“It sounds perfect,” I say.

“You’ll also need to avoid hand sanitizers, perfume, and most types of vinegar, as well as sauces that contain vinegar, such as ketchup. And if you smell someone wearing cologne, run like hell—preferably to the nearest toilet, as you’ll probably throw up.” Sharon finishes writing the prescription and hands it to me. “Here.”

* * *

—

BEFORE I TAKE THE first Antabuse, I collect all the wine bottles in the house and empty them down the sink, then take them outside. As I put them into the recycling, I realize someone is hurrying down the street toward me.

It’s that reporter, the one Pete thought was an intern. I can see why: He can’t be more than twenty. “Kieran Keenan,” he says, waving some press ID. “Could I have a word, Maddie?”

“We’ve got nothing to say to you.”

He says earnestly, “Well, here’s the thing, Maddie. Pete said in that article your life had been ruined by finding out your son wasn’t really yours. But I’ve recently discovered that you’re in a nanny share with the other family. Why would you do that if it’s all so terrible? According to the posts Pete wrote on the DadStuff forum, it’s been entirely amicable and friendly from the start.”

I almost laugh out loud at the irony of it all. Everything has turned full circle, and the article Pete was made to write by Miles has become reality after all.

I know I should probably keep quiet. But the urge to tell the truth is so strong it’s almost impossible to resist.

“It started amicably,” I tell him. “Then it wasn’t. Which is why we’re now having to fight for custody.”

Kieran’s eyes widen. “You’re fighting for custody?” he repeats. He has his phone in his hand, I notice. Recording me.

I’ve already said too much, I realize. “In the family court. So you’re not allowed to report it.”

“We can report that a case is happening. So long as we don’t identify the child.”

“Look,” I say desperately, “there’s a bigger story here. I don’t know exactly what it is yet. But if you help us, you can report it. After the court case is over.”

His eyes light up. “You’ll do an interview?”

“I need to talk to Pete about it. But in principle, yes.”

* * *

—

“YOU DID WHAT?” PETE says, aghast.

He’s been to pick up Theo from the Lamberts’, his first encounter with Jill. “At least we can be sure Miles won’t be trying it on with her. She’d probably floor him,” he commented as he took off his coat.

Now he just stares at me, baffled. “Why would you want to do an interview? They’re not interested in helping us, Mads. They just want to sell papers.”

“It was all I could think of to get him off my back.”

“And if you don’t go through with it, he’ll write the story anyway. Only by then he’ll be really pissed off.”

“I’m sorry. Oh, this is all shit, isn’t it?” I say despairingly. “Everything we do, we’re just making things worse. Like we’re stuck in quicksand, and fighting it just gets us more stuck.”

“Come here,” he says gently, opening his arms. “At least we’re together again. At least I’m here and you’re here and so’s Theo. For now.”

I let him hug me, feeling the welcome strength of his arms around my shoulders. Perhaps, I think, there might be a way through this after all. I let my cheek fall against his neck. Tonight we might even make love, start to reconnect physically—

“Meeee tooo,” Theo yells, wriggling between our legs.

I laugh, pulling Pete closer so Theo’s squeezed between the two of us. “Good idea. Family hug.”

Theo squeezes back for a few seconds, then wriggles away in search of something more exciting. But when Pete and I finally break apart, Pete’s smiling, too.

* * *

—

IT’S STRANGE TO SPEND an evening without enveloping myself in the warm fuzziness of wine. I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I give Theo his bath, then read him his story. As I’m tucking him up—I can’t resist the temptation to smooth the lock of brown hair off his forehead, even though I know he’ll impatiently shake it back as soon as I stop—he says sleepily, “I like my bedroom at Moles’s house best.”

I feel my blood run cold. “You have a bedroom at Miles and Lucy’s house?”

He nods. “?’Sgot a rocket. Annit’s blue.”

“Is it? Well, we could make this bedroom blue if you want. Would you like that?”

He nods again.

