I lifted her onto the seat, placed her hands where they wouldn’t get trapped. ‘Make me go faster than Olly.’

‘Cool your boots,’ I said.

I probably had HIV.

‘She’s not wearing boots,’ Oliver said.

I wound her, fought the ropes’ resistance. I’d get her up high, let her go, and where she’d land no one would know.

A car in the middle distance, on the main access road. I looked behind me. Not Biddy, not yet, but maybe Sarah. No, not her either – it passed, kept going. I continued twisting, turning.

Sarah and I had argued about the condoms at every opportunity the previous day. And then I’d brooded. Then we’d argued again.

‘Keep going,’ Sophie said.

‘I was much higher than that,’ Oliver said.

Sarah had gone into Numurkah for groceries, would come back and insist the kids washed the grapes before eating them, to rid them of pesticides – it upset her when they didn’t, because sulphur dioxide was unpleasant, unlike hepatitis.

‘OK, ready?’ I said. ‘You holding on tight?’

‘Let go, Daddy.’

I let go, crouched, ready to dive to her rescue if needed. She span, unseeable. ‘Whoo hoo. Wee hee.’

HPV.

She came to a halt, hair across her face, held out her arms, changed her mind. ‘Again, again.’

I was winning at life. I’d soon be gone, felled by antibiotic-resistant gonorrhoea. I lifted her from the swing, hugged her, heard a car.

‘Mummy,’ she said, pulling away from me, pointing. ‘Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.’

* * *

Sophie in the bath with Oliver, singing ‘Do-Re-Mi’. Ed and Margot on the veranda, in the early evening sun. Golden light bathing the living room, calming, restorative and –

‘So, how many guys without condoms?’ Biddy said. She hugged her knees on the leather sofa, fluoro hair, tears in her eyes.

I moved closer, put my hand on her arm. ‘I’m so sorry. I really am. I just –’

‘It’s not your fault, beauty.’

‘I know. But –’

‘It’s Sarah’s fault.’

‘I agree, my love. But –’

‘She should have told you.’

‘Yeah, she didn’t seem to see it as a big deal. But …’

‘That’s no excuse,’ she said.

‘No, that’s right. It’s not.’ I got in closer, rubbed her shoulders. Biddy breathing, Sophie singing, Oliver splashing, Ed and Margot luxuriating outside.

‘Does she know she could have made me infertile?’

‘What? Is that even possible? We need to talk to her.’

She looked away, eyes shining.

I could have told her I’d only boned Sarah twice since the night of our threesome. I’d shared my deepest secrets with Biddy, always would, but not the full extent of Sarah’s disinterest in me or the depth of my despair, in part to protect Biddy’s feelings but mainly because I was scared Sarah’s perception of me was contagious: I was fatally flawed, a full-time fucktard.