‘What’s a Jaffa?’

‘An orange which doesn’t have any seeds.’

He still looked confused, so she elaborated. ‘I thought you were firing blanks.’ Then she added, ‘When I could bear to think about it at all.’

Next I rang Emily, one of the few people who’d known the full extent of my reluctance to get pregnant – and only because she’d been of the same mind. She was one of those people who, if you asked if they liked children, would reply, ‘Love them! But I couldn’t manage a whole one.’

I broke the news that I was eight weeks pregnant and when she asked me, ‘Are you happy?’ I heard myself reply, ‘I’ve never been so happy in all my life. I was a fool to have waited so long.’

There was silence, then a sniff. ‘Are you crying?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘I’m so happy for you,’ she wobbled. ‘This is wonderful news.’

It was on a routine visit to the bathroom one Saturday afternoon when I saw it. This wasn’t the spotting they’d talked about. This was crimson and everywhere.

‘Garv,’ I called, surprised at how normal I sounded. ‘Garv! I think we’d better go to the hospital.’

Out by the car, I decided I wanted to drive myself. I was quite insistent, something to do with control, probably. And Garv, who rarely loses his temper, stood in the street and yelled, ‘I’LL FUCKING DRIVE.’

I remember every part of the journey to the hospital in almost hyper-reality. Everything was acutely sharp and clear. We had to go through town, which was so thronged with Saturday-afternoon shoppers we could hardly get the car through the streets. The sheer number of people made me feel entirely alone in the world.

At the hospital, we parked in an ambulance bay and to this day I could still tell you what the woman on admissions looked like. She promised that I’d be seen as soon as possible, then Garv and I sat and waited on orange plastic chairs that had been nailed to the floor. We didn’t speak.

When a nurse came for me, Garv promised, ‘It’ll be OK.’

But it wasn’t.

It was a nine-week foetus, but I felt as if someone had died. It was too early to tell the sex and that made me feel worse.

A shared loss is harder, I think. I could handle my own pain, but I couldn’t handle Garv’s. And there was something I had to say to him before the guilt devoured me whole. ‘It’s my fault, it’s because I didn’t want it. He or she knew where it wasn’t wanted.’

‘But you did want it.’

‘Not in the beginning.’

And he had nothing to say to me. He knew it was true.

26

On Sunday evening, Lara came over.

‘Not out with Nadia?’ Emily asked.

‘Nah, she got her butthole bleached and can’t sit down.’

‘Excuse me?’ I spluttered. ‘Her butthole? Bleached?’

‘It’s the latest thing in plastic surgery,’ Lara explained. ‘Lots of girls do it. To make it look pretty.’

‘Like getting your teeth whitened,’ Emily chipped in. ‘Except it’s your butthole instead.’

‘You’re making this up!’

‘We’re not!’

‘But who’d see… when…?’ I stopped. I was better off not knowing.

‘I got me a present.’ Lara thrust a box at us.

‘Lovely,’ Emily enthused. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s my new state-of-the-art caller display. So sophisticated it can almost tell me what my caller is thinking. Listen to the functions!’

As she listed out all the things it could do, she reminded me of Garv – boys and their toys – and I wondered whether there was a link between loving gadgets and wanting to have sex with girls.

We took ourselves and a bottle of wine out to the sunloungers in the fragrant back garden, where Lara tried to quiz Emily on her thirty-six-hour date with Lou. But Emily tetchily dismissed him: ‘I had a good time but he’s not going to call.’ She was far more interested in analysing her work situation.

‘The new script just isn’t coming together, so if Mort Russell passes on Plastic Money, that’s it. Game over.’ She blew into her hands and her face was pale. ‘I’ve got no other choice, I really am going to have to go back to Ireland.’

Lara shook her head. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. There must be other work you can do.’

‘Yeah, I hear they’re hiring at Starbucks.’

‘No, other writing work. Script polish.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked Emily.

‘I take a poxy script that’s about to go into production, make it coherent, add jokes and make the main characters three-dimensional and likeable. For that I get a pittance and someone else gets the credit.’ Emily sighed. ‘Obviously I’d love it, but there are so many writers in this town and we’re all chasing the same pieces of work. David says he’s tried for me.’

‘Agent, schmagent. The time has come to get out there and hustle yourself,’ Lara encouraged.

‘I do!’

‘You need to do more than look pretty and give out your cards at parties. You’ve got to bother people. That’s if you really don’t want to go home to Ireland.’

‘I really don’t.’

‘Orsquo;ca. I’ll see if I can swing something and so will Troy. And what about that Irish guy? You know the one from Dark Star Productions. Shay something? Shay Mahoney?’

‘Shay Delaney.’ Beside me I could feel Emily’s sudden awkwardness.

‘Yeah, him. Wonder if he’s got any shit Irish films that could use a polish.’

‘I’m sure he’s got plenty of shit Irish films that could use a polish,’ Emily said. ‘But no money to pay for it.’

‘You never know,’ Lara mused. ‘Call him. Convince him.’

Emily made noncommittal noises and I was relieved. I didn’t want her to ring him.

‘Oh, enough doom and gloom already!’ Emily declared. ‘We need cheering up. Lara, will you tell us your “I’m OK, you’re OK” story?’ She snuggled into her lounger, like a child preparing for their bedtime story. ‘Off you go,’ she encouraged, with the air of someone who’d heard this many, many times. ‘“I’d been nineteen for seven years and it was starting to show… “‘