“We could all paint it together. Mummy, Daddy, and you. Does that sound good? Because after all, this is the place where you actually sleep.”

He yawns. “S’pose. But my other bedroom’s bigger.”

I go downstairs and grab my iPad. “You won’t believe this,” I say furiously. “They’ve given him a bedroom. And painted it blue.” I’m finding Lucy’s Facebook page as I speak.

Yes, there it is—six photographs, added today. Theo’s new bedroom. A huge, high-ceilinged room on what looks like the first floor of the Lamberts’ house. Blue, just as Theo said, but what he hadn’t mentioned is that the ceiling is darker, almost black, and has somehow been printed with a photographic depiction of the night sky, complete with moon, stars, the constellations, and the Milky Way. The bed is in the shape of a rocket, positioned so the occupant can look up and feel himself drifting through space. And there in the next photo is Theo himself, eyes wide with excitement, clearly seeing it for the first time—you can just make out an adult’s hands on either side of his face, slightly blurred: Moments earlier, they must have been covering his eyes.

The final picture shows a pair of pajamas, neatly laid out on the bed. Astronaut pajamas, complete with a NASA badge. Even the pillow is printed with a gold-visored spaceman’s helmet.

That last picture has a comment: Looking forward to our little astronaut moving in for good.

86

    MADDIE

I’M SO ANGRY, I think I’m going to punch something. And there’s nothing I can do to take the edge off my fury. Making love is out of the question now, of course. And so, it seems, is sleep. In desperation, at around three in the morning I get up and go in search of something, anything, that might relax me a bit. At the back of a cupboard I find an ancient bottle of some weird elderflower liqueur. Experimentally, I try some. It tastes vile—sugary and slightly musty. But it’s alcohol, so I take a longer pull. Within moments I feel my stomach heave, as bad as the time I ate smelly scallops on a beach in Morocco. Something wrings my insides, tighter and tighter. Christ, it’s like that scene in Alien—it feels as if my colon’s going to explode through my cesarean scar. I only just make it to the sink in time, then spend the next hour in the bathroom, throwing up.

Okay, maybe alcohol really isn’t an option.

In the morning, after a queasy dawn, I reach for my iPad again. Pete and I have investigated Miles, Bronagh, and Paula, but the other person on my list is still an enigma.

She’s strange with him, actually. Like she’s a little bit scared but she also depends on him for everything, Michaela had said.

I need someone who can explain to me why a woman like Lucy would stay married to a man like Miles. Going into my messages, I search for a name I haven’t contacted for over a year.

* * *

—

IT WAS MY CBT therapist who originally suggested Pete and I could benefit from some couples counseling. I can’t remember now how I found Annette. On the internet, probably. A fiery South African with a huge mane of curly auburn hair, she wasn’t anyone’s typical idea of a relationship counselor. For one thing, there was nothing gentle or soft about her. Her website said she specialized in PTSD and domestic abuse as well as sex and relationships, using a combination of psychodynamic therapy, energy psychotherapy, and transpersonal techniques. I had no idea what any of that meant, but it sounded as far removed from my CBT sessions as it was possible to get, so I booked an introductory session.

Initially, Pete quite liked the idea of therapy. It fit with his whole outlook on life—that talking and communication were the answer to most problems. And he was quietly desperate for us to start having sex again. What he hadn’t anticipated was having to describe in excruciating detail to Annette just what he did, or didn’t do, to satisfy me in bed. Annette listened, nodding with what appeared to be an expression of sympathy on her face.

“So what you’re basically saying is, you believe it’s your duty as a modern man to go down on your partner and give her oral sex until she climaxes,” she said when he’d stuttered to a halt. She turned to me. “Maddie, does that sound like a turn-on to you?”

“Not really,” I admitted.

“You’d like him to do it because he loves the taste of you and he’s caught up in the moment, right?”

“Um,” I said. “I guess.”

Annette turned back to Pete. “How do you seduce her?” she demanded.

“Seduce her?” Pete echoed blankly.