

‘Lisa.’ My voice is an octave too high as I step back and welcome her inside. We hug and my clothes dampen as I press against her wet coat. We’ve spent hours chatting on the phone every day but it feels odd to have her here.

‘Come through,’ I say gesturing towards the lounge.

‘Kat, this is gorgeous.’ Lisa shrugs off her mac and spins around on tiptoes. I have a flashback to our ballet classes. Pirouettes and tutus. Hair brushed into buns. ‘And you have a piano now. I’m so pleased. You always wanted to learn.’

I had begged my parents for music lessons but Dad thought the arts were a waste of time, though I got the feeling Mum would let me if she could. Dad only tolerated me being in the drama group in sixth form because I got extra credit towards my extended project, and the points would count towards uni.

‘I’m trying to teach myself but it’s not as easy as it looks.’ In truth, I have probably spent more time dusting it, imagining the row of silver picture frames that would display photos of our happy smiling family. Dewei, head thrown back, roaring with laughter, in a swing; tossing bread at the ducks; baking cookies together, steam rising from gingerbread men, the tips of our noses dusted with icing sugar. I could imagine Dewei balancing on the piano stool when he was old enough, banging out ‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ while I smiled and clapped. Then the adoption fell through, and the image in my mind had to change to Mai, and it was never quite the same. I think, even when we first signed the paperwork Richard had filled in for her, I half expected something to go wrong. And now the picture frames in my mind remain blank and empty.

The sound of a throat clearing causes us both to look up. Nick hovers in the doorway looking like a guest in his own home. I cross the room and take his hand. His palm is as sweaty as mine.

‘Lisa, this is my husband, Nick.’

‘Hello, Nick. You look even more handsome in the flesh.’ Lisa shakes his hand. His face milk-white. He’s as nervous as me.

‘You two haven’t met?…’

‘I saw his photo in the Sunday magazine,’ Lisa says, and I frown. She hadn’t mentioned she’d seen a copy when we first met the other day. ‘Mitch showed it to me. In the pub?’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘I’ll make some tea.’ It isn’t until I am leaning against the worktop as the kettle gurgles and splutters, I realise it was Mitch who first showed me the photo in the Sunday supplement, and he gave his copy to me to keep. How could he have shown Lisa? But he could have bought another one, I suppose. I lift the tea tray and rattle down the hallway. Approaching the lounge I hear Nick exclaim: ‘I can’t believe it! Not Kat?’

They both turn to me as I enter the room.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Lisa’s eyes are wide. ‘I thought, being married, you’d have told Nick everything.’