“We are all of us stronger than we think, Sadie.”

More often than not, Leonard made a lot of sense and I was usually fairly impressed with the things he had to say. But this time, no matter how well-meant his words were, I would have much preferred to hear something along the lines of, “Iris says if you have a problem heading your way at a hundred miles an hour, run at a hundred and one miles an hour in the other direction.” Which sounds like much better advice to me, and far more what I was used to.

Norman climbed back in the car, bringing a whiff of cat and old-lady lavender with him and we headed off down the road a great deal slower than a hundred and one miles an hour, and still in the very same direction as our problem.

My task at this stage of the journey should have been to start thinking about calling or texting the next possible father. Also, the last possibility. But the thought didn’t inspire anything other than dread, considering the results to date.

It was nothing personal, though, because, despite the briefness of our brief encounter, my memories of James Knox, who, according to Leonard’s research, was probably still kicking around Edinburgh, weren’t entirely unpleasant.

Way too cool for me had been my first impression when I’d spotted him setting up with his band in the pub. All crazy spiky hair, tight leather jacket and musical angst, or at least as much as you could have when you’ve chosen the road to jazz. But after five large vodkas I’d decided to do my worst anyhow. Even though, somehow, it cost me a job and probably quite a good bit of my dignity, the next morning he brought me a cup of tea in bed and I told him about my father. The suicide of a parent might possibly be construed as a little too much information to impart after a one-night stand, but there you are.

My dalliance with James Knox had been right in the middle of the Fringe, if you’re up for that bombshell revelation. And if you believe in fate, or God, or meaningful signposts along a pretty barren road, then you might see the fact that, whoever was responsible, Norman being conceived around the time of the very comedy show he was on the way to perform at thirteen years later presents a pretty good case of synchronicity.

But to tell you the truth, I didn’t want to do too much more thinking about any of it, let alone discover that anything might Mean Something. The fact is that, despite my grudging but growing realizations about my own motivation for being Norman’s one and only parent for so long, while it was all well and good to have a tidy spreadsheet of possibilities, without some kind of DNA testing, there was no way we’d really be able to know the truth anyhow. And without pursuing that onus of proof, weren’t we really just a bunch of weirdos flailing around the country meeting up with random men? And if you’re considering the irony of that, so was I.