`This is the first time for you, isn't it, Mr Fawley?' continues the nurse. `I don't think you were here for the first scan?' She keeps her tone light but there's judgement in there all the same.
`It was complicated,' says Alex quickly. `I was so terrified something would go wrong `“ I didn't want to jinx it `“'
I tighten my grip on her hand. We've been through this. Why she didn't tell me, why she couldn't even live with me until she knew for certain. Until she was sure.
`It's fine,' I say. `All that matters is that I'm here now. And that the baby is OK.'
`Well, the heartbeat is good and strong,' the nurse says, tapping at her keyboard again. `And the baby is growing normally, exactly as it should be at twenty-two weeks. There's nothing here that gives me any cause for concern.'
I feel myself exhale `“ I didn't even realize I'd stopped breathing. We're older parents, we've read all the leaflets, had all the tests, but still `“
`You're absolutely sure?' says Alex. `Because I really don't want to have an amnio `“'
The nurse smiles again, a deeper, warmer smile. `It's all absolutely fine, Mrs Fawley. You have nothing at all to worry about.'
Alex turns to me, tears in her eyes. `It's all right,' she whispers. `It really is going to be all right.'
On the screen the baby somersaults suddenly, a tiny dolphin in the silvery darkness.
`So,' says the nurse, adjusting the probe again, `do you want to know the sex?'
* * *
Fiona Blake puts a bowl of cereal down in front of her daughter, but Sasha doesn't appear to notice. She's been staring at her phone ever since she came downstairs, and Fiona is fighting the urge to say something. They don't have phones at meals in their house. Not because Fiona laid down the law about it but because they agreed, the two of them, that it wasn't how they wanted to do things. She turns away to fill the teapot but when she gets back to the table Sasha is still staring at the damn screen.
`Problem?' she says, trying not to sound irritated.
Sasha looks up and shakes her head. `Sorry `“ it's just Pats saying she won't be at school today. She's been throwing up all night.'
Fiona makes a face. `That winter vomiting thing?'
Sasha nods, then pushes the phone away. `Sounds like it. She sounds really rough.'
Fiona scrutinizes her daughter; her eyes are bright and her cheeks look a little flushed. Come to think of it, she's been rather like that all week. `You feeling all right, Sash? You look like you might be a bit feverish yourself.'
Sasha's eyes widen. `Me? I'm fine. Seriously, Mum, I'm absolutely OK. And completely starving.'
She grins at her mother and reaches across the table for a spoon.
* * *
At St Aldate's police station, DC Anthony Asante is trying to smile. Though the look on DS Gislingham's face suggests he isn't doing a very good job of it. It's not that Asante doesn't have a sense of humour, it's just not the custard pie and banana skin variety. Which is why he's struggling to find the upside-down glass of water on his desk very amusing. That and the fact that he's furious with himself for forgetting what day it is and not being more bloody careful. He should have seen this coming a mile off: newest member of the team, graduate entry, fresh from the Met. He might as well have had `Fair Game' tattooed across his forehead. And now they're all standing there, watching him, waiting to see if he's a `good sport' or just `well up himself' (which judging from the smirk DC Quinn isn't bothering to hide is clearly his opinion `“ though Asante's tempted to ask if Quinn's playing the role of pot or kettle on that one). He takes a deep breath and cranks the smile up a notch. After all, it could have been worse. One of the shits at Brixton nick left a bunch of bananas on his desk the day he first started.
`OK, guys,' he says, looking round at the room, in what he hopes is the right combination of heavy irony and seen-it-all-before, `very funny.'
Gislingham grins at him, as much relieved as anything. After all, a joke's a joke and in this job you have to be able to take it as well as dish it out, but he's still a bit new to the whole sergeantship thing and he doesn't want to be seen as picking on anyone. Least of all the only non-white member of the team. He cuffs Asante lightly on the arm, saying, `Nice one, Tone,' then decides he's probably best off leaving it at that and makes for the coffee machine.
* * *
Adam Fawley
1 April 2018
10.25
`So how's this going to work then?'
Alex settles herself slowly into the sofa and swings her feet up. I hand her the mug and she curls her hands around it. `How's what going to work?' she says, though she's already looking mischievous.
`You know exactly what I mean `“ the small fact that I don't know the sex, but you do.'
She blows on the tea and then looks up at me, all innocence. `Why should it be a problem?'
I shunt a cushion aside and sit down. `How are you going to keep a secret like that? You're bound to let it slip eventually.'
She grins. `Well, as long as you don't employ that infamous interviewing technique of yours, I think I'll just about manage to keep it to myself.' She laughs now, seeing my face. `Look, I promise to keep thinking of two lists of names `“'
`OK, but `“'
`And not buy everything in blue.'
Before I can even open my mouth she grins again and prods me with her foot. `Or pink.'
I shake my head, all faux-disapproval. `I give up.'
`No, you don't,' she says, serious now. `You never give up. Not on anything.'
And we both know she's not just talking about my job.
I get to my feet. `Take it easy the rest of the day, all right? No heavy lifting or anything insane like that.'
She raises an eyebrow. `So that afternoon of lumberjacking I had planned is off, is it? Darn it.'
`And email me if you need anything from the shops.'
She gives a joke salute then prods me again. `Go. You're late already. And I have done all this before, remember. I wallpapered Jake's nursery when I was twice the size I am now.'
As she smiles up at me, I realize I can't even remember the last time she talked like this. All those months after Jake died, she saw motherhood only in terms of loss. Absence. Not just the want of him but the despair of having any other child. All this time, she could only speak of our son in pain. But now, perhaps, she can reclaim the joy of him too. This baby could never be a replacement, even if we wanted it to be, but perhaps he `“ or she `“ can still be a redemption.
It's only when I get to the door that I turn round. `What infamous interviewing technique?'
Her laughter follows me all the way down the drive.
* * *
At 10.45 Somer is still stuck in a queue on the A33. She'd meant to come back from Hampshire last night but somehow the walk along the coast had turned into dinner, and dinner had turned into just one glass too many, and at half ten they'd agreed it definitely wasn't a good idea for her to drive. So the new plan was to get up at 5.00 to beat the Monday-morning rush, only somehow that didn't happen either and it was gone 9.00 by the time she left. Not that she's complaining. She smiles to herself; her skin is still tingling despite the hot shower and the cold car. Even though it means she has no change of clothes for the office and no time to go home and get any. Her phone pings and she glances down. It's a text from Giles. She smiles again as she reads it, itching to reply with some arch remark about what his superintendent would say if he got sent that by mistake, but the car ahead of her is finally moving; Giles `“ for once `“ is going to have to wait.