‘You do seem to have a bit of a jealous streak with Zac.’

‘I’m not fucking jealous.’

‘Chris, mind your language.’ She glanced at the kitchen door. ‘Just calm down, you’re in a state.’

‘Yeah, I’m in a state,’ I said. ‘Our fucking babysitter doesn’t exist.’

She filled her birthday teapot, placed the cups by its side. My breathing. I needed to …

‘Do you have time for a cuppa before you go? A bit of contemplation might be useful here. I’ve been reading this book by Eckhart Tolle, where –’

‘Yeah, fuck, maybe.’ I looked at my watch again. ‘Hang on.’ I hurried through to the bedroom, fought my way through the pile of clothes on my side of the bed, stuffed them into my backpack, fought the zip closed, hurried back through to the bathroom, sorted my hair.

The cup was on the bench, one of Zac’s teas or fucking tisanes inside. I sipped – fuck, it was too hot, I didn’t have time, would be fired from a job I didn’t want.

‘There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,’ Sarah said, sipping. ‘Jack has asked if I can be available to him tonight, through the night. It would mean you being here for the kids. Is that all right?’

I sipped the tea, burned my lip, nearly dropped the cup – oops. ‘What does he mean by “available”?’

‘He wants to phone me through the night when it suits him and have me meet him somewhere. He hasn’t given me a place or time.’

‘What a prick. Can you not see he’s a fucking misogynist?’

‘Please don’t be like that,’ she hissed.

A surge, a big one – oh dear, Chris, just breathe, breathe.

Sarah sipped, smiled. ‘Have you considered the possibility that Jack threatens your masculinity?’

My fucking …

Fuck …

My insides everting. The cup in my hand, arm yanking backwards, shit, hot water, shooting forwards at speed, my fingers opening, the cup flying, heading straight for Sarah, past her, nosediving into the –

Fuck.

– oven door glass exploding, ceramic spraying the –

‘What the fuck?’ Sarah shouted, arms flying upwards, and, careful, oh no –

Oh fucking no –

– knocking the teapot from the bench; it tumbled, short and stout, first its handle, then its – a dull crack, coming apart on the floor like a chocolate orange. The kids running through the hallway, the kitchen doorhandle turning.

‘What happened?’ Sophie said.

‘Are you OK?’ Oliver said.

Sarah looked from me to Oliver to Sophie. ‘Don’t come in. There’s been an accident. Daddy needs to clean it up.’

* * *

Agnë was hovering at my desk. ‘Trouble getting in again this morning, Chris?’

‘Yeah, I cut my hand.’ I showed her the bandaid. ‘Oliver dropped a glass, and I was clearing up the shards, and –’

‘In Lithuania, we say, He who does not want to work cannot eat either.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Christopher …’