Did she have to start fucking a DJ? Did we have to go to his stupid fucking party? Did she not bear any responsibility for my long-term lack of self-esteem?

I sat next to her on the bed, stroked her hair. ‘I know it’s not ideal. But we’re both high, and it’s what we really want to do.’

She let her eye mask fall, huffed. ‘’Kay.’ Her head sank into the pillow.

Holy heartbeats.

I led Biddy into the room, grateful it was too dark to see the kids’ drawings on the wall. One sighting – bang – and she’d run away.

She got into bed first, carefully. I stood, barely breathing, listened for Sarah. Nothing. She was dead, or clutching a kitchen knife. I got in, pulled up the covers.

‘Goodnight.’

‘Night.’

We held tight, just right. Behind my eyes, I was high, I was –

‘It’s a bit hot,’ Biddy whispered.

‘Yeah, I know,’ I whispered.

We undressed under the covers, it took forever, and Sarah –

Oh no …

She pulled up the covers, settled again, sighed, huffed.

Biddy and I curled into each other, kissed. We needed to sleep, but we were pinging and, Jesus, the condoms I’d bought for Sarah …

I reached over, slid my bedside drawer open, fumbled, found …

Oh.

I was inside Biddy in the darkness, she was taking me, taking –

Holy shit.

‘Uh,’ she whispered.

‘Uh,’ I whispered back.

‘Uh,’ said … Holy fuck, Sarah was awake, fumbling for her phone. I froze in flagrante, a dog unleashed, Biddy still panting. Sarah lit the torch on her phone, pointed it at us. ‘Thought that’s what you were doing.’

I squinted at her, at Biddy – the fucking glare.

Sarah lay on her side, kept us illuminated, watched what we were … I didn’t want to decide anything on Biddy’s behalf. Maybe she didn’t want –

Biddy raised her hips, pulled me deeper inside. A sharp intake of breath, mine, hers …

She felt …

The covers were moving rhythmically on Sarah’s side of the bed, her eyes devouring, mouth open. She was enjoying …

Biddy felt …

Biddy took Sarah’s free hand in hers, squeezed it, didn’t let go.

4

4

In the bath, Sophie coughed some more.

‘Just tilt your head back, sweetheart.’

‘It hurts, Daddy.’

‘It’s just water.’ I let it spill from the jug, watched suds swim from her hair and scalp.

She shook her head. ‘My eyes, Daddy.’

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. Here …’

My head hurt too. We’d got home from Valentino’s at seven in the morning. Sarah had danced with me for a few hours at the start of the night, and then without me. I’d watched her from the edge of the dancefloor – cooee – felt her pulling away until – pop – an invisible cord detached. We’d been one … and now we were two.

I rubbed Sophie’s eyes with the face washer, her hand on mine. A cough. Another cough.