I was watching telly the other day and it was previewing a glossy new drama series from America, when I saw someone who looked familiar. It took me a moment; he was a lot more shiny and packaged than the last time I’d seen him. ‘It’s Rudy!’ I yelped. ‘It’s the ice-cream seller from the beach in Santa Monica. I used to buy Klondike bars off him.’ No one believed me, of course.

Is that everyone? Oh, me. I’m in bed, unable to move, on account of being eight months pregnant and huge. I haven’t seen my toes for weeks and once I lie on my back, I can’t turn over or get up without Garv sliding a stick in under me and leaning on it. I’ve promised Helen that I’ll tell her how agonizing the birth is and that I won’t fob her off with any talk of miracles.

Garv and I are very together. It hasn’t always been easy; we’ve had the occasional shout at each other as we’ve ironed everything out, but, at this stage, we’re sure our bond is strong enough to survive the blips. Even though we were separated and angry with one another, we were still linked.

As he says himself, the stars are always there, even in the daylight. Sometimes we just can’t see them.