“Sorry? What did you say? You’re inviting me to a Tupperware party?” Ellen was on the phone to Danny, the young hypnotherapist she’d been mentoring over the past year.

“Ha! Yeah, right!” shouted Danny. He appeared to be calling from a nightclub. He reminded Ellen of Patrick’s younger brother, Simon. That generation seemed to have a different dialect or accent or something. They all sounded ever so slightly American, and there was an amused casualness about the way they saw the world, as if nothing was beyond them. Maybe it was technology. It put power in their fingertips.

Or was that the way Ellen had sounded when she was twenty-four too? No. She’d never been casual about anything.

“Let me just go outside for a moment,” said Danny.

I’m pregnant, Danny. Pregnant. That means I’m having a baby. And I’ve only been dating the guy for three months. What would you do if your girlfriend told you she was pregnant after only three months?

“OK, is that better?” The background noise had vanished. “No, what I’m saying is, you know how you’ve got Tupperware parties, right? So I was just standing at the bar and listening to these two women, middle-aged—mothers, I guess—and they were talking about how much weight they needed to lose, and their personal trainers, and how long you need to run on the treadmill to work off a roast potato, and you could tell they were, like, passionate about this shit.”

“I’m having trouble following,” said Ellen.

“Hypno-parties! I’m going to run weight-loss hypno-parties! So all these women can get together and I can give them a group hypnosis session for weight loss. I’d use Flynn’s rapid induction techniques you were telling me about—he wouldn’t mind, would he? These chicks would be in the perfect receptive state anyway. Then a standard script with a few positive affirmations—maybe an aversion suggestion for every time they look at a roast potato or open the fridge? But they’ve got to cook dinner for their kids, I guess. Anyway, I can work out all the details. What do you think?”

“I’m not exactly—” began Ellen.

“It’s perfect! How much do you think I could get away with charging?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Ellen. “I always prefer to individually tailor treatment to—”

“The money they spend on these personal trainers. I could get them better results.”

“Maybe you could.”

All the women would fall in love with him. He’d been the only male in the Introduction to Hypnotherapy course Ellen had taught, and he was attractive and charismatic but in an understated way that made you think you were the only one to have noticed. When he was doing Ellen’s course, he always took a seat at the far right of the room, and Ellen had noticed the way all the other students unconsciously leaned toward him, like flowers bent by a breeze.

She could hear a girl’s voice in the background now calling out, “Danny! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

I bet you have, thought Ellen. When Danny looked at you, he held eye contact. It was a gift. Not many men could do that without appearing psychotic.

“So, anyway, I’ve got to go, the idea just hit me and I wanted to see what you thought! I’ll call you, OK? How are you anyway, Ellen? Sorry. I never even asked.”

He didn’t sound perfunctory. He sounded like he genuinely cared. Maybe he did. Or maybe he was the ultimate salesman.

“I’m fine, Danny. You go.”

It was later that night and Ellen was slouched on the couch watching Beauty and the Geek and using her fingers to eat a plate of roast potatoes, which was all she felt like for dinner.

It wasn’t like it was the first time in her life she’d ever experienced a strong desire for a particular type of food, but now that she was pregnant she felt entitled to label it a “craving.” Perhaps the baby needed potato.

Or perhaps it was just that Danny had mentioned roast potatoes and her subconscious had obediently responded to the suggestion.

She allowed these thoughts and words to cross her mind—Now that I’m pregnant … the baby … craving—and felt as though she was doing something slightly illegal. She couldn’t just waltz into that whole complicated world of motherhood without some sort of official entry pass, could she? What was the entry pass? A marriage license? It seemed crazy that as of yesterday the thought of having children was still something far in her future, and then today, after one trip to the chemist, she was craving roast potatoes and thinking about “the baby.” Next she’d be having pickles and ice cream for dessert.

The carbohydrates and the bad television were putting her into a sort of half-comatose state. Her head felt stuffed full of cotton wool.

Baby brain.

Enough, Ellen!

The phone rang and she put her plate to the side and heaved herself off the couch with a grunt. Now she was even walking like a pregnant woman, with one hand supporting the small of her back. She made herself stand upright. She really was the most suggestible person in the world.

It was her godmother Melanie. That was good. Mel didn’t really like talking on the phone and was always in a hurry to finish up the conversation. She would be quick, and Ellen could get back to the enjoyably stupid beauties and endearingly geeky geeks.

“I just wanted you to know how much I liked Patrick,” said Mel. “I really, really liked him. And such an improvement on that Jon. Such a self-satisfied prick. I hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

“The self-satisfied prick has just asked someone to marry him,” said Ellen.

“Oh, that poor girl,” said Mel with genuine feeling. “What a lucky escape for you.”

And just like that, Jon was safely locked away in the filing cabinet at the back of her memory where he belonged. Ellen felt a surge of gratitude and affection for both her godmothers. Pip had also called earlier today and left a long, rambling, giggly message on Ellen’s voice-mail all about soul mates and wedding bells, and was she too old to be a bridesmaid? Of course, Ellen’s own mother hadn’t called yet.

“Your mother liked him too,” said Mel.

“Did she say that?” said Ellen.

“Well, no,” admitted Mel. “But I could tell. Speaking of your mother, did she seem herself to you on Friday night?”

“I think so.” Ellen dragged her mind with difficulty to her mother’s behavior on Friday night. Hadn’t Anne been her normal self? Ellen had been so focused on Patrick and herself, she hadn’t really spent much time observing her.