‘Take the afternoon off.’
‘I can’t – what about – Battle of the Boyne,’ I manage.
He smiles. ‘If necessary, I can step in, or Moira can. There’ll be someone who can stick on a DVD of something vaguely educational.’
I’m still crying. He’s still rubbing my arm, his hand warm and reassuring.
‘If you ever need to talk, Addie, I’m here. Anytime. OK? You have my mobile number. Just call me.’
I don’t go back to my parents’ house, in the end. Instead I lie in the bed I share with Dylan and stare up at the ceiling and think of Etienne. My skin feels too hot, like my body is too big for it. I touch myself and imagine my hand is Etienne’s, firm and steady. I feel sick afterwards. I can’t seem to forgive myself, and I pace around the flat, scratching at my arms, wishing I could go back in time to last summer, when everything was perfect.
By ten o’clock, Dylan still isn’t home. He’s stayed with Marcus all day. I wonder for the first time if that’s where he really is. What if Marcus is a cover-up? What if Dylan’s met somebody else? Someone who’s as perfect as he expects them to be. Someone clever and posh and poetic, someone who would never feel jealous of Dylan’s sick best friend.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I’ve been staring at it vacantly, with no clear idea of what I want it to do.
‘Hello?’
‘Wow, hello,’ Deb says. ‘That was prompt. So, can I get your take on an ethical conundrum?’
‘Sure?’ I say.
I’ve forgotten to eat. I get up and head to the fridge, scanning it for something in-date.
‘So if I know I want to have a baby, and I’ve thought of someone who is very willy-nilly with sperm distribution . . . Can I just have sex with him and get pregnant and then never tell him he’s the father?’
I blink at the lump of cheddar I’m examining.
‘Umm,’ I say.
‘It’s Mike,’ she supplies helpfully. ‘That bouncer I went back with after your birthday night out.’
I try to compose my thoughts.
‘He’s not big on condoms, basically,’ Deb says. ‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, sorry,’ I say, closing the fridge. ‘Just absorbing.’
Deb waits patiently.
‘I think that might be really wrong,’ I say. ‘Yes. I think that’s one of the bad ones.’
‘Oh,’ Deb says, sounding crestfallen. ‘But if I’d done it by accident, it would be fine.’
‘Yeah, true. Only it wouldn’t be by accident if you did it now.’
‘Who’s to know?’
‘Well, me. You told me.’
‘Damn it. Why did you have to pick up the phone?’
I sigh. ‘Why don’t you ask Mike if he minds?’
‘He’d probably say he doesn’t mind,’ Deb says. ‘But then there’s the risk that when my child is seven or something and functioning really well in my lovely single-parent household he’ll come sweeping in demanding rights.’
It’s still so strange hearing Deb talk about having a child. I really thought she’d never come around. I should have known there’d be no grey area, no umming and ahhing. Deb is a yes-or-no sort of woman.
I wonder what she would do if she were me. Deb would never cry on the toilet over any man, and I feel a twinge of shame.
‘Why don’t you just get a donor? Aren’t there private companies that do that sort of thing for you?’ I ask.
‘That sounds complicated. And much less fun than having sex with Mike.’
‘Why Mike, just out of interest?’
‘Hmm? Oh, I told you, he doesn’t like condoms.’
I wait.
‘And I suppose he’s quite a good specimen. Tall, handsome, kind, funny, that sort of thing.’
‘Sounds like a catch.’
‘What? Irrelevant. I’m after a sperm donor, not a boyfriend.’
‘Would it be such a bad thing to get one of those too?’
‘You tell me,’ Deb says dryly. ‘You’re not the best advertisement for relationships at the minute.’
I rummage in the cupboard for a loaf of bread. Stale, but it’ll do for cheese on toast.
‘I’d say being in a relationship with one person is great,’ I tell her. ‘The trouble is, at the moment I feel like I’m in a relationship with two people.’
‘Dylan and Etienne?’
I freeze, holding a slice of bread hovering over the toaster.