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“Some horrible bully with bad taste said her eyebrows were too thick.”

“What!”

“She asked me if she could get her eyebrows threaded! I said no way.”

“Her beautiful face,” Coralie said. “God.”

“Anyway, Barbie had the idea about the movie. He loves Helena Bonham Carter, he calls her HBC. Zora likes her eyebrows now. And, by the way, she wants to do piano.”

“She quit piano!”

Daniel shrugged. “What are your plans, anyway? For the girls, when the baby comes. Because we’d be happy to have Zora anytime.”

“But not Florence,” Coralie said.

“Of course we’d have Florence! She’s just not really interested in what I can provide. If she cries, I want to cry.”

“Anne and Sally are threatening to come up. I’d love to see Sally. Anne I can take or leave…. It would be good to have them nearby, to look after the girls when the time comes. I want the help, but I don’t want to pressure them. But I also don’t want them to think I’m inviting them to stay.”

“Why don’t I ask Barbie if they can have the Graham Road flat?”

Coralie mimed holding on to the counter for support. “What do you mean, the Graham Road flat?”

“Don’t be a pain about this, or I’ll take the offer back. It’s one of Barbie’s flats. I’ve been managing it for Airbnb. I’m sure it’s free, or if it’s not, I can make it free. Cancel someone’s booking.”

“Daniel the Corbynista landlord,” Coralie mused. “Ol’ multiple-houses Barbie. Well, if it’s available, and it’s okay, I would really love that, Dan—thanks.”

···

Coralie and Zora (no longer in her Edwardian garb) picked up Florence early and took her to Hackney City Farm. The farm café was teeming with mothers and under-fives. Coralie had thought almost everyone worked. Now it seemed no one did. It was a shock.

“Why do you look like that?” Zora asked. “Is the baby making you sick?”

“No, I’m just thinking about how I’m taking Florence out of nursery. Not just today—all the time.”

“To do what?”

“There’s a Montessori school behind the market, where they take their shoes off and put on slippers to start the day, and call their playing ‘work,’ and they learn to put their own coats on by flipping them off the floor. I thought I’d put her in there.”

“That sounds cool.”

“You’re the cool one, you look so great with your hair like that.”

“Daniel learned to plait by making bread.” Zora studied her. “He told you what I told him, didn’t he? Okay. That’s okay.”

“ Sorry. I really am. I made him find out. I was freaking!”

“It’s not your job to freak out about me!”

“It’s not my job,” Coralie admitted. “It’s a hobby. And I know you’re getting older, and you need your privacy, and you will have secrets. But always remember. You have so many people in your life who care about you. Who love you.”

“Okay,” Zora scoffed.

“Including me,” Coralie said. “Do you remember we came here the first time we properly met?”

“Soh-Soh?” Florence tugged at Zora’s sleeve. “I want to see the piggies!”

“Let’s go and see the piggies.” Zora stood and helped Florence down from her chair. They walked toward the door, holding hands. Coralie reached for her phone. She almost didn’t hear Zora rush back. “And, Coralie?” She looked up. “I do remember. And I love you, too.”

···

Sooner or later, she’d have to move Flo upstairs into the spare room so the baby could have the nursery. Then where would she sleep on nights like this when she couldn’t bear sleeping with Adam?

He’d cycled to Mangal for Turkish takeaway, claiming they’d eat “well before eight,” which would be fine for Coralie’s sleep.

At 7:49, he served mixed dips and mixed grill at the small table in the garden, a tablecloth over the bird poo.

He had a beer, and Coralie had a sip. Where should she start?

Zora was first, the eyebrow thing. The offer of Barbie’s flat, which Barbie had approved, and reserved for the last week of August and first ten days of September.

She told him about Richard Pickard attending the press day and how Stefan didn’t care.

“So, I’m going to be off work next week, with my cold,” she concluded. “Then I’ll start my mat leave.”

“Good! Fuck him, and fuck them. Honestly!” After a second, he picked up his phone and swiped to check his WhatsApp.

“And I don’t think I can go back after mat leave.”

“Yes, okay, wow.” He put his phone on the table, face down. “What are you thinking? Not that you must have a plan.”

“I’ll think of something. But I was also thinking…of giving notice at nursery. Holidays are coming up. But then I thought—why send her back? I’ll be off with the baby anyway.”

“You want to look after two preschoolers? Full time?” His eyes looked wild, bloodshot from tiredness. “Are you mad?”

“No! God! No, I’ve enrolled Flo at Montessori. You know, the one behind the market. Nine till three thirty every day. Half days on Friday. It costs a lot less than nursery.”

