Chapter 4: The Mother-in-Law Who Called

Margaret Wrenfield lived in a tall brick house in Hampstead with a blue front door and a brass knocker shaped like a fox.

I got there at eleven the next morning, in a clean jumper from the holdall and Gethin's spare scarf.

She opened the door before I knocked.

She was sixty-three, straight-backed, with silver hair cut to her chin and her son's grey eyes.

For a moment neither of us said anything.

"You're thinner," she said. "Come in. I've made far too much tea."

The sitting room smelled of lemon polish and woodsmoke.

She put a cup in my hands and sat opposite me with her own cup untouched.

"You told me on the telephone," she said. "I have been sitting with it all night. Say it to my face, so I know it's true. The baby."

"Yes. I was sixteen weeks."

Margaret closed her eyes.

When she opened them they were wet, and she didn't look away or wipe them.

"I didn't even know," she said. "Nobody told me you were expecting."

"I meant to wait until twelve weeks. And after that I didn't think you wanted to hear from me."

"Verity." She leaned forward. "I have rung you every week for two years."

I put my cup down.

"No, you haven't," I said. "I thought you'd cut us off. Every Christmas I asked Alistair if we could visit, and he said you were travelling."

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