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Tears sprang to Tara’s eyes. She couldn’t have said if they were tears of happiness or sadness, shock or confirmation of her gut instinct. A moment ago, it hadn’t been real, but now it was. She couldn’t stick her head in the sand. This wouldn’t go away if she ignored it.

Tara snatched up the test, shoving it back in the box along with the leaflet and burying it in the bottom of her handbag. She didn’t want to leave any evidence lying around. Then she picked up her phone and texted Harry: We need to talk.

Message sent, Tara stared at the phone for a moment, as though expecting him to text back immediately, but there was no reply. A knock on the door of her trailer made her jump and she quickly locked her phone, throwing it back into her bag beside the pregnancy test box, before hastily checking her appearance in the mirror. She looked a little pale, a little tired, but nothing expertly applied make-up couldn’t fix.

Tara opened the door and saw the same assistant standing there.

‘Miss Oliver, sorry, you’re needed back on set.’

‘I’ll be there in five minutes,’ Tara snapped. ‘They can wait.’

‘But Mr Quinn said …’ The young woman hesitated, unsure what to do. It was obvious that she didn’t want to go back to the set and tell the director that he would have to wait for his Jane Seymour. She hesitated, staring at Tara.

‘Is everything OK?’ she asked softly, as Tara angrily swiped beneath her eyes, trying to hide any telltale signs of tears or streaked mascara.

‘Of course it is! I’ll come now,’ she snapped at the poor assistant as she stalked out of her trailer, slamming the door behind her.

Tara met Harry in a swanky bar in the city. It was his choice of venue. Tara would have preferred to meet him privately, but in the end decided it was a good thing to meet in public – at least he couldn’t fly off the handle too badly.

She looked round at the executives in their Savile Row suits, every one with an air of wealth and confidence, loud, braying voices carrying across the bar. Harry worked as an analyst for a hedge fund and was making a small fortune. Although Tara understood affluence and ambition, this wasn’t the world she knew; her background was aristocratic, old money and creative. Here it was brash, new money and naked ambition. The women were sleek and glossy, polished show ponies in designer suits and power heels, and Tara had a rare moment of vulnerability, feeling as though she didn’t fit in. She was West London chic, Notting Hill style, in a clinging sweater dress that showed her curves, paired with leather knee-high boots.

Harry strode up confidently and kissed her on the cheek before ordering a drink from the waiter. When he came to Tara, she hesitated, then opted for a glass of champagne.

‘So what’s this all about, Tara? Bored of your theatre conquests already?’ Harry grinned, running a hand through his thick, dark hair.

Tara swallowed, wondering how he was going to take this. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy that would want to be a father. Then again, she wasn’t the type of woman who wanted to be a mother – not yet, at least. In truth, she didn’t know what she wanted from him. But he was 50 per cent responsible for the situation, and needed to be told that.

‘Do you have something more exciting to do?’ she teased, stalling for time.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m taking Katie for dinner later.’

It felt as if cold water had been thrown in her face. She had forgotten that Harry was taking her housemate on a date. He and Katie had been seeing each other occasionally, but it didn’t seem to be serious. After all, he was still sleeping with Tara on the side.

‘Well, I’d better get right to the point then,’ Tara began, breaking off as the waiter returned with their drinks. Harry took a long draft of his beer while Tara took a sip of her champagne.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she told him, then, not breaking eye contact.

Emotions flickered across his face – shock, then a hardness.

‘And?’

‘It’s yours, Harry.’

‘You sure about that? You haven’t exactly been a nun, Tara.’

Anger rose within her. ‘It’s yours. We didn’t use protection.’

‘You told me you were on the pill.’

Tara’s cheeks flamed. How dare he imply that this was her fault. ‘I missed the occasional day.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Tara! Could you be any more irresponsible?’ His voice was getting louder.

‘This wasn’t just me,’ she hissed back. People on the neighbouring tables were turning to stare and, although Tara hated to admit it, part of her relished the drama. ‘I didn’t do this on my fucking own!’

‘What do you want from me? Money? I wouldn’t have thought you were short of that.’

Tara laughed hollowly. ‘I don’t know, Harry. I don’t know what to do, or what I want from you.’ It was a rare moment of vulnerability. ‘I just … I thought … maybe I just don’t want to handle this by myself.’