'Night then.'

'Night.'

He leans forward to kiss me goodnight; I think he's going for a peck on the cheek but he ends up kissing my ear. It's quite nice, actually, but he's mortified.

'Oh God, sorry. I'm a bit out of practice. Sorry.'

'It's fine, Martin. It was quite nice.'

Even though it's dark I can see he's blushing.

'So I'll see you tomorrow then, at the shop?'

'Great. And I'll keep my fingers crossed for the barn.'

I turn to kiss him goodnight, but while I'm aiming for something light and friendly it all goes a bit mouth-to-mouth. Christ, I've done it again.

'Crikey.'

His voice has gone all gruff.

'Sorry, Martin. Maybe we should practise on mirrors.'

'Sorry?'

'Didn't you do that, practise kissing on the bathroom mirror?'

'No.'

'Oh.'

'Sounds like fun, though.'

'You feel like a bit of a twit, actually.'

He laughs.

'We must do this again sometime, supper I mean. We must have supper, or lunch. Or tea. No, not tea. Sorry. Supper. We must have supper.'

'I'd like that.'

'Would you? Really?'

'Yes.'

'Crikey.'

'I'll look forward to it. Only, there is one thing.'

'Yes. I know. I'll give the mirror thing a go if you think it will help.'

'Actually, I meant your mother.'

'Oh, right. Well, just ignore that. I really don't care.'

'That might be because you don't have to work in a shop with her all day.'

'Point taken. Righty-ho, let's keep this secret squirrel, shall we?'

'Secret squirrel?'

'Yes. Low-profile, for now, don't you think? No need for her to be going into one.'

'Absolutely.'

Secret-squirrel suppers, with potential kissing practice. Who'd have guessed? I'm so pleased I could skip.

'Night, Jo.'

'Night, Martin.'

He hesitates, and then very slowly and deliberately kisses me on the cheek before he walks back up the road, whistling.

Crikey.

Gran's got the front door open before I'm halfway up the path.

'I thought you might ask him in. I've had a little tidy-up in the living room, just in case. Not that I meant any funny business, only I thought you might want a coffee or something.'

'Funny business?'

She goes pink.

'You know what I mean, nice-looking man like him. Nobody would blame you if you wanted a little fling, you know, pet. Only natural, after all.'

Dear God. Now my gran's telling me to go for it.

'Gran, it's very early days, and it was only supper. I've got quite enough on my plate without starting on flings.'

She smiles.

'You're a good girl, but there's no harm in having a bit of fun, you know.'

'I'm having lots of fun, Gran.'

'Are you, dear? Well, that's all right then. Life's too short, that's what I say. Now then, I'll just ring Reg and he'll be here in five minutes. He's watching snooker tonight. Boring game if you ask me, but he seems to like it. Now where did I put my glasses?'

I ring Ellen for a debrief as soon as Reg has collected Gran.

'God, what will his mother say?'

'I'd rather not think about it. I didn't do it on purpose, Ellen. Still, it's rather nice.'

'Rather nice? For Christ's sake, darling, it's fucking brilliant. Exactly what you need, a man who's good with his hands.'

'Well, let's see how it goes I'm not going to rush into anything. And neither is he. Which is perfect.'

'I love a man who knows how to take his time.'

'Stop it.'

'When are you seeing him again?'

'Tomorrow at some point, in the shop. He's coming to measure up.'

She makes a rude noise.

'Try not to snog him in front of his mother, darling, or she'll probably stab you with a knitting needle.'

'I know. Actually, we've already agreed to keep a low profile on that front.'

'Sounds like a plan. So you're still on for tomorrow night then?'

'Of course.'

'Sure? No Saturday-night plans with Dovetail?'

'No. And stop calling him that.'

'Well, if you change your mind, ask him round and we can all play strip poker. That always sorts the men from the boys. And Harry's great at male bonding. He'll home in on any secrets.'

'I don't think Martin has secrets, Ellen.'

'Well, he has now.'

I'm driving to Sainsbury's on Saturday morning to stock up on food for the weekend while Gran keeps an eye on the boys at home. I'm trying to decide on roast chicken or lamb for tonight's supper with Ellen and Harry, scribbling on my list every time I get to traffic lights, and a woman comes on the radio and starts talking about her husband who died last year, in a car crash that sounds weirdly similar to Nick's. There's something about the way she's talking, very quietly, and with fairly long pauses like she's completely exhausted, that really gets to me, and suddenly I'm crying. And I can't seem to stop. I'm in the car park at Sainsbury's, sobbing, and I can't stop. Bloody hell, this is getting ridiculous. And it doesn't feel like this is really about Nick at all; it's more like something else, like when I was pregnant with Archie and I kept bursting into tears all the time for no reason. And there's no way I can be pregnant, so it can't be that. Unless. Oh. My. God.

Oh. My. God.

My hands are shaking now. Bloody hell. I can't be. I'm just panicking. It must be some kind of hormonal echo because I've been seeing Lily over the past few weeks. It must be some sort of newborn bounce-back. I can't be pregnant it's too ridiculous. I'll go in and get a test, and it'll be fine. I'll get a trolleyful of shopping and do the test and it'll be negative. And everything will be fine. No surprises from a Christmas moment in Venice, definitely. Christ.

I'm sitting in a Formica cubicle in the loo in Sainsbury's, looking at a plastic stick, and even though I know it's going to be negative, I'm still feeling like I'm dangling off a bit of rope from a very tall building, and I daren't look down. Or up. It's exactly the same make of test that I bought when I was pregnant with Archie. Only last time it was positive, and this time it's going to be negative and I'll feel like a total fool. Actually, I'm going to feel like a total fool whatever the result. Jesus. I'm holding my breath, which probably isn't a very good idea since I really don't want to be discovered by the Customer Services team passed out on the floor still clutching my plastic wand. Maybe I should try breathing into a paper bag or something. But I've only got a carrier bag and I'm not sure that would have quite the same effect.

There's a blue cross in the window.

Fuck. It's positive. I read the leaflet again.

Fuck.

I call Ellen.

'What's the matter? You sound really weird. Where are you?'

'In the loos in Sainsbury's. And I need to see you.'

'Sorry, what did you say? I can't hear you properly.'

'Ellen.'

'Yes?'

'I need to see you.'

'I'll be there by five, darling. What's the matter?'

'I think I might be pregnant.'

'What?'

'Venice.'

'Fucking hell.'

'I know.'

There's a silence.

'Have you done a test?'

'Yes.'

There's another silence.

'So it wasn't the custard creams then.'

'Sorry?'

'Why you can't fit into your jeans.'

'Apparently not.'

'Fucking hell.'

Oh God, I'm crying again.

'Sweetheart, please don't cry. Look, I'll come down early; we'll be there as soon as possible, yes?'

'Yes.'