‘That’s nice,’ I said. I leaned my head back against his body, enjoying the pressure of his thumbs against the knots in my shoulders. I’d found part of a parsley stalk between my teeth and was idly grinding it into a pulp.

‘God, you’re so tense, babe,’ Connor said. ‘You really need to relax.’

Easy for him to say. Due to his IBS, he now mostly worked from home, spending the days in tracksuit pants – a garment that could be quickly lowered and easily laundered.

‘I am relaxed.’

‘Shh,’ he said, ‘shhhh.’

I felt my neck lock up. He took my silence for compliance.

‘Just breathe,’ he said.

Connor never used to say such idiotic things. It was those faecal forums. They were full of people who bought salt lamps and slept with lumps of quartz under their pillows.

‘I am breathing.’

‘Try counting to five on the inhale.’

‘Connor —’

‘It really helps.’

I knew he was trying to be nice. Nice. The word set my teeth on edge.

‘That sort of thing never works for me.’

‘You never try it. Come on.’

I realised that my toes in their nylons had actually curled; in distaste, in embarrassment. But I couldn’t stand the plea in his voice. With great effort I did as he asked, breathing in and out for five counts each.

‘There,’ he said. ‘Don’t you feel better?’

I was imagining Luna’s uppercut. The unfortunate truth was that I envied her the freedom to make that punch. I imagined it felt wonderful when it connected. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d allowed my body to express how I genuinely felt. The stiffness, the tension of keeping myself from doing or saying what I wanted, was as close to authentic expression as I was able to get. As I breathed, I imagined my own fist connecting with Deidre’s chin.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Exhale.

‘You know what?’ I said to Connor. ‘You were right. I do feel better.’

In the weeks that followed, Samuel reported nothing about Luna. Connor would drop him off, pick him up. I’d get a solemn ni hao from him, and the occasional picture made from muddy-coloured pieces of felt. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the entire incident.

I didn’t have to go near Blossomings again until Connor went in for his transplant. He had found a specialist centre willing to provide the service for IBS ‘on an experimental basis’. Connor was disheartened to learn that he wouldn’t be able to select his own donor. The clinic insisted on using their own donors, who were thoroughly screened according to a protocol that Connor perused with reluctant approval. Apparently they dropped off their donations in the morning on the way to work, like chickens delivering their own freshly laid eggs.

‘Still,’ he said, ‘I’d like to know who my donor is. It’s personal. They’ll become a part of me.’