‘The doc told me it was burnout,’ he’d said at the time. ‘Least I get some time off work, mate.’

‘It’s just like having a head cold,’ Carly had explained, holding his hand. ‘Nothing to be ashamed about.’

‘Oh, this is Zac,’ I said to Sarah. ‘The guy I was telling you about.’

‘And you must be Sarah,’ he said, taking her hand and holding it. ‘Mucho gusto. Chris told me a bit about you and your children – was it Oliver and Sophie?’

‘Wow, good memory,’ Sarah said, smiling.

‘And you used to be a professional dancer. Can you tell me a bit more about that?’

* * *

We met up again the following weekend on Zac’s invitation while Sarah watched the kids; we sat behind our long blacks in John Gorilla, talked briefly about my mother dying the previous year. We could have talked more about that. Mothers as vassals, children as vessels. Or about fathers who ended themselves, as mine had.

I felt more comfortable babbling about bands, the books we were reading, and Zac’s itinerant childhood. New York. New Delhi. New Zealand.

‘But what I want most is what you’ve got,’ he said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know – Sarah, the kids. If I had that, I wouldn’t need anything else.’

* * *

I let it slip about Sarah and Valentino on the Tuesday after their first screw, at the leaving drinks for Mel’s best friend, Jia, who was leaving to study in America. Lots of strangers, winter scarves and in-jokes.

Josh still hadn’t shown.

I sat with Zac at the far edge of the beer garden, watching, hearing, and in no way part of things. Mel was pleasantly occupied, hardly noticed me.

Zac turned to me, leant in. ‘Dude, funny question. What’s the secret to a happy marriage?’

‘Um, fuck knows,’ I said, shaking the cold from my hands. ‘Have you met someone?’

‘I’m just interested or whatever. I thought you might be able to, you know, enlighten me.’

He took a cigarette from the packet, lit it.

I sat back, drummed my thighs, lifted my flat remnants of ale. ‘You’re maybe barking up the wrong tree.’

He leant in again, blew out smoke. ‘But you and Sarah are happy, right?’

‘Yeah … absolutely.’ Silence worked its way through the drunken voices and clinking glasses. ‘Sarah’s actually seeing someone else.’

He inhaled, exhaled, took off his glasses, wiped the lenses. ‘What do you mean?’

Well, there was a DJ. There was Sarah. They’d dated. They’d maybe done more than dated. I painted the picture in broad brushstrokes, an impressionist’s view, told him I was happy. But was I? Was anyone?

‘And you don’t want to see someone else?’

‘Nah, not really,’ I said. ‘It’s more about Sarah.’