A J McDine [McDine - When She Finds You

I am slumped on the bus, head resting against the window, my hands clasped around the holdall on my lap. Outside, people go about their business, oblivious to my impending ordeal. An old woman shuffles along the pavement behind a scuffed brown shopping trolley. A teenage boy on a BMX bike swerves to avoid her, raising his middle finger in anger as he passes. Beady-eyed pigeons watch the bus trundle past from their rooftop eyries. Office workers head for the park to spend their lunch hours working on their melanomas.

A trickle of sweat crawls between my shoulder blades and I shift on the sticky seat. It is hot. Too hot. The sky is as blue as a forget-me-not and theres not a cloud in sight. By rights rain should be lashing against the grubby bus window, the sky leaden like my heart. You might say Im being fanciful, but I couldnt give a toss what you think. This relentlessly sunny summers day is obscene.

My eye is caught by a harassed-looking woman standing on a street corner with a pushchair in front of her and a toddler by her side. The toddler, chubby almost to the point of being obese, is dressed in a flesh-pink princess costume, fairy wings and spotty wellies. She looks like a grotesque salmon-coloured slug. To add insult to injury her mother has scraped her fine blonde hair into a single pigtail that protrudes from the top of her head like pampas grass. It looks ridiculous.

My heart rate quickening, I crane my neck to see inside the pram, but the baby is hidden from view by a navy parasol. Does it look like its sister, I wonder, then give my head a little shake. Who actually cares? All babies look like Winston Churchill anyway.

The bus grinds to a halt at a set of traffic lights, the air brakes hissing like an angry cat. I check my watch. Im cutting it fine. Im supposed to be there at eleven and its already twenty to. I reach into my bag for the letter, the action a reflex. Its right at the bottom, hidden under my pyjamas and wash bag. I unfold it and re-read it, even though I know it off by heart. Seeing it in black and white makes it feel real, and my throat tightens.

My eyes skim the time of my in-patient appointment, the name of the ward, the date. The letter flutters as my hands tremble. I tighten my hold and keep reading. Dos and donts. Dont eat or drink anything from midnight the night before the procedure. Do make sure theres someone to look after you afterwards. A bitter little laugh escapes my throat before I have a chance to swallow it down and a pensioner two rows in front throws me a puzzled look. I ball the letter in my fist and slide further down the slippery orange plastic seat, hugging the holdall to my chest.

Procedure. Such an inoffensive word for such an invasive act. My stomach is churning at the very thought of it.

Its the right thing to do, I tell myself for the gazillionth time. The procedure will give me a fresh start, a new beginning. Itll wipe the slate clean. Ill be sparkly and new. Without it, my futures uncertain, hopeless. I know Im being fanciful again, like some angst-filled heroine in a bleak Victorian saga.

So fucking what?

The pensioner turns around a second time, his salt and pepper eyebrows raised. Did I say that out loud? Maybe. Probably. I glare at him until he looks away, muttering under his breath.

The bus turns right into the road that leads to the hospital. Reaching up, I press the bell and the air brakes hiss again. I sway along the aisle until Im standing next to the driver. He smells of coffee and cheap aftershave.

Thanks, I mutter as the doors open and I jump onto the pavement, careful as always to avoid the cracks. Like I need any more bad luck.

I hitch my bag onto my shoulder and gaze at the slab building, an ugly jumble of glass and concrete. My heart is pounding and my stomach is turning somersaults. For a moment I contemplate turning away and catching the next bus home. Should I? Could I?

Deep down I know its not an option. My choices ran out a long time ago. I lick my lips and head for the hospital doors.

C anterbury is busy. Shoppers wander aimlessly in front of me and on every street corner groups of French and Belgian schoolchildren jostle each other as their teachers count heads and consult clipboards.

I shoulder my way past them all as I head towards Fenwick, as focused on the department store as a cruise missile is on its target. I promise myself I wont get waylaid in White Stuff. No point at the moment, anyway. I give my belly a rub; Im rewarded with an answering kick.

Out of habit I ferret around in my bag, pull out my phone and check to see if theres a text from Matt. There isnt, so I slip the phone back into my bag with a sigh. We argued again last night. Without warning, one throwaway remark escalated into a full-blown row and although we eventually made up, the sporadic texts weve pinged back and forth since have none of their usual warmth or humour. Theyre devoid of both emoji and emotion.

Thats why Im determined to find the perfect birthday present for him - to apologise and show him how much I love him. Need him.

The mens department is on the ground floor, sandwiched between handbags and the caf. I wander past the rails of designer clothes, fingering cashmere sweaters and holding shirts aloft, narrowing my eyes as I picture Matt wearing them.

Need any help today, madam? says a shop assistant, sidling over. He has a neat beard and a sharp suit. Probably had avocados on toast for breakfast.

Im looking for a present for my husband. Hes thirty-five tomorrow, I add, as if Mr Avocado could give a toss.

What about a leather jacket? Hes already heading over to a row of stylish biker jackets.

I swallow. Money is tight, especially with my maternity leave looming. I was thinking more of a shirt. I say with an apologetic smile.

To his credit he doesnt miss a beat. Then youre in luck. The Paul Smith shirts go on sale in the morning. Im marking them up now. See if theres anything you think hed like.

My eye is drawn to a cornflower-blue shirt already sporting a thirty per cent off sticker. This is nice, I say, knowing itll bring out the blue of Matts eyes.

What size?

Although Matt has the broad, muscular shoulders of a swimmer he likes his shirts fitted to show off his pecs, his one vanity.

Medium, probably.

The shop assistant hums to himself as his fingers march along the rail of shirts. Just when I think Im out of luck he pulls one out with a Ta da!

I pay and thank him for his help, and he heads towards the Hugo Boss suits, still quietly humming to himself.

Relieved to have bagged a bargain and hopeful Matt will love the shirt I take the escalator down to the basement and choose a funny card and some Star Wars wrapping paper I know will make him laugh.

Im about to head back up to the ground floor when the lift doors open behind me and a willowy woman pushing a buggy steps out. I pause. Id forgotten the childrens department was down here. I always avoid baby shops. Im superstitious like that. And who can blame me? But something is drawing me towards the rails of tiny sleepsuits, dresses and dungarees. Surely it wouldnt hurt to have a quick look? I glance down at my bump, as if seeking approval. Im not sure what Im expecting. A somersault for yes and a kick for no? Stupid Sophie. And to prove me right the baby is still. I wrestle with myself for a second or two. Heart wins over head and I follow the willowy woman to the childrens department.