‘She’s not picking up her phone,’ Fitz says to me in a low voice. ‘I’ll keep trying her.’

Martha lets out a half groan, half scream, dropping into a crouch. Fitz flinches.

‘I am not meant to be witnessing this,’ he says. ‘I’m supposed to be downstairs having a cigar and a whisky and pacing, aren’t I? Isn’t that what men do in these situations?’

I pat him on the shoulder. ‘Let me take over.’ I swing a cushion off the sofa for my knees and get down next to Martha. ‘Fitz, you go and knock on the neighbours’ doors. There must be someone with a car. Aurora, fetch some towels. Just in case,’ I say to Martha when she turns panicked eyes my way. ‘And Rupert … go and sterilise your hands.’

*

‘In! In!’ Sally from Flat 6 is yelling.

This emergency situation has been a wonderful bonding experience for the building. I can finally say I’ve met every single neighbour. I was astonished when Sally stepped up to the plate, though she was rather strong-armed into it: she’s the only one in the building with a means of transport, and by the time we got to her the sound of Martha screaming blue murder was echoing down the halls.

‘All I know about Sally is that she is a hedge-fund manager and lives in Flat 6, yet I have no qualms about getting in her enormous, serial-killer-style van,’ Fitz observes wonderingly. ‘Is this community spirit, Eileen? Trusting thy neighbour, and all? Oh, holy mother of God …’

Martha has his hand in a vice-like grip. She’s leaning her forehead on the headrest of the seat in front; when she sits back, I notice she’s left a foggy dark patch of sweat on the fabric. She’s in a bad way. This baby is not dilly-dallying.

‘Go! Go! Go!’ Sally yells, though to whom I’m not sure – she’s in the driving seat. She pulls out of her parking space to a series of outraged honks. ‘Emergency! Baby being born in the back!’ she shouts out of the window, waving her arm at an irate taxi driver. ‘No time for niceties!’

Sally’s definition of niceties is quite broad and seems to cover most of the rules of the road. She goes through every red light, clips someone’s wing mirror, drives up three kerbs, and shouts at a pedestrian for having the gall to walk over a zebra crossing at the wrong moment. I find it fascinating that a woman so anxious about feeling safe in her own home drives as though she’s on the dodgems. But, still, I’m delighted she’s throwing herself into things. Though I’ve yet to get to the bottom of why she owns quite such a big van, as a woman living alone in the centre of London. I do hope Fitz’s not right – I’d feel awful if she turned out to be a serial killer.

Martha startles me out of my reverie with a long, loud, agonised roar.

‘We’re almost there,’ I tell her soothingly, though I haven’t a clue where we are. ‘You’ll be in the hospital in no time.’

‘Yaz,’ Martha manages, a vein standing out on her forehead. She grabs my arm with that urgent, animal grip that only comes with pain.

‘I can’t get hold of her, honey,’ Fitz says. ‘I think she’ll be on stage. But I’ll keep trying her.’

‘Oh, God, I can’t do this,’ Martha wails. ‘I can’t do this!’

‘Of course you can,’ I say. ‘Just don’t do it until we get to the hospital, there’s a love.’

19

Leena

I’m on my fifth batch of brownies. I have discovered four entirely different ways of making brownies badly: burning them, undercooking them, forgetting to line the tray, and missing out the flour (a real low point).

But these are perfection. All it takes is application. And practice. And possibly a slightly calmer mental state – I started this process in a fog of missing Carla and raging at my mother and wondering what the hell I was doing with my life, and I think maybe brownies are like horses: they can sense your stress levels.

Now, though, I am calmed, I have brownies, and – finally, at last, after so many missed weekends … Ethan is here.

He throws his bags down and swoops me up in a hug as soon as I open the front door.

‘Welcome to the rural idyll!’ I tell him as he lets me down.

‘It smells like something’s burned?’ Ethan says, then, catching my expression, ‘But delicious! Burned in a delicious way! Chargrilled? Barbecued? Those are great ways of burning things.’

‘I made brownies. Quite a few times. But look!’ I lead him proudly to the plate of perfect chocolatey squares on Grandma’s dining-room table.

He grabs one and takes an enormous bite, then closes his eyes and moans. ‘OK,’ he says through his mouthful. ‘That genuinely is delicious.’

‘Yes! I knew it.’

‘Always humble,’ Ethan says, then he reaches to grab the drying-up cloth I’d slung over my shoulder. ‘Look at you, baking! All domestic!’

I grab the cloth back and swat at him with it. ‘Shut up, you.’

‘Why? I like it.’ He nuzzles into my neck. ‘It’s sexy. You know how much I love it when you do the fifties housewife thing.’

I blush and push him off. ‘That was a murder-mystery party costume and I was not doing a thing, and even if I had been, it would not have been for you!’

‘No?’ Ethan says with a cheeky grin. ‘Because I distinctly remember you doing a thing …’

I laugh, batting away his roaming hands, and move through to the kitchen. ‘Do you want a tea?’

Ethan follows. ‘I want something,’ he says. ‘But it’s not tea.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Guess again.’ He presses up against me from behind, hands snaking around my waist.

I turn in his arms. ‘I’m sorry – I feel so unsexy right now. I’ve spent most of the day crying, and it’s been such a weird week. Being back here is making me …’

‘Turn into your grandmother?’ Ethan says, with a teasing twitch of his eyebrows.

I pull back. ‘What?’

‘I’m kidding!’

‘Where did that come from?’

‘Spending your day baking, no interest in sex, wearing an actual apron …’ He clocks that I’m really not laughing. ‘Come on, Leena, I’m teasing!’ He takes my hand and tries to twirl me. ‘Let’s go out. Take me to a bar.’

‘This isn’t a bar sort of place,’ I say, awkwardly spinning into the twirl.

‘There must be a bar somewhere. What’s that little town nearby? Divedale?’

‘Daredale. That’s over an hour away. And anyway, I thought we could bob around to see Arnold this evening, my neighbour – he said he’d make us lamb for tea.’ I try a smile. ‘He’s a bit grumpy, but he’s a lovely guy at heart.’

‘I should probably do some work this evening, really, angel,’ Ethan says, dropping my hand and heading to the fridge. He pulls out a beer.

‘Oh. But …’

He kisses me on the cheek as he reaches for a bottle opener from the drawer. ‘You’re welcome to chip in. I’m looking at white-space opportunities on the project I told you about last week – I know how you love a challenge …’