More laughter, including Ernie’s.

‘I wasn’t sure about this bloke before, but I was when he said that. Because this is a man who sticks up for himself, who doesn’t take shit from nobody. And he won’t let nobody come at my Cassie. He shows me respect every day, he’s a proud worker and I’m proud to know him. You did well, Roger––you outta the toilet yet? Sharon, the two of you raised a fine boy. So here’s to Pete. May you forever stop playing that bloody guitar.’

The crowd laughed, clapped, drank their drinks.

As the party continued, loud and comfortably chaotic, Roger found the chair opposite her, grinning that grin of his. He was already drunk. She shifted in her seat, keenly aware of how the jeans she was wearing pressed into her stomach. He leaned over the table, sloshing liquid, trying to land a kiss on her neck. She let him, grimacing.

‘Oh come on,’ he said. ‘Loosen up, would you?’

‘I’m a cop, Roger. I’m not about to start getting drunk in front of people.’

‘Bloody stick up the arse. You’ve always had it. Even before you got the badge.’

He sat back awkwardly, his feet sticking out, getting in people’s way. She looked at her glass.

‘Come on, sweetheart. Get into it a bit. You only gave me one kid. We’ll only be doing this once.’

‘Like that was my doing,’ she said, quiet as she could.

‘What?’ he said, shouting over the noise.

‘Nothing.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘You said something.’

‘It was nothing. I said . . . I said I know Pete’s our one kid. I know.’

‘Alright, so loosen up a bit.’

‘I’m fine.’

He grunted, quickly moved off, seeing somebody more interesting at the bar. He’d been like this for years. Drawing everything he was from the people he surrounded himself with. A sad man, lonely, unloved by his parents. Look at him now. Laughing, the people nearby grimacing, him feeding off their energy like so much rust. Just sad. Yet she struggled to separate this man from the one she’d fallen in love with. And she had loved him, she believed that. They’d had a few good years. No telling where this man had come from. Was it something she’d done?

She remained seated at the table. A few people walked by, congratulating her on her boy, clapping her on the shoulder. Always something awkward in how they approached her. A certain type of distance––she was a cop, after all––and something else she found difficult to place. Her gender seemed to soften the men and harden the women. The women thought her too tough to be womanly. The men thought her a joke they couldn’t enjoy. So as their hands gripped her shoulders, she found herself internally shrugging them off. And yet she never physically followed through. Their words found polite ears, a smile, a reply of thanks. She felt like an overfull kettle, their congratulations so much extra water.