Page 133 of Tears of Gold

“I can’t believe it. Dan Smith and Sienna Richards? Are you sure it was her?”

“Positive, she’s pretty enough; it’s kind of hard to miss her.”

“I knew she hadn’t been around much. But Dan? And her?”

“Are you jealous?” For a moment Abi is deadly serious.

“Are you mad? Of course I’m not.”

“Phew. For once it would be nice to have things simple. How’s my godchild? I can’t believe you didn’t find out if it’s a boy or a girl. How can you cope with not knowing?”

“Easy? I don’t need to know everything like you.”

“It would drive me mad. I don’t know what colour cardigan to knit the baby.”

"Shut the fuck up! You’ve never knitted in your life.”

“Okay.” She chuckles so loud. “I don’t know what colour cardigan to buy the baby.”

“That’s better. Are you still dropping Charlotte off the weekend after the trial?”

She hesitates. “Uh. Yeah sure.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Um, listen, gotta dash.”

She hangs up just like that. Well that was weird.

I take the stairs one at a time; it’s about the speed I do anything these days. The bump has a will all of its own; a force of gravity I can’t seem to maintain. I feel like I’m going to pitch forward on a moment to moment basis.

I head into the nursery—the room next to ours. It’s cream and beautiful with a contrasting hue of heather to brighten the depths. I sit in here a lot. In front of the window is a rocking/feeding chair. I’ve got a few minutes until the car comes to take me to my new venture. Although it doesn’t feel that new. The build-up to the TV show has been slowly simmering for months. I’ve had photo shoots, press releases, all sorts that a girl from Brighton never really expected. My phone beeps and I glance down at a message from Angela. You’ll do me proud today, I know it. Co-star is on route from Heathrow. Talk about cutting it fine. Xxx

I roll my eyes which is mainly what I do around Angela. She’s a hurricane of last-minute activity. The co-star coming in is an artist from the States. We haven’t even met yet, but I’ve been assured we will get on like a house on fire. Lucky for Channel 4, I can play nicely these days.

My phone beeps again. Jennifer.

Good luck, not that you need it. Also, you’ve been invited to the Women of Britain awards next week. I accepted for you, basically you have to go. What size maternity are you wearing? I’ll get Saskia on the trail of something delightfully Faith for you to wear.

I groan. I don’t think people are understanding just how damn tiring lumping around a thirty-week baby bump is. And I’m not small… oh no. Considering I was so slim to begin with, I now seem to be pregnant from my toes to the top of my head.

10… oh who am I kidding? 12 I write back. With plenty of extra space around the middle.

She sends me back a laughing emoji. Yes, that’s right, the baroness uses emoji’s these days.

Five minutes until the car arrives. I lean back in the chair and centre my thoughts, focusing on the mindfulness Francine has been teaching me in my sessions. I’m still going weekly, and I probably will until after the trial. Talking is good, so it seems.

After a couple of moments, I reach to the bottom drawer on the left in the chest of drawers. Lifting out one of the small baby vests that are patiently waiting inside, I unfold it on my lap before pulling out the Manilla folder Sienna dropped around all those fateful months ago.

I open it and read like I do most days. Reading the facts about my mother, the only things I know. Inside my tummy my baby pushes its foot into my ribs. “Hey, don’t be mean.” I poke the foot back and watch as it shifts across my stomach under the tight stretch of my white vest.

I go to close the folder, making sure the note written in Eli’s hand with the address is left on the top. Then shutting the nursery door behind me I go back down the stairs and pull up the straps to my dungarees. I decided they would be my uniform for the show: the bump would be discreet but still there and if I pair them with vests then I won’t get too hot and my art will still be on show on my skin.

Saskia had a lot to say. Oh well, she can have fun finding me a dress for that award thing.

Once I get safely delivered to the Tate and walk through to where the London underbelly set is waiting for its moment of glory, I find Angela. “Darling, have you not been to make-up yet?”

I shoot her a don’t shit me stare. “What are you saying?”