‘When you didn’t want to,’ Diana cut in firmly. ‘And that’s OK. Non-event. Tell me more. Is he gorgeous, with hair on his head and cuticles intact?’
Beth tried to conjure Kieran’s face. He’d seemed pleasant enough. Kind, even. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t looking. She wasn’t capable.
After a flurry of blown kisses, they ended the call. The silence that followed felt heavy. Thick with memories and loss.
Beth glanced at the bags by her door. Two blue IKEA sacks bulging with baby things: bootees, sleepsuits, cot blankets, toys. And the genie-themed lampshade she’d once adored. It had seemed so magical once upon a time.
Magic didn’t exist.
She carried the sacks down to the basement.
The air felt different tonight. Colder, yes, but not in temperature alone. The kind of cold that pressed against your skin as if waiting for you to acknowledge it.
‘Don’t start,’ she muttered to herself.
She shoved the sacks into the metal cupboard and slammed the door. It rebounded slightly. She kicked it closed, harder than necessary.
The clang reverberated through the stone walls.
Silence followed.
Not empty silence.
Listening silence.
Beth’s shoulders tightened.
Slowly – unwillingly – her gaze slid across the room.
The pinball machine was already lit.
Not in a dramatic flare. No sudden burst. Just a steady, low glow beneath the jewel-toned lenses, as though it had been patiently waiting for her to arrive.
Her breath shortened.
‘I didn’t touch you,’ she said.
The genie on the backboard looked less decorative in the dim light. The painted smirk held a new sharpness.
The Wish Spinner at the centre of the playfield rotated once.
Whirr.
A clean, deliberate click.
Beth froze.
‘No.’
The score display flickered. Numbers trembled into life.
000002
Her stomach dropped.
Two.
Not zero.
