Before Frankie has got the full first syllable of the response out, Roxy interrupts.

  ‘Now you say –“control freak who?”’

  It takes Frankie a moment to get the joke.

  ‘Pretty good,’ says Frankie. ‘Very hilarious.’

  Roxy smiles to herself, satisfied.

  ‘So what about next month?’ Roxy presses.

  Without enthusiasm, Frankie takes himself over to his laptop and checks his diary. That date is, to his faint disappointment, vacant.

  ‘Why not? Looks like I’ve not got anything else on. I don’t have to get you a gift or anything, do I? I’m not up on the etiquette for six-monthly shagaversaries.’

  ‘I wouldn’t turn down a bunch of daffs. But no need to go to town.’

  Roxy turns her attention back to the television. Now it’s Bake Off.

  ‘Last Saturday of February it is, then. I’ll nip down the garage for the flowers.’

  ‘You’re such a charmer. And no M&S gourmet meals for two on special offer.’

  ‘One way or the other, it will be something.’

  Roxy looks up from the TV and catches Frankie’s gaze and holds it.

  ‘Do you promise? Because you’re always breaking our appointments.’

  This is true. Frankie has become increasingly unreliable as his workload has got heavier.

  ‘It’s work, you know that. I can’t always predict.’

  ‘But this one time. Do you absolutely promise?’

  Frankie hesitates, then gives a shrug.

  ‘Yes. Sure. Whatever.’

  ‘Pinky promise?’

  She pouts and holds her little finger out to him.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  He reaches out his little finger and hooks it around hers.

  ‘Pinky promise.’

  February 2020: London

  It is a gloomy Sunday morning. Nodge waters the plants on the large, south-facing balcony overlooking the London skyline which is wreathed in clouds, pregnant with rain. Owen, coming from the living room, positions himself behind Nodge and put his arms seductively around his lower waist.

  ‘I have to fertilize these plants,’ says Nodge firmly.

  ‘Never mind that. What about fertilizing me.’

  ‘Would that I could.’

  ‘I’m not entirely joking, Nodge. I mean, I am, but I’m not.’

  ‘You’ll have to wait a long time. I’ve not really got the equipment. Neither have you.’

  ‘Transphobic bitch.’

  Nodge extracts himself from Owen’s grasp, puts down the watering can and turns. Owen’s face is round, ruddy, a side of beef with two blue-grey jewels inset. As he and Nodge have grown closer they have come to resemble one another more and more. Nodge supposes ruefully that within a decade they will have joined the great grey mass of identical old people. Overweight, bald, indifferent to appearance. Only JJ’s persistent individual style and remarkable crop of hair gives him hope.

  ‘You know what I mean. I can’t wait to be a father.’

  ‘I know that, Owen. Neither can I. Once we’ve met with Comfort at the end of the month, I reckon we’ll be properly set.’

  Comfort, their adoption case worker, has been supportive and steadily optimistic throughout the whole drawn-out process. They have formed a close relationship with her and the last time they met she informed them that the mood music from on high was ‘universally positive’.

  * * *

  When Nodge returns to the front room, having finished watering the plants, Owen is sitting on the black armless sofa, staring blankly at a page of Raised by Unicorns: Stories from People With LGBTQ + Parents. Nodge takes a seat in the shaggy cream Yeti chair opposite.

  ‘I can’t concentrate,’ says Owen.

  He puts the book down and looks over at Nodge. Nodge comes and sits next to Owen on the sofa and takes his hand.

  ‘You’re not unhappy, are you, O?’

  ‘No,’ says Owen, staring ahead into space.

  ‘We’re doing pretty well, aren’t we?’

  ‘Sure,’ says Owen, still not meeting his eye.

  ‘But…?’ says Nodge.

  ‘Something’s missing.’

  ‘I know,’ said Nodge. ‘I know it is. But it won’t be when we two are finally three.’

  ‘We already are.’

  ‘Not counting JJ, that is.’

  Nodge lowers his voice.

  ‘How do you think it’s working out – having him here? Do you mind very much?’

