'I'm totally nice, I promise,' he says.
'That's what they all say.'
Yep, all of the approximately three men I've had conversations with recently, including the bald bloke in the corner shop who calls me 'love' and looks at my (until recently) non-existent boobs.
Robin sets the cup down and backs up until he's a few paces away.
'You could sort of slosh it in?' he says.
'OK.' I take the chain off the door and crouch to pour milk into his cup.
I realise he's staring at the pen lines I measured out on the bottle. I don't actually know how much he needs, so I pour about half a pint in, in the end. When I straighten up, two things happen: I wince as my back twangs from where I fell backwards from the window, and then I have to hold on to the door frame because I came up stupidly fast and the dots are doing their funky chicken across my vision.
I tip my head forward and wait, and when everything clears and I look up, he's taken a couple of paces towards me and is hovering with an expression that suggests he's getting ready to make a grab for me if I go down. Which is sort of sweet. As long as he's not a psycho or something.
'There you go,' I say and, though my voice is firm, I can't find it in me to keep the hard edge to it.
'Thanks,' he says. I wait for him to say something else, check if I'm OK or prolong the conversation, but he only adds, 'I'll pay you back.'
I'm about to say 'no need', when I realise he's disappearing back into his flat.
I have a strong urge to call out, 'Wait!' I want to ask him about the flowers. I want to grab hold of him and say, 'How old are you? Are you on your own? Why are you on your own? Are you lonely? Did you notice I'm pregnant? Do I look thin to you? How thin, exactly? Because, you know, I don't usually look like this … '
But I don't. I might have spent my formative years in the care of the NHS's finest psychiatric institutions, but I'm not a total loony yet.
At least, I don't think I am. How the hell would I know anyway?
Perhaps I could knock on his door, but I already know I can't. I sit back down and push the last chunk of chicken and slimy green broccoli on to my fork and force it down, sloshing a load of water after, like a chaser. Then I dump the plate in the sink and spend an age washing it up, drying and putting it away. It helps to shut out the Nia voice, which would normally be telling me things like Fat, gross, greedy pig. It's only partly successful. I can feel her there, brushing the back of my neck, our truce the most fragile of bubbles. Breakable.
Baby, I counter, and the little thing inside me gives a half-hearted jerk, then a larger one, like it's turning a slow somersault inside.
I'm twenty-four weeks pregnant today.
I guess it's time I told the parents.
Crap Things about the Unit, Number Five:
Family Therapy
I don't even know how to start with the crappiness of this one. We had years of it, on and off. My parents tried to start with, and maybe even I did too, but by the time I'd hit my last admission it had all settled into a familiar pattern: Mum and Dad sitting there like two mannequins, so tired, so sick of trying to work out what was wrong with me. And Tammy, my thirteen-year-old sister, dragged along to the last few sessions under protest, furiously silent, her eyes too old for her body, just like her brain was – is. Me wishing I could disappear, preferably for good. Because I never knew what was wrong with me, not really.
And the Silence.
The Silence.
Silence.
But I guess I had something to do with that. Silence is the best weapon, I always say.
Chapter 8
15 WEEKS TO GO
'Hedda! This is a … surprise. Come in.' Mum opens the door wider and steps back to let me through, then casts a glance up over her shoulder, towards the stairs.
I've deliberately picked a time when Tammy is in school and Dad should be at work, but perhaps someone is home ill, or there's a teacher-training day or something.
'Just you home, is it?' I say, and I see Mum stiffen, try not to wince. I think I dumb down my accent to annoy her. It's childish, yeah. Sue me. It's also kind of funny. Plus, I need anything I can to put me on the front foot here, because it's not going to be pretty when I give her the news.
'Oh yes, Tamara won't be home until late. She has orchestra. She's doing a cello solo. Bach.' Mum's cheeks take on an extra pink flush of pride underneath the layers of organic day cream, foundation and blusher. 'So you probably won't be able to see her today,' she adds, and there is a tiny hardening around her eyes (blue eyeshadow and eyeliner – not the best combo for her skin, truth be told).