I’d told Biddy and Sarah about Zac’s mum. We’d watched news updates together on the TV, knitting our brows while the kids played on the iPad. Sophie and Oliver knew she was dead, not how. I couldn’t lie to them, not long-term, but still …

‘I feel sad for Zac,’ Sophie said, trying to bury her broccoli with rice.

‘We’re really sad for him, too,’ I said. ‘It’s sad his mum died.’

‘Like Grandma,’ Oliver said.

‘Yeah, that’s right, mate.’

‘I don’t want you and Mummy to die,’ Sophie said.

‘We don’t want that either, darling,’ Sarah said.

We cleared the plates, helped the kids brush their teeth, wash their faces, put on their pyjamas. Biddy stood in the corner of their room, sang a soft a cappella version of a song she’d been working on for her show about Aidan at the Butterfly Club, based on one of his poems.

What’s the point of my sadness?

My speaking of witches?

I always thought you were in love

With my weakness

Sarah knelt, stroked Oliver’s hair. I knelt, stroked Sophie’s. She coughed. I hugged her.

Oh, if this was how it could be: three adults under the same roof, looking out for the children. But I’d already agreed to sleep at Biddy’s, even though I was currently at home and would have to cycle home again in the morning, even though I really needed time, just a little time, to myself.

‘OK, love you, kids,’ Sarah said, standing. ‘Remember, the breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you.’

‘Goodnight, Mummy,’ Oliver said.

‘Love you, kids,’ I said.

‘Love you too,’ Sophie said.

‘Love you both,’ Biddy said.

‘You too,’ Oliver said.

I pushed closed the living-room door so we could sit on the carpet and watch more coverage of the hotel fire and its aftermath. Terrorists weren’t involved; the air-con units seemed most likely. The death toll was still rising and, be warned, some viewers might find the following footage disturbing.

‘I feel terrible not calling him,’ Sarah said.

‘Me too,’ Biddy said.

I sat between them holding neither’s hand. The three of us holding hands would be weird. The whole thing – it was fucking weird. ‘He was pretty adamant.’

‘I was in shock for weeks when Aidan died,’ Biddy said.

‘I was the same with Nikau,’ Sarah said.

He’d rattled her world.

A cough. Mine.

‘I’ll see if he wants to sleep here tomorrow,’ Sarah said.

‘Yeah, good idea,’ I said. ‘It’s probably best he’s around family.’

8

8

Loving and being loved by two women was life-affirming and almost guaranteed most days were a festering pile of shit. My fucking head.

I’d slept at Biddy’s after going to a gig: her shout, like nearly everything we did, touched, saw, drank and ate together. Sarah and the kids were my dependants – I was Biddy’s.