He had tried to contact Abra several times the previous evening, but she had left her ansafone switched on and in spite of his desperate pleading, she had chosen to take none of his calls. Somehow, he knew he would have to find time during a busy day of interviews to go round to her flat. At least she should be there, as he knew she'd taken this week as a holiday from her job in order to do some long overdue spring cleaning. Rafferty, beginning to worry that he'd be spring-cleaned out of Abra's life along with the dust and cobwebs, had reason to regret his shocked response to her news. But how had she expected him to react? He wasn't far off forty, already more than halfway through the biblical three score years and ten. At his age he should be thinking of putting more money in to his savings, not taking on – if the newspapers were to be believed about the costs of modern child-rearing – what sounded like a chunk of the National Debt. His appalled reaction had been exacerbated by memories of another pregnancy – that of his late wife, Angie.