  ‘Not at all. I like him a lot. I just wish he’d stop beating me at chess. And littering the balcony with cigarette stubs. And I wish he’d speak a bit louder; it drives me nuts. And I wish he would stop singing “A Wand’ring Minstrel, I” off-key.’

  ‘He says he’s going to give up,’ says Nodge.

  ‘Singing? That’s a relief.’

  ‘Smoking.’

  ‘He also says that he’s been saying that for thirty years,’ says Owen.

  ‘He’ll be gone in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry. As far as I’m concerned, three’s company.’

  Nodge looks puzzled.

  ‘You mean two’s a crowd?’

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, after the papers have been read and lunch, prepared by JJ, has been consumed, Owen and JJ are slightly drunkenly tussling over a game of chess. JJ is winning as usual and ten minutes into the game Owen is already fighting to keep his queen from being trapped. JJ is dressed formally in a shirt and tie – he says he still enjoys the formality of a Sunday. Owen is in trackie bottoms and a Stone Island sweatshirt.

  ‘No! I didn’t mean to do that!’ says Owen, pulling his bishop back, having several seconds previously let go of it.

  ‘Sure,’ said JJ mildly. ‘Player motivation is a key factor in this game.’

  ‘Can I take it back?’

  ‘Well, you can… but… ’

  ‘But then you would be cheating,’ finishes Nodge, who is drying his hands after cleaning the kitchen area.

  ‘Thanks for the support, darling,’ mutters Owen.

  ‘Honestly, Owen, you can take it back if you want,’ says JJ. ‘I’m not much fussed.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. If you want to take it that seriously,’ he says sullenly.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, O. How old are you?’ says Nodge, laughing.

  Owen tries to hold on to his snit then feels it dissolve.

  ‘I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?’

  ‘Just a little bit.’

  ‘It’s just that JJ always wins and I thought I had a drop on him there for a while.’

  ‘Go on,’ said JJ. ‘Take it back.’

  ‘No, no,’ says Owen. ‘I’ve got over myself.’

  He leaves the bishop where he has placed it. He is defeated in three moves. He knocks his king over and sighs.

  ‘You’re a slippery bastard, JJ.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Owen,’ whispers JJ. He genuinely does look regretful.

  ‘Don’t be,’ said Owen. ‘You can’t help it if you’re clever. And nice.’

  ‘Ah, I’m not that nice. You’re nice, letting me stay at your flat. It’s a lovely space. As my old mother used to say, handsome is as handsome does.’

  ‘I could have beaten you,’ says Owen. ‘I just make stupid mistakes.’

  ‘We all make stupid mistakes,’ says JJ softly. ‘Sometimes they’re just not as obvious as they are on the chess board.’

  Chapter Four

  February 2020: Brighton

  China turns the handle on the door of her bedroom, having finished her job at Nando’s three hours early since there had been a fire alert. A false alarm, but they closed the restaurant anyway and sent everyone home. The hours will be docked from her wages. She is still in her outfit, a black shirt with red trim, that makes her sweat however much anti-perspirant she applies. She has been feeling cheerful, thankful for the early release. The sight that greets her as she opens the door dissipates her mellow mood. She rocks back slightly on her flat heels.

  Mason, a bulky chimpanzee, twitching and fidgeting, ginger hair sticking up like carrot greens, is sitting at her desk, eyes scouring an open book, small and red, that China recognizes as her diary. Mason has not even bothered to close the desk drawer where he has clearly been rummaging. He does not look up at the sound of her entering, although she presumes he must have been aware of it. His fidgeting slows slightly, his customarily blank face shows no reaction.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Even as she tries to keep herself calm she can feel her emotions revving, straining at the thin membrane of self-will that keeps her voice from escalating into a screech. A few seconds pass before Mason finally looks up.

  ‘Reading your diary. It’s bare funny. Specially the dirty parts.’

  He goes back to reading. China lowers her voice a notch, hoping that the suppression of her anger will condense it and impart an extra level of menace.

  ‘Give. It. To. Me.’

