Fuck.

‘What’s the white bit?’ My voice caught.

‘The white what?’

‘The white of the egg? Egg white. What’s the white of the egg called?’

‘Please,’ he said, gently, lifting up off the chair, ‘stop. I don’t like eggs. You know I don’t even like eggs. Actually,’ he paused, ‘I think I might have an allergy to them.’

‘What?’ I said.

‘I can Google it, if I need to.’

‘Google, really? Google? Are you joking?’

‘Well, if it’s good enough for you to live your life …’ he said. ‘Bet you told Google you were dying –’ he paused – ‘before me?’

Low. But accurate.

‘You don’t chat with Google … it’s not a chat. You don’t just chit-chat with a fucking computer.’ I was irritated.

‘Did Google tell you that? G’wan … did you? Did you Google it? Tell me.’

Fuck. We both went quiet.

He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I actually do really think I’m allergic to them.’

‘You don’t have an egg allergy. You had a quiche last month. You’re such a drama queen,’ I said, rapidly.

My heart still pounded. The smell of paint and baling twine and a feathery bird, the eyes of it peering at me, a pheasant, it was a pheasant, little red and blue head on it. They’d locked the press door and I couldn’t get out.

‘What if you won’t know when to search for things, important things?’ I said. ‘You’ll just say it out, even lie about it, you’ll just spit the thing out, and the kids will think it’s the truth because they’ll believe everything you tell them … that’s how parenting works.’

He was picking the quick at the edge of his thumb, making it bleed. ‘I think you need a glass of water, love.’

‘I don’t need water. I need you, I need you …’ I searched. ‘You need to be … capable.’

‘I am capable. Ah, here, that’s not fair, Sinéad.’

‘Capable. Right. Let’s see. What’s my middle name?’

‘What?’ his blue eyes widening.

‘My middle name. What is it? What’s my middle name? My star sign? What star sign am I? What star sign is Joshua? G’wan, all the boys? Dates of birth?’

Rapid inane questions fired at him.

‘I wish you’d stop … please, please, stop.’

‘I can’t find one of the blobfish …’ I sobbed. ‘I’m stuck with a fucking loony, and another fucking loony and a dead fucking loony, and one of them put these ridiculous fluffy socks on me. Shane’s dead, you know?’ I yelled now. ‘And we have every loony fucking visitor in from the west for herself here, and I want to get out,’ I yelled again. Margaret Rose bit her lip. ‘And you don’t even know what the inside of a fucking egg is called, and you’re supposed to take over? Take our family. Over. What the fuck? Right, last one. What day was I born on?’ As an angry red blush rose up all over my chest, Alex looked totally bewildered, staring down at me, his face dotted in reddish-grey stubble, deep crow’s feet pencilled about his eyes.