“I saw the expression on your face at Madeline’s baby shower, when you were holding what’s-her-name’s baby—and I have to say that was a particularly ugly baby.”

“Mum.”

“He looked like a little toad. Anyway, my point is that you do want to have children, and you’re financially secure, and you like the father, you might even love the father. If you had an abortion, and then you found you couldn’t get pregnant, you would never forgive yourself. Of course you’re having the baby. You just tell him you’re having a child, neither of you meant it to happen, but it has, and it’s not 1950, so he doesn’t have to marry you, and he can be involved as little or as much as he likes. It’s all very simple. He will have legal obligations in regard to child support, but if I were you, I wouldn’t worry too much about that. You’ve got your grandparents’ house. You’ve got me and your godmothers. You don’t need his money.”

“I suppose not,” said Ellen. Patrick’s money had been the last thing on her mind.

“It’s all very simple,” said Anne again, while her fingertips did a joyful little tap dance on the tabletop, and Ellen saw that she was actually pleased about the baby. She might even be thrilled.

There was a pause.

The soft expression vanished from her mother’s face. “Of course, it’s early days,” she said briskly. “At your age the chances of a first-trimester miscarriage are relatively high.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Well, you’re the one talking about terminating the pregnancy, you can hardly get all sensitive about the possibility of a miscarriage.”

“I didn’t say … well, yes, OK.”

Her mother was right. There had never been any doubt. She was going to have the baby. The complicated part wasn’t whether she wanted a child. The complicated part was how it would affect her relationship with Patrick.

Because Ellen didn’t just want a baby. She wanted the whole kit and caboodle. The husband. The daddy. The man holding her hand in the delivery room.

That’s what she couldn’t say to her mother. I don’t want to do it your way. I never wanted to do it your way. I don’t want to raise a child alone. I don’t want to be different. I just want to be the same as everyone else.

Patrick came out of the bathroom and hopped into bed with her. He broke off a piece of chocolate from the bar she’d been eating.

“You just cleaned your teeth,” said Ellen.

“I know. Don’t tell Jack. Bad Dad.”

Speaking of which, how do you feel about another child? She was so close to just saying it, except that she really didn’t have the energy to talk about it. Tomorrow. They would talk about it tomorrow. It was lucky he wasn’t a big drinker. When she’d said she didn’t feel like wine with dinner, he’d said, “Oh, that’s fine. I won’t have any either.” Sharing a bottle of good wine had been such an integral part of her relationship with Jon, he would have noticed immediately if she wasn’t drinking.

They watched the movie together. The plot was too convoluted. They couldn’t get the characters straight. They both kept saying, “What? Who’s he?” Finally they switched it off, agreeing they were either too tired or too old, and turned to each other.

Their lovemaking was sleepy and tender, as if they were an old married couple. Ellen felt teary. Everything was going to be perfect.

“Will you hypnotize me to sleep?” said Patrick, as they switched off the lights.

“I’m pretty tired,” yawned Ellen.

It had so quickly become a habit. She would give him a five-minute relaxation exercise before he went to sleep. He seemed genuinely amazed by it. He said he loved it, it was like magic, and that listening to her voice was his favorite part of the day and he hadn’t slept that well since he was a teenager and that she was helping him deal with the stress of “that woman,” his work, everything. She’d never been with anyone who was so impressed by her skills before.

“That’s all right,” said Patrick. “I’ve been exploiting you, haven’t I? I wouldn’t be up for doing a survey right now.”

Oh, he was nice, and she did want him in a relaxed frame of mind tomorrow.

She sat up and laid a hand on his forehead. Sometimes this felt more intimate than sex. She so rarely used touch on her clients, although she knew other therapists who did. Lying in bed in the private inky blackness, knowing that her words had the power to place images in his head, to slow his heartbeat, to lower his blood pressure, she felt powerful, nurturing, mystical. A good witch, a sorceress. Not a hypnotherapist, a hypnotist.

“I’m going to count to ten. By the count of three or four you may feel your breathing slow and your eyelids become heavy. By five or six you will probably be struggling to keep them open. By seven or eight or even nine it will most likely be irresistible, and you’ll let your eyelids close. By ten your eyes may be shut, your breathing deep and regular.”

She saw the shine of his eyes in the darkness. Already she could sense his breathing slow. She used a different induction technique each time, whatever came to mind. She was freer, looser and more creative than she was with her paying clients.

She began to count, increasing the pressure of her hand on his forehead as she did and making her voice softer, slower yet more insistent.

His eyes were shut by the count of seven.

“And now, I want you to imagine this: warm honey drizzling off the edge of a spoon.”