One hand on the railing in front of my groin, one behind me, gripping – don’t fall, dickface – getting my left leg up and over and – fuck – and … over, both legs dangling above the highway to hell. The music, fucking ‘Quicksand’ again, playing behind the blood in my ears, my heartbeat, boom.

Edge forwards, just a little. Keep gripping. Car rooftops, a bus, another truck.

It was maybe dementia. For months I’d been waking in the dead of night next to someone, struggling to remember at first who it was, which bed I was in, which house.

Causing pain, feeling pain, feeling embarrassed, disappointed, guilty, in love, frivolous, shitty, unloved.

Was I sick? Suicidal? Demented?

Fucking oath, mate. Maybe I actually was.

12

12

The clothes were damp because night was falling, because Sarah and I had left them out too long, because we were failing as parents. I took a bundle from her, carried it inside, returned to the backyard, smiled. Don’t look burdened, please don’t frown, keep your ommms up, Chris, your cortisol down.

Zac had been headhunted for a new job as a logistics manager at Natural Opulence just eleven weeks after starting at Kiki & McCall. He’d come round to celebrate with Sarah the previous evening, helped get the kids to bed, suggested she sign up for a Tinder account. And why wouldn’t he?

I’d have signed up for Tinder, Bumble, Clover and Zoosk were it not for the fact I’d mentioned it to Biddy hypothetically, and she’d shut me down categorically, as she had when I’d asked her hypothetically if she – please, god, no – wanted to see other men or women.

‘You knew I was in a relationship when we started this,’ I’d said. ‘What difference does another person make?’

‘I love that you love your family, Chris, it’s a massive turn-on. But you’re trying to shift the goalposts. I’m a real woman, not your manic pixie dream girl.’

Yeah, well … More time for me – that’s where we’d got to after my suicide attempt that wasn’t.

They’d been waiting for me in the backyard, keeping vigil. Biddy’s hug – ‘Thank god you’re home’ – was intense; Zac’s – ‘Nobody would have blamed you, dude’ – was confusing; Sarah’s – ‘I love you so fucking much, Chrissy’ – was unambiguous.

‘Promise me,’ Sarah said. ‘Promise you’ll never do anything to harm yourself.’

‘Yeah, I …’ I was annoyed, in truth – Biddy and Zac watching on, our backyard soap opera. ‘I promise not to do anything to deliberately hurt anyone else. And not to hurt myself, if I can avoid it.’

After Zac left, we sat facing each other on the bed, Sarah and Biddy watching me, leaning in, holding and stroking.