On the landing long after midnight, I jiggle the pram back and forth. I’m wearing yesterday’s stained jogging bottoms and my husband’s sweatshirt. My hair is a tangled nest around my head. The smell of my own regurgitated breast milk clings to me like a hangover.

That new one from the flat above, always clip-clopping in heels while I try to put my toddler to bed, comes in. Despite the time of night and mizzle outside, they look like a ruddy shampoo commercial. Their porcelain skin is luminous, and their cat-lined eyes are unsmudged. In a fluid movement, they whisk off their camel coat and shake it gently. Their ivory pussy-bow blouse tucked into a navy skirt accentuates their hourglass silhouette.

We exchange cautious smiles as their beautiful red suede d'Orsay pumps begin to ascend the stairs.

I feel a squeezing pang in my abdomen. My breasts ache. My body is returning to its pro-creating machinations. The headaches and spots on my chin will reappear soon. What I wouldn’t give to have it all scooped out.

Upstairs in my flat, I brush rain off my red suede pumps. My toes are blue from their pinch, and my sciatic nerve is grumbling. It is difficult to find shoes I like that accommodate my atypical balance of weight.

I bet that tired woman with the baby is still on the landing, chewing on her disapproval. Or has she guessed? Is it a stronger feeling?

I hang up my coat and empty the pockets. I put the travel-sized hairspray and Swiss army knife on the hall table next to my keys.

Exhausted from another day, I run a bath.

I remove my blouse and massage a grainy paste into the spit stain gifted by a man in the underpass. I pour a glass of wine and take it to the bathroom.

I slide my body under the water, and long for a different one.