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taken captive by Braxton Hicks. My stomach is tight as a drum, and something is revolving slowly inside it, something purposeful with elbows and knees as definite as coat hangers. I can no longer lie back on the sofa; I have to prop myself sideways to watch TV. Sometimes I grab Ben’s hand and place it just so, to show him what I have to put up with. ‘Amazing!’ he says happily, resting his hand there for a moment, then giving me a pat and taking it away.
    We keep the back door closed now. The days are getting shorter. The grass silts up with fallen leaves. Christopher starts at playgroup a few mornings a week. He hates it at first, and I spend the first three or four sessions crouched on a low bench in the cloakroom, my back pressed into a chorus line of tiny coats, wondering if I dare leave. I’d planned to use the time constructively – go for a swim, tidy the garden – but once he finally settles in, I just head home and sit in an armchair by the window and don’t move until I’m due to collect him.
    I cannot get enough of the silence.
    My older sister Lucy visits for a few days and we cloister ourselves in the tiny room that Ben and I called the study, the room that will be the baby’s, sorting through the bin liners of winter clothing that various friends have donated. I don’t really need any more sleep suits or miniature white mittens, but Christopher does quite well: some jerseys, lots of vests, plaid shirts, corduroy trousers, a decent waterproof coat. The washing machine processes all these diminutive manly outfits. We pair up the dinky socks. We fold the tiny pants. It feels as if we are preparing for some imminent catastrophe.
    In the park I sit on a bench, watching Lucy pushing Christopher on the swings. ‘Higher!’ he shouts. ‘Higher!’
    Jane, an old colleague, sends me a chatty email. She’s researching a new show, a fly-on-the-wall documentary about au pairs. At first I think she’s being friendly, just keeping in touch, possibly sounding me out for future collaborations, and then I grasp the subtext: she wonders if I know anyone interesting, or mad, who might work for a case study. What about lunch? she says.
    Ah, I remember lunch: something Lebanese or Thai at a table overlooking the wet reflective pavements of Goodge Street, picking over the latest management cock-up. For a moment I allow myself to consider it, the journey in on the bus; waiting in the lobby for Jane to appear, smiling at people I used to know, yes, this is my little boy, say hello, Christopher! Yes, the next one’s due soon – I know, I must be nuts ; then the corner table, the unbearable frustration of trying to listen or speak while Christopher knocks cutlery to the floor, spills his drink and pulls my elbow, saying he needs a wee.
    The look on her face.
    No.
    I email back saying it’s all a bit crazy, due date looming and all that, I’ll be in touch in the new year.
    ‘You should have said yes,’ Ben says one Saturday, as we’re finishing lunch.
    ‘What about Christopher?’ I ask.
    ‘Oh, there must be someone who could have looked after him for a few hours,’ he says, as if it might be that easy. ‘You need to keep your hand in, stay in contact. You’ll want to go back one day.’
    I know I will, but I also know (as does he, secretly) it’ll be impossible. My professional life, at least in TV, is over.
    In the old days, it wasn’t a disaster if I had three months on and two months off; it was nerve-wracking, for sure, but doable, just part of the game. When people rang, I could always make it work. Overnighters, 5 a.m. starts, last-minute dashes to catch the red-eye, unreasonable bosses making unreasonable demands: the price you paid for a job that rarely bored you. It seemed a fair deal at the time.
    But now I know what happened to all those women I looked up to, the producers and directors who fell over the edge of the world just as their reputations began to take shape. It’s near-impossible to