I got to my knees. ‘I don’t think so, sweetheart. I’m going to Biddy’s show again so, yeah, I might just stay at hers. But I’ll see you in the morning. Can I have a hug?’

I squeezed her – your mummy’s easy prey – turned, squeezed Oliver – your daddy’s off the rails. ‘Love you both so much.’

Sarah was chatting with Biddy in the dining room, no tears.

‘Yeah,’ Biddy said, looking round at me, smiling, back at Sarah. ‘Apart from thinking I’ll forget my lines, but even then, it almost always works out.’

I stood behind her, rubbed her shoulders, was nervous enough for both of us. The previous three evenings had been hard for Biddy, and for me. Shows about suicide drew fewer audience members than we’d anticipated. Sarah came with me on the opening night while Zac watched the kids, cried the whole way through. When the house lights came up, it looked like a particularly harrowing funeral had just taken place, even though Biddy, when she came through to the bar afterwards, looked happy and relieved.

‘We should hurry,’ I said.

Biddy turned, reached for her gloves.

‘Break a legging,’ Sarah said, approaching her, cuddling, a kiss on the lips. ‘I hope it goes really well.’

‘I reckon Chris’s getting pretty sick of it,’ Biddy said, laughing.

‘We need to go,’ I said.

I stroked Biddy’s back, moved in to hug Sarah – her tense, rigid body, her … No, she was warm, soft, loving, smelt of toffee, coffee.

‘Good luck to you too, Mr Associate Producer. Enjoy the show.’

‘Yeah, thanks,’ I said, letting go, smiling. ‘Love you.’

* * *

My head. Fuck. My neck. I slid out of Biddy’s bed, slit-eyed, stumbled towards her bathroom, Cedric growling from Noel and Winford’s room.

I wasn’t a drinker, preferred the drugs, but after Biddy’s show, oh.

She’d opened a bottle of vodka in the green room. We’d taken it home, made White Russians, toasted her show, toasted Aidan, toasted – or I had, secretly – Sarah and Vernon. We’d danced, oh, how we’d danced, fallen into bed at four.

My obsession with wanting to sleep with other people, I’d conceded to myself, had less to do with my true desires and more to do with my response to Sarah’s sexual formula of N + 1.

I got to my knees – Noel’s pubes, Winford’s, Biddy’s – threw up in the toilet bowl, waited, saw skid marks, shivered, threw up again. I was an introvert, for fuck’s …

My bare feet slapping along the floorboards, Cedric growling as I passed Noel and Winford’s room. I climbed back into bed, shivering, spooned Biddy.

When she woke up an hour or so later, I said, ‘Hey, how you feeling?’

She smiled, kissed me, rubbed her face, her eyes. ‘Yeah, pretty good, actually.’

‘Did I mention last night that I loved your show?’