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is prepare a pitch which will not only convince Annie to take part in the programme, but which will also not be a cynical, manipulative lie, the telling of which will keep me awake at night. It is not going to be easy.
     
    I wrestle with the subject all afternoon, eventually giving up around seven. I come downstairs and discover Dom in the kitchen, staring into an open fridge.
    ‘What do you fancy for dinner?’ he asks. ‘We have turkey, ham, half a dozen mince pies …’
    ‘Chinese,’ I say. ‘I feel like Chinese.’
    We order crispy aromatic duck, black bean stir-fry, butterfly tiger prawns and spring rolls, seaweed and loads of prawn crackers. We eat this feast on the sofa in front of the TV, and afterwards lie there, sated and soporific, Dom’s arms around me, the dogs snoring next to the fire, watching a marathon of Blackadder Goes Forth re-runs on Gold. Perfection. Solid, safe, domestic bliss.
    ‘Nic?’ Dom says sleepily, squeezing me a little harder. ‘You fancy an early night?’
    ‘What?’ I ask, feigning shock ‘Twice in one day?’
    ‘No, I actually mean I want to go to bed. To sleep. I’m knackered.’
    ‘All right, old man,’ I say with a smile. ‘I’ll put the dogs to bed, you make the Horlicks.’
     
    I wake with a start from a bad dream, the precise details of which I can’t remember. I just know that it was horrible. Dom is sound asleep at my side, I slip my hand into his for comfort. He doesn’t wake. I lie there, motionless, for a minute or two, just listening to his breathing. I feel suddenly and completely awake, my heart beating just a little too quickly.
    I check the time on my phone. One-thirty. Five more hours of sleep. If only. I can’t seem to shut my mind down; I can’t stop thinking about New York. I’ve been looking forward to it for months, ever since Karl invited us over to attend his inaugural ‘New York for New Year’s Eve’ party. I haven’t been over there for years, not since 2005, and I love New York. It’s one of my favourite places on earth. And I can’t wait to see Karl again. But New York isn’t just home to Karl; it was also home to Aidan and to Alex. How was it that some of the most important people in my life have ended up there, in glamorous Manhattan, while here I was stuck in boring old southwest London? This wasn’t the way things were supposed to turn out.
    I slip my hand from Dom’s, flip my pillow over, lay my cheek on the cool cotton and close my eyes. Sleep. I must sleep. I can’t sleep. Instead, I make a mental list.
    * * *
     
    New Year’s Resolutions, 2011:
1. Get in touch with Aidan re job offer
2. Lose half a stone
3. Stop taking the pill
4. Repaint the kitchen
5. Sort out things with Dad
     
    The sublime, the ridiculous and the incredibly vague: a perfect list of resolutions. I ought to write it down. Carefully, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and creep out of the room. Padding around in the dark again. It was getting to be a habit. I can’t go upstairs to my study – it’s directly above our bedroom and the floor boards up there creak terribly – so I go downstairs instead. I tiptoe into the kitchen (don’t want to wake the dogs up), and in the darkness search for the bottle of Scotch we’d opened on Christmas Day. I discover it next to the toaster, pour myself a large measure and, with the bottle still in hand, pad into Dom’s study and switch on his computer. I log onto the Internet, open my email account and the message from my father. I click ‘reply’.
     
Thanks for your message Dad. I’m very sorry to hear you’re unwell .
     
    That sounds lame, as though he’d written to me telling me he’d been a bit under the weather. I try again.
     
Dear Dad, I am terribly sorry to hear your news. Unfortunately, the timing is awful …
     
    The timing is awful? What the hell am I talking about? Am I saying it’s a bad time to tell me he has cancer, or simply that it’s a bad time to get cancer? For god’s