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all.’
                  Eliot squeezed her tightly. He knew from long experience that there wasn’t much he could say that would help. In the first few years, as they tried in hopefulness and joy to start a family, these set-backs did little to dent their optimism. As time went on, Eliot had gone through phases of saying the wrong things when month after month passed without a pregnancy. This resulted in a catalogue of frosty silences and accusations of him not caring or being less devoted to having children than she was. These days, he’d learnt to comment as little as possible. 
                  Marisa looked up at him. ‘I had this awful dream, too. When I woke up my heart was racing and I’d been crying in my sleep.’
                  ‘It’s the hormones, darling. Dr Ford explained all this to us when we were having the IVF last year. Please try not to let it upset you.’
                  ‘But the dream was about the little boy – the one I thought I’d seen on the cliff top. He was about two years old this time, but still in that same red t-shirt. He was holding a woman’s hand – at least I think it was a woman – they were beside a busy road. Suddenly, he pulled away from her and dashed into the path of the traffic -,’ Marisa gripped her husband’s arm.
                  ‘It’s a classic anxiety dream, sweetheart. Your mind is releasing some of its tension during sleep. It’s really not surprising after all the excitement you had the other day.’
                  Marisa nodded. ‘I know there’s a psychological explanation. But I can’t help wondering why I keep seeing that same child. I’ve never experienced such a vivid image of a person appearing in my dream before. I can describe everything about him, even down to the type of trainers he was wearing.’
                  Eliot lowered himself into the seat beside her. ‘This may be a topic to discuss with the psychiatrist tomorrow. He’ll have a proper explanation for you. I’ve got my own theories, but what the hell do I know?’
                  Marisa reached forward and touched his hair. ‘What theories? What do you think it means?’
                  He sighed heavily. ‘I don’t want you to jump down my throat…’
                  ‘I won’t, I promise.’
                  Eliot rested his hands in his lap. ‘I think you’re still grieving for the baby. We only lost him less than two years ago. I know it was very early in the pregnancy, but you’d grown so attached to him already. I think this little boy is a manifestation of the child who died.’
                  Marisa was momentarily speechless. She’d never heard Eliot be so thoughtful and intuitive before. ‘Yes, I can see it might be something like that.’
                  Eliot clasped her hands, growing more confident in his theory. ‘It may be part of the grieving process. These visions might actually be a positive thing – a sign you’re dealing with your grief?’
                  Marisa leant forward and placed her lips over his. ‘I hope you’re right, darling. Thank you so much for understanding – for putting up with me.’
                  Eliot said nothing, just held her in his arms for as long as she wanted.
     
    *
     
    The waiting room was dotted with bowls of flowers and potted plants. The colour scheme was self-consciously muted. The magazines piled on the glass topped table were glossy and uncontroversial.
                  Marisa had flicked absent-mindedly through them all. She was as willowy and slim as any of the models featured within their pages but all she had ever wanted was to possess the types of curves that denoted motherhood and effortless fertility. Sometimes Marisa wondered if she’d actually been physically designed to be a mum. As the years went by,