“I am not twisting your f**king words. I am trying to understand you!”

“It’s complicated.”

“So, while we were trotting off each week to fat Annie, you were having an affair?”

“It wasn’t like an affair! Every time it happened I said, O.K. this is it, never again. It was like when we were giving up smoking. I just kept falling off the wagon.”

Cat snorted and stored that one up for Lyn and Gemma. It was like giving up smoking. It was on the tip of her tongue to say, You are a moron.

He said, “And then you got pregnant.”

“Yep. Then I got pregnant.” She remembered the joy like a crisp, clean scent.

“So then, it was easy. I broke it up. When we saw her at Lyn’s place, I hadn’t spoken to her in, well, days. I only rang her that night because I knew she’d be upset.”

“And now I’m not pregnant anymore.”

He looked at the floor.

“How very convenient for you.” Fat, salty tears blocked her sinuses. “You must have been pleased.”

“No.” He moved as if to hug her, and she backed away.

“You’re only here because you don’t want to look like a bastard by leaving too soon after the miscarriage!”

“That’s not true.”

“Well, what do you want? Do you want me or her?”

He said, “I don’t know what I want.”

He was a child in the six-foot-body of a thirty-seven-year-old man.

“You wimp! You f**king coward!”

“Cat.”

“If you don’t love me anymore, then have the guts to say it.”

“I do love you. I just think, maybe, I’m not in love you with anymore.”

“And you think maybe you’re in love with her.”

“Yes.”

It felt as if he’d just thrown a bucket of icy cold water at her. She blinked and tried to catch her breath.

“Leave.”

“What?”

“I’m making it easy for you.” She tugged her engagement ring and wedding ring over her knuckle and threw them across the room. “We’re not married anymore. Go to your girlfriend’s place.”

“I don’t—”

Suddenly she was filled with manic hatred for him. She couldn’t bear the sight of him, his worried face, his reaching hands, and his slack, stupid mouth.

“Go! Just go! Go now!”

She screamed harder than she knew it was possible to scream and shoved him violently in the chest. “Get out!”

She was frightened and fascinated by the unrecognizable sound of her own voice. Cool, cynical Cat appeared on the sidelines of her consciousness to observe the whole performance with interest. Wow, I must really be upset. I must be mad with grief. Look at me!

“Cat. Calm down. Stop it. People are going to start calling the police.”

He grabbed for her wrists, and she writhed away from him, bucking her body like a true mental patient.

“Go! Please, please just go!”

“Fine,” he said, releasing her hands and lifting his own in surrender. “I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m going.”

But she could see little pinpoints of relief in his eyes. He left, slamming the door behind him.

Cat slid to the kitchen floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. She rocked back and forth, her eyes dry.

What are you doing Cat? Why are you rocking like that? Nobody’s watching. Who are you trying to impress with the terrible depths of your pain?

“Oh shut up!” she said out loud to the empty kitchen.

She stood up, dressed, and drove herself to the pub. Her mind was a burning white-hot rectangle of nothing.

She sat at the bar and drank tequilas, one after the other, and didn’t allow her mind to think one single thought.

It wasn’t surprising that she got drunk.

She hadn’t eaten all day.

She hadn’t had a drink since the day with Gemma when she found out she was pregnant.

And five tequilas will do that to you.

At some point the world became blurry and confused, like a strangely edited MTV clip.

She was talking with the bartender about cricket scores.

She was tearing up her beer coaster into tiny little pieces.

She was telling a girl in the toilets about her miscarriage.

“OmiGod,” the girl said to her mirrored reflection while she pursed her lips to apply her lipstick. “That is just so awesomely sad. A little f**king baby.”

And then she was out in the parking lot and she was going somewhere, somewhere important, to fix things.

He doesn’t love me anymore.

The crunch of metal. Her head snapping back.

“I think she’s drunk. I think we should call the police.”

Lights flashing red and turquoise.

Lyn suddenly, confusingly, right there in the middle of it all, in the same way that new people popped into your dreams, without actually arriving.

Sitting in the back of the policeman’s car, watching the back of his neck. It was a boy’s neck, slightly flushed, his hair cut in a very straight, scissored line. Another young boy pressed her black, inky fingertips one by one against official white stationery. He held her hand so respectfully, even though she was an evil, drink-driving, baby-killing criminal, that Cat started to cry.

And then arriving at Lyn’s place and Michael meeting them at the door and being nice to her, his arm around her waist, helping her up the stairs to the spare bedroom.