‘She’s a des-gra-cia-da,’ Sophie said.

‘What does that mean?’ I said.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Zac taught us it.’

‘It means bad woman,’ Oliver said.

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘I reckon the prince is the one in the wrong, don’t you?’

‘OK, off to sleep now,’ Sarah said.

‘Love you, buddy,’ I said, kissing Oliver.

‘Love you too, Dadda.’

I stood, gave Sarah space to hug Oliver, leant in to hug Sophie. ‘Love you, sweetheart. Cinderella didn’t do anything wrong.’

I went to the kitchen, tried to ignore the fact there were dishes everywhere, clothes. I should have been at Biddy’s already, had only come home to see the kids. I got my clothes off, the shower on, rubbed, scrubbed, dried myself – hurry up. I found my boxers, a T-shirt, pulled them on quickly, furtively.

Sarah was on the bed, looking at her phone. ‘Do you want to see what he looks like?’

No, yes, no. ‘Guess so.’ I stood next to the bed, took her phone.

Aaron, the cardiothoracic surgeon. Olive skin, slicked-back hair, leather jacket, white – oh dear – jeans. There he was, standing next to a Maserati. There he was, wearing a surgical mask. There he was, shucking oysters. Big deal. He had nice eyes, a top-end sports car, was a surgeon – so what? He was thirty-one, three years younger than Biddy, nine years younger than me. We were screwing-stones bouncing across the surface of … never mind.

‘His family’s from Queensland,’ Sarah said. ‘They seem to be quite wealthy.’

Big deal. ‘And you’re seeing him next Friday?’

‘Yeah, at Mr Wilkinson, his favourite bar. He wants to show me a good time.’

‘Yeah, I’m sure he does.’ I gave her the phone.

‘Chris, he’s not like that. He likes to do things properly, and slowly. He’s a romantic.’

I stood in front of the mirror, trying to do my hair without looking too closely at myself. Something was … I could hold it in, push it down, but the sensation kept coming back, forcing itself upon me: I liked the sound of Aaron.

I turned, grabbed my work bag, started packing. I wanted Sarah to like him too, because a rich and romantic sap would be better than –

‘Hello?’ Zac said, opening the front door.

‘Hey, come in,’ Sarah said.

He strode into the bedroom, nodded, smiled, sat at the end of the bed.

‘I’m just heading out,’ I said. ‘We’re going to a gig.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ He waved his phone. ‘It’s in the calendar, dude.

There were just a couple of things I wanted to –’

‘To tell me?’ I rammed my jeans into my bag. ‘Go ahead.’

My toiletry bag was … in the bathroom, balls. Why wasn’t Zac saying anything?

‘It’s probably best just to spit it out,’ Sarah said. ‘Chris’ll be fine.’

‘Spit what out?’ I said. Were they banging each other? LOL.