“The house staff. Christ, if you think that’s bad, she’d even yell at me.”

I sat up. “Hang on, why would yelling at you be worse than yelling at your staff?”

“Of course that’s worse.”

“You can’t yell at people you’ve employed.”

“Bloody hell,” he said. Now he sounded slightly irritated. “I didn’t begin this conversation expecting to have to defend myself. Or Melissa, come to that.”

“Wow. I’m just amazed you married her in the first place.”

“Come off it. Do you really want to hear good stuff about Melissa? She was a live wire, okay? She was good fun.”

“That’s not what—”

“Look, we’ve been through this. I tried; it didn’t work out. That’s it. Now leave it, will you? Go to sleep.”

He pulled up the covers, turned off his beside light and rolled on his side, turning away from me in the dark. Minutes later, he was asleep.

I stared at the ceiling. The problem was we hadn’t yet found a home. It was getting really urgent. The stress was getting to us both.

***

The next day we put in an offer on a basement flat. It was a bit dark and a bit dingy, and the tiny second bedroom faced a brick wall, but we could sort all that with mirrors and clever lighting. It would do.

“Ping me the details,” my father said on the phone. “Let’s have a look.”

***

A week later my parents invited us out for lunch, along with Jamie’s mum and dad too.

“My treat,” my father said. “Meet us at Hammersmith Station.”

It was a warm Saturday in early May. My father had booked a table at a ritzy little bistro and was playing the bighearted host, putting Jamie’s parents comfortably at ease as he led the little party on a winding route through the quiet residential squares of Brook Green. Eventually we stopped outside an elegant red-brick mansion block.

“What’s this?” I said. It clearly wasn’t a restaurant.

“A small diversion,” my father said. “Indulge me, if you will.”

Jamie glanced at me, a fleeting question passing over his face. I replied with a look, No idea. Meanwhile Dad had produced a key. He let us all into the lobby, then up a couple of flights of stairs. On the third floor, he produced another key, unlocked a door, and the six of us stepped into the top-floor apartment.

“Have a look around,” my father said, “and use your imagination. You’ll see.”

We were standing in a spacious living room with two huge sash windows that looked out over the green, leafy square. Even with the dark-toned walls and patchy brown carpets, the room was full of light. Ahead of us was a good-sized kitchen with dated Formica units, and to our right a tiled bathroom. Further doors led to two large bedrooms, both with gently sloping ceilings under the eaves. The whole place was clearly in a terrible state of repair: strips of flocked wallpaper were peeling away from the walls and one entire window was veined by a thin tracery of dirt-lined cracks; but even in that state it was possible to see its true potential. It clearly had good bones, rooms that were light and beautifully proportioned. It was, in truth, everything I would ever want in a home. It was also completely unattainable. My father was nuts if he thought we could afford this place, or anything like it, and certainly not in Brook Green. It was hard even to look around. I leaned my backside against the sill of the cracked window, hit by a slow wave of exhaustion. All the stress of months of miserable house hunting hit me in one go. My eyes filled with tears.

“Dad,” I said, “we can’t afford this.”

“It’s on for a good price,” Dad said. “Needs a complete renovation, not just updating. New electrics, plumbing, windows, everything. Flooring, plastering, the works. It’s a lot of work. We’re talking a good few months before it’s liveable.”

“It’s completely out of our budget,” Jamie said. He flashed me a tender look of apology.

“It’s yours if you want it,” Dad said, “fully paid for and in both your names. Think of it as an early wedding gift.”

Andrew, Jamie’s father, said, “You’re not serious.”

“I am,” Dad said. He gave Jamie’s parents an even look, his voice level and completely matter-of-fact. “We can afford it.”

“Bianka, Bryce—” Jamie’s mother said. “I can hardly believe my ears. I mean, look at this place, the location alone—” She opened her hands and made a slow turn on the spot, taking in every inch of the flat. “Jamie. This place could be gorgeous.”

Jamie looked at me in stunned silence.

“It’s too generous,” he said, turning to my father. “We couldn’t ever—”

“Look at this.” My father went toward the kitchen. Jamie’s parents followed and, after a moment’s hesitation, Jamie went too, “Personally I’d take down that wall, open it up to the living room, put in a breakfast bar there, and make it one big space.”

“Okay,” Jamie said, his voice drawing out the word. He glanced in my direction, then, after a moment, smiled. “Yeah, that would work.”

“Leave it with me. I’ve got people who can sort that.”

“This is wonderful,” his mother said.

His father said, “Incredible.”

Jamie nodded and crossed his arms across his chest, workmanlike. I could see he was starting to engage with the idea. He didn’t understand. There was no way we could take the flat.

“Dad,” I said. My fingers gripped the sill. “That’s so generous and obviously we’re both hugely grateful, but—look. We just can’t. It won’t work. The problem is”—I was thinking on my feet—“it needs so much work and we need a place now.”

“Not a problem. The two of you can move in with us while the work’s being done. Correction, the three of you.” He gave me an indulgent smile.

I placed a protective hand over the swell of my belly. Somewhere inside my daughter was orbiting my womb like some distant satellite, turning slow cartwheels, her tiny fingers and toes unfolding in the dark.

“You can have the guest suite. Willa, your old bedroom can be the baby’s room. Laika’s room can be the new guest room.”

“No.”

My mother hadn’t said a word up to this point and her voice made everyone turn.

“We are not touching Laika’s room,” she said. “No one is touching Laika’s room.” There was a moment of silence.

“Of course,” my father said, giving her a slow smile. “It’s all just ideas at the moment, Bianka.” He smiled warmly at Jamie’s parents, opening his hands. “Propositions. The finer details can be drilled out later.”

“Jamie,” I said, “we should really talk about this.”

My father placed a proprietorial hand on Jamie’s shoulder. “I’m sure we can all put up with a temporary bit of multigenerational living. Move in next week. I’d appreciate having my golf buddy a bit closer to hand, especially now the weather’s good. What do you think, James?”

Jamie nodded. “Great.”

His mother said, “You lucky, lucky things.”