Suddenly, it was all too much, and the burn of the whisky rose in my throat and I got up, knocking the glass to the floor where it shattered, and I ran to the downstairs loo – the stupid candle I’d made Cassie buy still sitting there, with its reek of orange and spice – and then I was on my knees and throwing up, shaking and retching. Some distant part of me registered, That’s interesting, I always thought that was a cliché. Turns out that extreme shock really does make you puke. I cried, and retched, and cried some more. Pathetic.

When I’d cleaned myself up and gone back to the kitchen on shaky legs, Bill was sweeping up the broken glass. The kitchen stank of booze, not like my house at all. A frightening smell, one that took me back to places I didn’t want to be. The smell of lives going wrong. My father stumbling in from the pub, the creeping dread of knowing it was going to be a bad night.

‘Are you OK?’

I sat down heavily. ‘I just don’t know what to do. How can I . . . who am I meant to help? Which one?’

‘I . . . Ali, I don’t know if you can help either of them.’ He looked wretched.

‘You went with her. Was it bad?’

He said nothing for a moment. ‘They were very kind. But . . . yes. It was bad. Ali, she’s in bits.’

‘Shit. Oh God, this is such a mess.’

Bill tipped the glass into the recycling bin. I almost said not to, you weren’t supposed to put in broken pieces, but I stopped myself. So stupid, the things I worried about. As if any of it mattered now.

‘I should go. I only came back to make sure you were OK.’

‘You can’t go!’ The thought of him leaving too sent slimy trails of panic down my back. ‘I mean, God, of course you can, but do you need to?’

‘Not really. I was planning to just pootle about a bit. But Ali, are you sure you want . . .’ He didn’t finish that sentence. I think he was afraid to, and so was I. I thought of our strange moment in the kitchen the night before. Would it be too much to ask him to stay? I needed help. Not just with the kids but to stay sane, to talk it over, rake up the broken pieces.

I looked down at the table. ‘I’d really appreciate it if you could stay the night. I might need someone to watch Benji or something, when we’re at court or . . . would that be OK? I mean, as long as it’s not inconvenient?’ I heard the hitch of tears in my voice. ‘Please, Bill. I just . . . need help.’

His eyes were fixed on his own whisky, the amber glow of it. ‘Of course. Whatever you need, Ali.’

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve