‘I know what you think, but I can’t help you.’ His head comes up fast, his expression bitter, his eyes hard. ‘Ask me how oldIam.’
‘What?’
‘Go on. You’re so fixated on your biological clock, so ask me.’
‘I don’t need to know how old you are.’
‘I’m forty-three, not thirty-three, and I’m divorced.’
‘I know that.’ The divorced bit, but not his age. Bloody hell, it’s unfair. He looks at least eight or ten years younger than he is.
‘Ask me why I’m divorced?’ he adds, angrily turning the tables on me.
My mind swims with possibilities. He’s angry for a reason, and the reason is me. I scan my mind for the insults I’ve hurled at him, for the hurts I’ve laid at his feet. He said he wasn’t the same as the men I’ve dated before—he said he was different. Yet... yet something I said sparked this tirade, didn’t it?
‘Go on—ask.’
‘Because you were unfaithful.’ It can be the only reason for his reluctance to discuss this civilly, the reason for his anger and bitterness. He can’t help me because—
‘I’m divorced because I couldn’t give my wife a child.’