  Mason doesn’t move. China takes a quick step and makes a lunge for the book but Mason, alert to the threat, ducks out of the way off the chair and onto the bed with surprising deftness given his lumpen physicality, still holding on to the diary.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a lezzer. Have you told your mum?’ he says in his slightly odd, piping voice.

  ‘How dare you.’

  ‘Calm down. You got sand in your vag? Or is it you got the painters in?’

  China, no longer able to control her fury, inches threateningly towards him. He slips off the bed and crouches on the other side. She tries to keep in the line between him and the escape route of the bedroom door. She circumnavigates the bed and closes in, inch by inch.

  Mason realizes that the possibilities of escape are limited. At the same time, he registers the deadly look on China’s face. She lunges again. He makes a dash for the door, over the top of the bed, but China swings her body round and catches him by the heel. He falls flat on the mattress and starts screaming.

  ‘Dad! DAD.’

  China tries to get a purchase on his leg and pull the diary from his hands, but he holds tight. The pages tear, leaving scraps on the floor.

  ‘You’re a carpet muncher,’ yells Mason, wriggling furiously to free his foot from China’s iron grasp.

  China, climbing onto the bed, manages to secure Mason firmly by the collar of his polo shirt and finally take possession of the diary. Mason begins weeping, purely tactically as far as China is concerned.

  ‘Dad!’

  China, adrenaline and outrage driving her now, pulls him off the bed towards the small sink in the corner of the room, toiletries arranged along the rim. She feels strength flow through her so that the lumpish child feels light and easy to move. Mason looks up at her, frightened now. His usually half-closed, cunning eyes widen.

  ‘What you going to do?’

  Keeping one hand on the back of Mason’s collar, as he writhes to break free, she grabs a small bar of soap that she had lifted from the Nando’s bathroom a few weeks previously.

  ‘Going to cry again for your daddy?’

  ‘I want my mum.’

  ‘She’s dead.’

  While his mouth is still open and before he has a chance to shut it, China slams the bar of soap into his mouth. She keeps her hand over his mouth to stop him spitting it out. Although he writhes and tries to escape, she holds him firm. Foam begins appear at the edges of his mouth. His face turns red, his eyes are stretched wide with panic.

  ‘Gaaaaaah!’

  Then China hears Silas’s normally quiet voice suddenly fill the room.

  ‘China. What the frick are you doing?’

  China turns and sees Silas framed in the doorway. Reluctantly she lets go of Mason, who spits out the soap on the floor. Silas takes two long steps towards China. His large, bulky body is tensed, his face is stone.

  ‘He… ’ Her voice dries, unnerved by Silas’s body language. Despite his supposedly gentle demeanour, which she never quite believed in, he is 6’2” and strong from years of manual labour. Mason is bawling loudly now. Silas stops his advance towards China and leans down. Mason throws his arms around his father’s neck, weeping bitterly and spluttering.

  ‘She made me eat soap!’

  Silas stands up again, Mason draped round his shoulders. His face is flushed, either from the sudden exertion – Mason is no featherweight – or anger. He snaps his head around to China and squints as if to bring her into focus.

  ‘Did you, China?’

  Silas looks at the spat-out bar of soap on the floor and puts his finger to a speck of foam at the corner of Mason’s mouth. He tastes the finger.

  ‘You did. You really did.’

  He speaks in low, heavy tones. She has never heard him talk in this way before. China catches Mason’s eye. He has stopped crying and he is now, out of the sight of his father, openly smirking.

  ‘He read my diary.’

  ‘So what? He’s twelve. Years. Old. You’re meant to be an adult.’

  ‘He called me… he called me a… ’

  She can’t bring herself to say the words, because it will reveal the private world of her diary to Silas.

  ‘Dad, I didn’t say anything!’ said Mason, freshly tearful. ‘I didn’t know it was her diary. I just thought it had a pretty cover and it was storybook. I didn’t read any of it. I promise.’

  ‘What did he call you, China?’

  ‘He swore at me.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Mason, crying loudly again. China ruefully reflects that this is true. She is trapped. It was her that swore.

  ‘She called me the F-word.’

