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Adam was doing the newspaper roundup on Andrew Marr’s curvy orange sofa at the BBC’s new Broadcasting House.

“Back me or get Jeremy Corbyn and no Brexit,” he read from the Mail on Sunday .

“Prime Minister Theresa May warns MPs against voting down her EU withdrawal deal—as she reveals how she keeps calm by eating peanut butter out of the jar.”

“Peanut bupper?”

“That’s right, Cheep-Cheep.” Coralie turned back to the television as Florence, still in her pajamas, ran off toward the pantry.

“Mrs. May has told the Mail she hopes the Commons will sign off on her Brexit deal on Tuesday so she can enjoy her goose and a glass of red wine this Christmas,” Adam told Marr on TV. “She warns that failing to sign off on her deal could see Jeremy Corbyn in Number Ten, or even no Brexit at all.”

“But with hardline Brexiteers already vowing to vote against her withdrawal agreement,” Marr said, “will it be Mrs. May’s goose who’s cooked?

” He turned to the camera. “To his critics, he’s the man whose blithe, airy promises have landed us in a Brexit nightmare, and a thoroughly embarrassing foreign secretary.

To his admirers, he’s one of the very few truly rousing Tory politicians of the age and a shoo-in, surely, as the party’s next leader. He is, of course, Boris Johnson.”

On-screen, Boris Johnson smiled. “Good morning.”

Coralie snorted. “Good morning, you fat twat.”

She glanced back down to the kitchen. Fortunately, Zora was watching her iPad with headphones on.

The problem wasn’t the T word, but the F one.

Coralie was absolutely ruthless about not engaging in what the experts called “body talk” in front of the girls.

No staring into the mirror, smoothing her thighs with a disgusted face.

No “I feel bloated,” no “I earned this treat,” no gossip about people’s appearances, none of it.

Years ago, she’d spent ages carefully live-editing Roald Dahl while reading aloud to Zora, and soon she’d do the same for Flo.

So why couldn’t she help herself when she saw Boris Johnson?

Little footsteps approached. “Where’s Dada?” Florence’s face crumpled. She’d brought him the peanut butter from the breakfast table.

“Oh, Wrennie, you’re so clever! He’s not on the screen anymore. Here, let me take a photo for Daddy. Show me the jar?”

She sent the photo to Adam. Flo thought you wanted this. She added a heart emoji and four CYK s.

He replied instantly with five heart emojis. Beautiful girl. How was I? Any feedy-b?

By “feedy-b,” he meant feedback, and it was Coralie’s job to pass it along.

Attention of all kinds had significantly increased since he’d been offered a staff job on The Times , a sprawling, high-profile role involving some parliamentary sketch pieces, helming its gossipy daily email, and setting up a chatty new podcast. At a time when politics was life and death, he would be paid to try to be funny.

He’d tweeted the announcement with a self-effacing Some personal news.

The resulting storm of mentions was the “best day” of his life.

(“On Twitter!” he’d quickly clarified to a horrified Coralie.

“The best day of my life on the platform .”)

A WhatsApp arrived from Sabine, a Cotters’ Yard nursery mum: Jonas wants to know if Adam’s jumper is from Cos?

Coralie forwarded it to Adam. It’s from Folk! he wrote back. Anything else?

She searched Twitter for “Adam Whiteman.” In the most recent tweet, someone had called him a groan-worthy remoaner chubster .

That wasn’t suitable. She searched “Adam Marr.”

The top result: Dreamboat Adam’s back on Marr #yesplease. It had been liked four times. With a sigh, Coralie shared it.

Now we’re talking! Adam was delighted.

Was it awkward with Boris in the greenroom? (Three years on, Adam’s biography remained unacknowledged publicly by its subject.)

No! Adam replied. A polite hello. But I can’t really be sure he knew I was ME. Breakfast will be the test.

The breakfasts after the Marr show were the stuff of legend. Or maybe Adam only said that to get out of childcare for hours.

Marr’s voice broke through to her from the TV. “Can you give me an absolute categorical promise here and now,” the journalist said, “that you will not stand against Theresa May?”

“I’ll give you an absolute categorical promise,” Johnson craftily replied, “that I’ll continue to advocate what I think is the most sensible plan.”

“Horrible man.” Coralie pointed the remote like a gun and shot him.

···

Upstairs, she tried to lie Florence down on her back but was not surprised when she stiffened, struggled, and firmly announced, “Stand up.” Coralie gave her the cheap plastic calculator they kept by the changing table as a distraction.

