Pulling out my phone, I goggle the Skarsgård along with the wordbird, and Google reveals the name of the movie asThe Hummingbird Project. Next, I look at the cinema listings at their local cinema, but it doesn’t show listings retrospectively.
‘Dad said it was rubbish, anyway. ‘If you want me to come over anytime, you know I will, right?
‘I wouldn’t subject you to the tension. Besides, if it helped, I might force you to move in. I’ve reached the conclusion that they don’t care who sees them acting deplorably, so long as each of them thinks they’re winning. They had an open home on Saturday, and they even got into it there—in front of the real estate agent and the first couple who’d turned up to view the place.’ And afterward, I’d dragged myself out of bed to sit in the garden.
‘Any takers?’
I shake my head. ‘They were out of the door at the first opportunity, like the house was on fire.’ I can’t say I blame them. I wouldn’t be there if I had anywhere else to go.
Damn. I wish I’d paid more attention to the dates. I feel slightly sick, but I think I’m just being ridiculous. Seeing things that aren’t there—I’ve only had sex twice in months, and once was last night.
Technically, I’ve had sex more than twice.
Two nights of sex would be more accurate.
Two nights of sex where I had more sex with James than I had in the past three months of my being with Cameron.Damn.
But one of those nights was last night. And while James is a beast in bed, he’s not superhuman. Come to think of it, that would be a rubbish superpower.
Is it a bird?
Is it a plane?
No, it’s Impregnate You Instantly Man!
Up the duff, coming to you soon...
His would be a very niche superhero market.
Cue another whole-body shiver, this time revulsion, as I begin flicking through the messages on my phone. Messages from Cameron, though there are no recent one thanks to Heather’s suggestion that I block his number. I haven’t deleted the old missives yet. You never know when I might need them as evidence, should I be hit by a mysterious car or go missing.
Joking.
Mostly.
But I scroll back to the date of Heather’s “I’ve dropped the ring in a bag of clothes donated to Oxfam” prank. And while I realise this in no way helps me work out the date of my last period, I’ve just supplied myself with a conception date.
Shut. The. Flip. Up.
I think I might’ve just swallowed those paddling ducky legs as something begins hammering against my chest.
‘You know what would make you feel better after a sucky weekend? Happy Hour.’
‘I think I had enough on Friday.’ I answer without thought or really paying attention, my mind still working overtime on other things. Like my current and very silent freak-out.
‘Yeah, but now it’s Monday. Last week has been wiped clean from the slate.’
Wiped from the slate but not from memory, relegated to the annals of the history of me. Or something.
‘No, I mean I’ve had enough for the rest of the year.’
‘Yeah, you say that, but pop a glass of prosecco under your nose and—’
Heather’s words cease immediately as I slap my hand to my mouth and go running in the direction of the bathroom.
16
Miranda
