To have one baby with a man who is dead is one thing – but to try for a second felt like I was really pushing my luck. I haven’t even got room in my two-bedroom flat for Muggles the Golden Retriever – let alone a second child. I’m obsessing about the height of the ceiling in the spare room where the nanny sleeps, working out how on earth I am going to squeeze in a set of bunk beds – when they need their own room. It has to be a girl because ultimately they will be sharing a room forever – whether they like it or not.
I call ahead to the IVF clinic in Russia, which had rescued my sperm and embryo from being binned in Alicante, to try to get some idea of the gender before I book my plane ticket. Praise be – it’s a girl. I’m ready to roll but sadly my womb isn’t, so I have to wait patiently for six weeks in the UK to get it primed with oestrogen before the next incubation.