With a comedy frown on her perfect face, Florence raised it to her ear. “Hello? Phone?”

“Are you being Daddy, funny bunny?” Coralie unpopped the top popper on her sleepsuit and ripped open the rest in one go. Florence wriggled and jumped, delighted. “Brr!” Coralie blew kisses into her neck, chest, and belly. Florence shrieked and laughed.

Zora looked up from her copy of The Week Junior ( Touchdown! Scientists Celebrate the Successful Landing of a New Spacecraft on Mars ). “What if she was just learning proper maths on that calculator and you disturbed her?”

“We can’t have two genius girls in the family,” Coralie said. “I won’t be able to cope.” Zora smiled and went back to reading. “Flo-Flo. Do you want to sit on the potty?”

“No,” Flo said, disgusted.

“Do you want to wear a nappy?”

“No,” Flo said, appalled.

“Then, why don’t you have a try on the potty? Just a little try? And then I can put your knickers on.”

“I’ll pud dem on!”

“That’s a good idea, you go to the potty—and then you can put your knickers on!”

Florence launched herself off the table and into Coralie’s arms. “Flo! Be careful!” She tipped her backward to cradle her. “You can’t fly!”

They smiled at each other, and Florence reached out a hand for Coralie to kiss. How she loved her little girl.

And yet, just as passionately, Coralie longed once again to be pregnant.

It was scary to be back in the wanting place, the almost-desperate place, craving a second baby while her beautiful existing baby was there before her.

To justify wanting more when she had everything, she had to tell herself it was for Florence: a sibling close in age, a built-in best friend, something both she and Adam felt they’d missed out on.

They’d been “trying” since they returned from Australia.

It had been almost a year! Nothing seemed to be working. Why?

In the bathroom, Coralie squatted on the floor and tried not to look impatient as Flo scrabbled in the bath toy box instead of doing a wee.

Florence had been born before Brexit, before Trump.

Since then, a crazed right-winger had shot and stabbed a woman MP to death during the Brexit referendum campaign, shouting, “Britain first!” At the US border, Donald Trump ordered the separation of thousands of children, even nursing babies, from their parents.

When public outcry caused the policy to be stopped, the families couldn’t be reunited because their records were messed up.

In Australia, the prime minister was a total dipshit, a global warming–denying embarrassment.

“This is coal,” Scott Morrison had said in 2017, brandishing a black lump of it on the floor of Parliament.

“Don’t be afraid. Don’t be scared. It won’t hurt you.

” Meanwhile, in October, the world’s leading climate scientists had said the last remaining bestcase scenarios were already barely manageable.

Sweeping wholesale changes had to be made within the next twelve years.

Nothing was okay anymore, everything was bad, and even if she was able to bring another child into the world (and it felt like an if at that point), was it moral to do so? Was it right?

Florence had produced something in the potty.

Coralie exclaimed over it, wiped her bum, took out the potty’s green plastic insert, tipped the contents into the toilet, swilled out the insert with some clean water, and poured that on top of everything else.

Why was she craving more of this? Was she mad?

At least she could put Flo in knickers now and have two clear hours before starting to ask, at first casually, then with more urgency, and then with an anxious sheen of sweat above her lip: “Flo, Flo— do you need the toilet ?”

“Can I choose her clothes?” Back in the nursery, Zora laid down her magazine.

“Yes, but something the snowsuit can go over. I’m hoping Adam will take her out.”

“He only ever goes out for coffee. He would’ve had coffee with Andrew Marr.”

“If he doesn’t go out, I’ll have to go out. I want to get some writing done.”

“Where do you go when you go out and write?”

“If I have an hour, Violet, the cake shop. If I have two, the library.”

“What if you have longer than that?”

“Oh, Zora!” Coralie said. “I’ll let you know when that happens.”

···

Downstairs, the front door burst open. “I’m home!

” Adam heaved and clattered his bike through the kitchen to shove it outside in the bike store.

Coralie and the girls were down to meet him by the time he came back in.

“Whew,” he said. “My fingers have frozen off. Who wants to feel my hands? Zora, come here.”

Zora screamed. “No!”

“No, no!” Flo began running too.

Adam chased them into the sitting room. Coralie put the kettle on and waited to hear her fate.

After a little while, Adam returned. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Zora says she’ll get a blue card in PE if she doesn’t take sneakers in to school.”

“We’ll have to buy some. We’ll have to go to the big M and S.” Zora looked levelly at Coralie. “In Stratford.”

Stratford! My God, she was looking at two, two and a half hours alone! She could sit and write in the kitchen, where the heating properly worked. She was free!