‘Yeah … Hang on.’ I had to focus my mind, made sure the connection was still holding, assessed the integrity of my piss-to-bottle set-up. And, yes, it was coming. Fucking no – it fucking wasn’t.

‘… five white quokkas when she runs, yeah boy! …’

Until, oh.

Oh, mercy – the rattling bottle, the weight gain of incoming liquid. Pissing, pleased but not cocky that my hands were still dry, my shoes not spattered, screwing the lid underneath the cape, looking at the bottle, showing Biddy: half-full, half-empty.

‘Nice work, beauty.’

The toilet flushing. Sarah’s phone still in my hand.

‘Hallelujah,’ she said to Oliver. ‘Give your hands a good wash, please.’

‘I’m still awake,’ Sophie shouted from the bedroom.

Oh. Heartbeat.

On Tinder, a newbie called Jack: No, Sarah, I don’t do vanilla. I’m a full-time dom. Shall I show you the ropes, then?

Hopes were ropes.

The bathroom door creaking open.

Sarah: Thanks, Jack. I must say, it does sound intrig–

I closed the app, dropped her phone, picked up mine, looked at it … Where was Zac? Why wasn’t he calling?

‘Nothing yet?’ Sarah said.

‘No, nothing. Cup of tea?’

‘Yeah, why not.’ She reached for her phone, followed me through the hallway.

We stood in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Sophie giggling, Oliver –

‘That’s enough, kids,’ I shouted. ‘Seriously, it’s sleep-time now.’

I poured the water into Sarah’s teapot. She took the cups and phones to the dining room. We sat facing each other at the table.

‘Sorry for my mood,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ She looked away, I kept watching her.

Maybe because I’d been holding my babymaker for ten minutes behind Biddy in a field full of pheromones, I’d started feeling majorly horny, like I could keep the cape around us and fuck her from behind for the entire headline set.

Or just hold her, hug her, dance with her.

I poured the tea, passed a cup to Sarah, lifted mine, blew at the steaming liquid, watched her reading on her phone. What did Jack mean, that he didn’t do vanilla? What was wrong with vanilla?

I’d been having recurring daydreams of Zac being slapped around in prison, being choked with a smuggled shoelace. I’d visited my deepest accessible self to examine how I might feel about that, my de facto third child and unofficial au pair being garrotted to within an inch of his life, and the truth was –

Sarah’s phone ringing. She lifted it. ‘Hello. Hey, hello. Yay. It’s you. We’ve been climbing the wallflowers. How are you?’

16

16

Banging, more banging. We were in Numurkah. Sarah’s eyes opening.

‘Merry Christmas,’ I whispered.

She frowned, turned heavily on the bed, faced the other way. Sheep braying in the distance, early dawn light through the white curtains, a fucking riot of some sort in the hallway.