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‘Yvette, please just answer the question. How sure are you about the dates?’

She didn’t actually need to say the words. He could see it in her eyes, in the look of defeat that crossed her face. She wasn’t worried about the baby being too small, because it wasn’t too small. It just wasn’t his baby. And from the look on her face, she had known — or at least suspected that — all along.

The sonographer watched them both expectantly — waiting to do her job — and again he felt a flash of guilt for involving her in this silly drama Yvette had created.

‘I . . . umm . . .’

‘Just answer the question.’ He ground the words out, forcing calm into his voice that he didn’t feel.

‘There might be a slight — tiny — possibility that . . . umm . . . I got my dates muddled.’

‘By a month?’ He glared at her.

‘Maybe.’ Yvette studied her nails. He wasn’t surprised she didn’t have the guts to look at him. He didn’t want to look at her either. She might well have ruined the single, best thing in his life, and he was never going to forgive her for that.

He sat through the rest of the appointment in seething silence, which continued as they walked back to the car — to his car — which he would be taking the keys back to immediately. If he could have legally driven, he would have taken them then and there, but he couldn’t. And even if he could have, he wouldn’t have been such a bastard as to abandon her. Even if she did probably deserve it.

‘Ricky . . .’

‘Are you OK to drive?’

‘I think we should talk.’

‘I asked if you are OK to drive.’

‘Yes, but I want to talk. We need to talk.’

‘Actually, Yvette, no we don’t. I don’t need or want to talk to you right now. I just want quiet please.’ With that he shoved his earbuds in so far that it hurt, and turned up his music loudly enough to make his teeth vibrate. It still wasn’t enough.