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and—’
    â€˜Intentionally? Or a class experiment which went badly wrong?’
    â€˜Shut up, Dyl,’ I snap. ‘Does Serena know how you feel?’ I pour a finger, and drink it back in one gulp.
    â€˜Well, she’s on the pill, so it’s not really an issue.’ Harry stares down at his shoes and shuffles his feet away from an imaginary finishing line on the lino. ‘But, you know, I was looking at the faces of all the children this afternoon, their eyes shining like conkers, and it brought it all back to me. I so loved being a child, didn’t you? Every day was so exciting, full of adventure. I think I want to put off the day that stops happening in this house.’
    I grab the bottle and pour myself another slug.
    â€˜At this rate, by the time you stop, your oldest will be producing grandchildren!’ laughs Dylan, putting his arm around Harry.
    â€˜Well, that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’ I can see his eyes are shining. ‘I have such clear memories. Like having chickenpox one June, and my father teaching me to bowl in the fortnight I was off school. Bowling at a wicket painted on the back wall, over, and over, and over again. Off-spinners, leg breaks. God, that was the best summer ever. And Ian Botham being sacked as captain against Australia, and then making two centuries, and taking five wickets to win the series. And seeing
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
. And visiting HMS
Victory
in dry dock in Portsmouth and discovering that the floorboards of the lowest deck where the surgeon worked were painted red to hide the blood. Those were wonderful days, wonderful days. I don’t want to lose that. I loved it so much, I want it all over again.’ He looks from Dylan to me and grins shyly, as if seeking affirmation. ‘I want a son.’
    *
    I close my front door and rest against it. I can still smell Dylan’s cologne where we cheek-hugged goodnight. He declined my offer of coffee; he has a sermon to write, and a suitcase to pack for tomorrow’s retreat. My stomach, even after tonight’s diet of party food, rumbles vigorously. The house is in darkness. Tallulah (
or is it timid Tim? Who gives a toss?
) tiptoes into the hall and swirls herself, himself, around my legs. The fur against my tights sets my teeth on edge. My mother says cats gravitate to those who like them least. How fortunate, I think, that in human relationships it’s the other way around.
    I’ve never been nervous before about discussing things with Dylan. There’s never been any censorship. We’ve survived meeting each other’s mothers, for goodness sake; what more evidence of friendship do you need? And yet, tonight, I was conscious of the word hanging in the car between us, as annoying as furry dice. Adoption. Yet I know I must say something soon. I want specifics. Above all, I think I want him to tell me it was all a joke.
    In the kitchen, the answer machine is winking at me. It’ll be Matt’s caramel voice explaining, in vague terms, the crisis currently rendering me a work widow. I feel an irrational stab of envy for the patients commanding his attention. I want the man they call a saint to be my saviour alone.
    Before I have a chance to play his message, the doorbell rings. I pad up to the hall. Matt must have left his keys at the hospital.
    â€˜The cats!’ wails Dylan, pushing past me. His melodrama isn’t even feigned.
    â€˜What about them?’ I ask, through tight lips.
    â€˜Well, I could hardly go on retreat without saying goodbye!’
    â€˜They’ve been suicidal,’ I say, drily. Dylan laughs at what he imagines is sarcasm. Suddenly, I can’t bear for Dylan to find them. ‘They just left.’
    I watch a frown crumple Dylan’s forehead as he thinks this through. This is my power, the power to make Dylan pause and reflect. But he’d never understand, would never choose me over the