It’s Thursday, the night before the operation, and I’m in bed. Downstairs I can hear music playing. Dad has some people over, working to delete the blog and clear up the rumour before it’s reported by the papers. Mum is with him. Daniel is playing a computer game. I can hear the muffled gunshots from his room. It’s as if tomorrow isn’t happening. It’s almost Christmas. I’m wearing my Christmas pyjama bottoms, which are soft and red tartan, and a light jersey jumper, and my socks. I’m lying in bed, on my side, thinking, feeling horrible. Feeling crushed and empty and spent and aching. I touch my stomach. It’s just a small bump. I feel it sometimes now, to see if it’s grown, when I’m in private. I’ve been having these fantasies. I’ve been feeling torn. I wanted to talk to Sylvie about it so much. But her face, when I told her. She was just . . . it was too much. She couldn’t take it. She raised her hands to her head and muttered ‘no no no’. She was panicked.