  China has no answer. There is no point in denying it, as Silas had come through the door by then. Mason clings tightly to Silas’s neck.

  ‘You know this is child abuse, China – right?’

  ‘Come off it, Silas. Anyway, it isn’t soap. It’s an organic oatmeal cleansing bar.’

  ‘It’s child abuse. I’m going to have to call the police. You’ve gone too far this time, China. You’ve committed a crime. I’m going to report you.’

  ‘I thought you hated the police. I thought you thought we should defund them.’

  China feels the situation spiralling out her control. She decides it is her turn to call Mayday.

  ‘Mum!’

  Already aware of the commotion and halfway up the stairs before China made her distress call, Veronica appears, her hair wild, zip on her skirt undone, dressed in a business suit readying herself to conduct an afternoon therapy session.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Her voice is flat, unconcerned. She is used to crises like this. She pulls up the zip on her skirt. Despite staying slim, she has put on an inch or two on the hips over the last five years and it’s an old skirt. It won’t quite make it to the top. She pushes her hair off her face in order to see better and struggles again with the zip tab.

  ‘Silas’s calling the feds on me.’

  ‘He’s doing what?’

  She yanks the zip up another inch, then gives up with half an inch still to go.

  ‘I’m going to have to invest in a new skirt.’

  ‘She rammed a bar of soap down Mason’s throat,’ says Silas.

  ‘It wasn’t like that, Mum. It wasn’t soap; it was a cleansing bar. I shouldn’t have done it. But he was reading my diary. There’s very personal stuff in there.’

  ‘I wasn’t reading your diary. I didn’t know it was your diary,’ Mason pipes up.

  ‘Did you put soap in his mouth?’ says Veronica, finally putting her skirt dilemma out of her mind.

  ‘I didn’t hurt him!’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that, China,’ said Silas. ‘He’s a kid and we think he has a developmental disorder. He just said he didn’t read your diary. Mason may be a lot of things. A bit unruly sometimes. But he’s not a liar. I’ve always taught him to tell the truth.’

  ‘You must be joking,’ says China, outraged at the size of the lie. ‘He’s a fucking little… ’

  ‘She’s swearing again,’ says Mason.

  ‘Like I say – I’m calling the police,’ says Silas.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Silas. We can sort this out,’ says Veronica, holding out a placatory hand, palm upward.

  ‘This kind of thing can lead to permanent psychological damage. You’re a therapist, you know that. That’s why it’s illegal,’ says Silas. With Mason’s arms still wrapped round his neck, he fishes his phone from his pocket.

  Mason, catching China’s eye, winks.

  ‘You little bastard.’

  ‘China. Stop making it worse!’ hisses Veronica.

  ‘He winked at me! Why are you taking his side?’

  ‘So are you going to push another bar of soap down his throat?’ says Silas.

  ‘I didn’t push it down his throat. Only into his mouth. Don’t be so dramatic. It was only a tiny bar. He was rude to me.’

  She is close to tears now.

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  Silas starts dialling. Before he can react, Veronica darts forward and snatches the phone out of Silas’s hands.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Silas. You’re overreacting. I know China has misbehaved. But we’ll figure something out between ourselves.’

  ‘Mum! I haven’t “misbehaved”. I’m not a child. You’re taking their side again.’

  Silas stares at Veronica with a dead gaze. China thinks she can see pure hatred flash across his face. She watches as he conceals it with his well-seasoned mask of reason and compromise.

  ‘I disagree.’

  ‘Can we just take a few minutes to all calm down, please? Let’s talk about this,’ says Veronica, in what China recognizes as her therapist’s voice.

  ‘There’s nothing to discuss.’

  Silas seems to bury his feet inches into the floorboards, presenting himself as an immovable object.

  ‘Give me my phone back, please, Veronica.’

  His voice is low, but cuts the air. Mason has finally disentangled himself from Silas, judging himself safe from China now, and stands beside his father, his face showing a mixture of self-pity and barely suppressed amusement.

  ‘No,’ says Veronica, stung now by China’s accusation of partiality. She stands square to Silas. ‘I won’t’.