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months has become realer than real to me, brighter than bright, my companion and saviour and pride and triumph? Goddamn it, where has Leo gone ?
    Wherever it is, it’s not here. He’s padded off on his ghostly paws to some celestial jungle, some vine-draped lonely clearing where he lifts up his head and roars in the moonlight, piteous and small and solitary. He’s there for good: he’s never coming back. And here’s this peculiar, misshapen creature, this girl, glistening purple-crimson under the labour-ward lights, making off-putting noises while it tries to crawl beetlelike up my body.
    It wasn’t my fault. Emotions are not amenable to schooling. We cannot pretend to feel something we do not feel. I mean, to ourselves. Of course we can pretend whatever we like to the world, and if we’re clever enough the world is deceived. I deceived the world, I think.
    Once, early on, I started to explain to my mother how I felt about my first-born, but her clear gaze was so horrified that I stopped. She told me I was tired, I didn’t know what I was saying, everything would be all right. And I suppose it was, in a manner of speaking.
    I’ve read a lot about that kind of thing since then. These days, people would be sympathetic and call me a victim of post-parturition stress disorder or some such thing, and I’d get lots of counselling and support. But it wasn’t like that, then. You loved your child; you struggled on. Count your blessings, people said.
    And of course I did love Kate, and so forth. I do love her. But it was hard. I’ve never been able to forget how hard it was.
    I waited five years before deciding to have Dominic: I was so terrified he would be another girl, another blond, chubby, docile little girl who played with dolls and sat around amiably and enjoyed fiddling with frilly doll-sized clothes. The son I had expected Kate to be still dawdled in the shadows of my imagination, witty and satirical, elegant and sleek and quick, my dark prince, my soul’s companion. So long as I delayed his birth, the safer he was from the ravages of reality.
    Well, I got him. As soon as I saw him, I knew I’d got him. Dominic slid out of me with a minimum of fuss: he glanced around him, took stock of his new world, and determined his course. A baby of remarkable self-possession and clarity of vision; a child who knew what he wanted.
    â€˜He’s not a cuddly baby, is he?’ said the infant-welfare sister one day, thoughtfully. She picked Dominic off the scales, gave him a hug. He resisted, pushing against her. Dominic always resisted.
    â€˜I thought all babies were supposed to be cuddly,’ I said.
    â€˜Good heavens, no.’
    â€˜My first was cuddly. My first wanted to be cuddled all the damn time.’
    â€˜Mmmm.’ She glanced at me sidelong.
    â€˜I thought I was doing something wrong. With this one, I mean.’
    â€˜No,’ she said, decisively. I still bless that woman when I think of her. I can’t remember her name, but I loved her: I loved her for telling me Dominic’s hostility wasn’t my fault, that his unlovingness was not to be laid at my door.
    She had a square jaw, steady eyes, large hands, a no-nonsense look about her. ‘No, see how he pushes away from me. He doesn’t like it: he doesn’t want to be held. All babies are different. They’re just people, you know. We forget that. It’s so obvious, but we forget it. Babies are just small people. Not all people are cuddly. I shouldn’t think you’re a cuddly person, are you?’
    â€˜No,’ I said, reluctantly, wondering why she asserted this with such confidence.
    â€˜Well, then. It doesn’t mean he’s not affectionate. He just doesn’t like close physical contact. Not at this stage of his life, anyway.’
    Such a relief! I had spent the first few months of Dominic’s life being pushed away from him. I spent the next several