It wasn’t long after I met her that I realised, sentimentally, that my visions of my own future had shrunk to include her and only her. Adolescent fantasies about pop superstardom, literary success, vast wealth and excellent furnishings had crept out of my day dreams. My job was still dull, my flat still small and half finished. But when I let my mind wander the scene of future bliss was her steam on the bathroom mirror, her clothes on the bedroom floor.

I slept naked, except when I was on my period. My first signal something was wrong was when Kate bought me pyjamas for Christmas. I didn’t ask what she meant, in case she told me. Kate wore pyjamas too now, because it was cold she said; because it made it easier to get out of bed on cold mornings.

We both worked long hours. Everyone we knew worked long hours, we were all young and ambitious; we were making our names. I was working at a newspaper and she was working at a law firm. Our long hours didn’t always overlap. I’d get home to see her steam still on the bathroom mirror, the air in the bathroom warm like the air from your lungs. We’d leave notes for each other on the kitchen table. Our relationship was becoming a book club. When we went out it was with our friends, I watch her laughing in restaurants the way you watch an unobtainable strangers. I’m sure she was glowing.

I was shopping in the toiletries isle at Sainsburys, when I realised she was late. The box of tampax in the bathroom cabinet was still half empty. I passed the display of pregnancy tests feeling a bit foolish and a bit faint. A woman with a fat cheeked toddler in the front of her trolley wheeled past me. The child seemed for a moment like a creature from another world, gnawing on the end of a loaf of French bread like a small alien king.

On the way home I saw babies everywhere.

When I arrived back at the flat Kate was sitting the kitchen drinking coffee from a blue mug. I put my shopping bags on the table and went to fill the kettle. On the radio a man was reading the news.

“Kate,” I said, “is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

What a bland question. I’d never managed to a keep an important question sounding that bland. I had always betrayed myself in the past.

She looked at me and then at the mug, turning it around on the table top as though she was trying to divine something very slowly. On the news a girl had been murdered at a house in Slough. The prime minister had addressed the GMB. The Bank of England had raised interest rates. I walked from the sink to the counter and put the kettle on. Kate watched me.

“I’m pregnant” she said. I’m not sure how she was trying to say it. It came out sounding defiant and shy.

Steam was starting to rise from the kettle. There was a patch of paint on the wall behind the kettle that a few years worth of steam had eroded. Every time I went into the kitchen I thought I should turn the kettle around so the steam rose away from the wall.

I looked at Kate.

“It’s not yours” she said and I laughed a little breathy wry laugh. She smiled at the table, sadly. It was an awkwardness that strangers don’t know how to share.

“Who?” I asked out of formality

“David.”

“Oh.”

The water bubbled against the walls of the plastic kettle. I sat down at the table beside her. On the news a policeman was being interviewed.

“What now?”

“Does he know?”

“No. Just you.”

“And are you happy?”

“What do you mean?”

“About the baby”

“I’m not sure yet. I might not...”

“But you might?”

“Maybe”

I put my hand on top of hers. The kettle clicked off. The steam condensed against the wall and dripped down the paintwork. On the radio the news ended.