“You’ve enrolled her?”

“The office closed today; I had to rush.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t discuss it? Or even mention it?”

“Surprised I didn’t ask for permission?”

“I didn’t say or mean that, at all .”

“But you thought it,” Coralie said. “Thanks for dinner!”

She stormed off toward the house, stumbling a little on the steps and giving her ankle a painful twist. “Ow!” she shouted back at Adam, as if he’d tripped her.

“What did I…” He started laughing, expecting her to laugh too.

But after a bath, she took Brown Bear and her pillow into the spare room, where she remembered all the ways he’d let her down.

“My fucking house,” he’d said. Well, that was exactly how she felt about her children!

Florence might have half his DNA (actually, she had no idea if that was how DNA worked), and she might have his surname.

But she was still Coralie’s. And so was the son inside her. And she would decide how they lived.

My babies , she cried silently, her teeth clenched. Mine, mine, mine .

···

The next morning, Adam brought up her breakfast.

“You can have this very special breakfast no matter what.” He put the toast and tea down next to the bed. “But I’m just wondering if you’re still angry with me?”

“Are you still angry with me ?”

“I wasn’t angry with you.” He sat on the bed. “I was just caught by surprise.”

“I wasn’t angry with you,” Coralie said. “I just didn’t appreciate how you made me fall over.”

“I’m really sorry about that,” he said sincerely, even though it was clear she meant it as a joke. “I also have something to show you before you see it yourself.”

She sat up. “What?”

He handed her his phone. What was she looking at?

Vanessa Andorra, Stefan, Richard—each standing (at a weird “arty” angle) on three bollards outside the gallery.

The headline of the article was When Life Gives You Fossil Fuels .

The subhead read: “Vanessa Andorra’s compelling new program engages with and subverts its problematic source of sponsorship. ”

“What the hell? Oh, it’s in the Culture section.

I thought it was in the news .” She handed him back his phone.

“Vanessa will be pleased, I think. Not that I care. Futurum probably will be too. Anytime they’re allowed in polite society, the big polluters win!

” She was grinning and trying to be funny, but she felt insane and very near tears.

“I’m sorry that awful man is standing on a bollard in your town,” Adam said. “And taking credit for your work. He’s a total, and utter, cunt .”

“Which awful man? Stefan was my friend!”

“I’m sorry to say it,” Adam said. “But he’s a cunt as well.”

And Coralie felt that beautiful feeling, the feeling she’d longed for all her life, that the outside world didn’t matter, and that no one could hurt her, because she had everything and everyone she needed, right there in her home.

···

On July 23, 2019, as everyone had known would happen for weeks, if not years, Boris Johnson won the Conservative Party leadership race and became the new prime minister.

It was one hundred days before the second Brexit extension would expire.

October the thirty-first was the new “do or die” date to leave the EU with or without a deal.

“Do or die” was Johnson’s own phrasing. What about people who didn’t want to leave the EU— or die? People like Coralie Bower?

She resented having to add No Deal planning to her already packed to-do list of nesting and baby prep.

In addition to months of nappies, wipes, and some tubs of emergency baby formula, she had a cupboard full of Heinz ketchups, recycled toilet rolls, Mutti tinned tomatoes, jars of peanut butter, curry pastes, basmati rice, and the nice Barilla pasta, all bought on sale over a period of months.

Closer to the deadline she’d add paracetamol, ibuprofen, lentils and chickpeas, fish fingers, and frozen peas.

The night after Boris Johnson moved into Downing Street, she woke up thinking, Salt!

It made any meal nicer and was good to trade in an emergency.

Actually, so was sugar. At 2 a.m., as if it were totally normal, she added four boxes of sea salt and six slabs of Lindt to her Ocado.

···

The final Eleanor Road birth class took place on the hottest July day ever recorded in the UK.

Well, at that point! Presumably it was just the first of many thirty-eight-degrees-Celsius days as mankind cruised through the planet’s habitable threshold!

Thirty-eight degrees was nothing in Australia.

But in London, everything and everyone ground to a halt in shock.

On her way out, she popped to the neighboring terrace to call upon Miss Mavis.

She took a long time to come to the door. “Are you checking on me because I’m elderly?”

“No!” Coralie lied.

They both laughed. Miss Mavis tutted. “You should rest in this weather, in your condition.”

“I’m going to a birth class.”

“A birth class! Teaching you pain, is it?” Miss Mavis shook her head. “Foolishness!”