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gap as soon as he could he closed the door quickly, grateful for the warmth in the house.
    â€œSal. I’m sorry,” he dropped his bag. “I’ve missed you.” She felt like home and he knew it was alright again.
    â€œI can’t believe you’re here.” From upstairs Jane’s voice called out and Sally told her all was well.
    â€œCan I stay then?”
    â€œCan you sleep in a single bed?”
    â€œWith you?”
    She nodded.
    â€œNo problem!”



Chapter 3
    Pasta alla Puttanesca
    A bucket of daffodils, daringly sunny in the April breeze, caught Sally’s attention as she passed the flower shop, their cheerful disposition giving hope that Spring was around the corner. Picking out two bunches, then a third, she took them into the shop.
    â€œHaven’t seen you for a while.” The florist ripped a sheet of paper from a roll. “You’re looking well.”
    â€œOh! Thanks.” Handing over a pound note, she waited for her change. “It must be the spring air!”
    As she left the shop she reflected that she did, indeed, feel particularly well. Her own work had slowed to a manageable pace and John’s restaurant would be opening in one more week. It had taken almost four months but from the carnage of renovation, elegance had been forged. And in the process John’s excitement had become hers too.
    Humming under her breath she snipped the bunched daffodil stems, released them into a vase on the windowsill and added water from a milk-bottle. Thinking how John’s mother would have snipped the flowers individually and arranged them with foliage she pushed them around a bit then decided they brightened the day just as they were, defiantly unadorned. She made tea, tuned the radio and settled down to listen to her secret passion, The Archers.
    As Peggy’s voice faded into the evergreen tune she retuned to Radio Two. John teased her about the ‘everyday story for odd folk’ she’d listened to alongside her mother as a child. And, no doubt, her mother would have been listening to this episode too. She dialled the London number.
    â€œHello, Mum.” Sally listened to news of the big new supermarket and how Mrs Bhatti had to wait for eight months for a hip replacement and the local council were laying new paving slabs. With toes curled against the front door draught she wiped dust from the spider plant fronds between her fingers and flicked pages of her diary. Noticing the red dot on the previous Sunday – the day to expect her period – she frowned. Had she marked the wrong week? Counting back four weeks and then forward again, she shook her head. Her periods came on time; she was on the pill. A thought formed. “Sorry Mum, I’ve got to go; er…there’s someone at the door.” Replacing the receiver she counted the weeks again. Her last period had lasted for only three days and like the one before, she’d put it down to the pressure at work. But she’d not missed a period. From the depths of doubt came worms of fear; the pill, she’d heard, could trigger periods when a woman was pregnant. And some women said they didn’t know they were pregnant until they gave birth. Her legs felt weak. “No, please no.” She counted the weeks between the dots again and shivered.
    *
    Dr. West was running almost an hour late when Sally arrived at the surgery and sitting between a middle-aged woman with swollen legs and an acne-pitted youth she looked at faces resigned to waiting and wondered what brought them to seek advice. A tired young woman, not much more than a child herself, shuffled a baby on her lap and yawned as her neighbour asked the age of the child.
    â€œTwo months.”
    â€œYour first?”
    â€œYes.” The baby started to whimper.
    â€œBoy?”
    The mum nodded.
    Sally picked up a
Woman’s Own
and opened it from the back, looking for the problems page. What advice, she