The Cows. Dawn O’Porter

all fine for the last two hours.’

      ‘Your publisher? You write?’ I ask, finding that painfully sexy.

      ‘Actually no, I’m a photographer. But I’m doing my first book and I stupidly agreed for there to be a lot of words as well as pictures. My deadline is in three weeks. My assistant has locked me out of the Internet and I’m about to crawl into a cave to get it finished.’

      ‘What’s the book about?’

      ‘Well my work is usually centred around people, and mostly people not being who they seem. I did a big story for The Times Magazine about multi-millionaires who live like they’re on the dole, and it got picked up as a book. It’s great, but the article was a thousand words and this will be around forty thousand words and I seem to write approximately ten words every seventeen hours.’

      ‘Wow. I read that article, it was fascinating. Your work is amazing. Why would anyone not spend all that money? It’s bizarre,’ I say. ‘I have so many questions I don’t know where to start.’

      ‘Good. Then don’t. I don’t mean to be rude, but until tomorrow morning I would like to pretend it isn’t happening. Can we talk about anything but work?’

      ‘Sure. I don’t mind,’ I say, really enjoying the idea of that. My life consists of only work and Annie, and as much as I love them both, a night off would be nice.

      ‘But sorry. I should ask you what you do, shouldn’t I?’ he says, realising it might be rude not to.

      ‘Yup, you probably should. I work in TV. Documentaries. I love what I do, it’s challenging and diverse but the details can wait. You’re right, it’s Friday night and we have other things we should be talking about, don’t we?’

      ‘We do?’

      ‘Yes, we do. You said you date the wrong women, so who are these “wrong women”?’ I ask, hoping he doesn’t describe me.

      ‘Just that. Wrong for me. I’m extremely turned on by ambition and success, so go for women who have achieved a lot, but the downside of that is that they never seem to want kids. And I’m one of those guys who is desperate for a family. I want to fall in love and have babies. But I’m starting to think that’s the unsexiest thing a man can say, because whenever I say it I get dumped.’

      ‘Oh,’ I say, feeling like a piece of old meat that’s well past its sell-by date.

      ‘See? That’s what happens. I tell women I want kids and they make that face. The perils of being an old-fashioned man in a modern woman’s world.’

      ‘No, I think it’s nice you want kids, and you want to do it properly. And that you think it’s a woman’s world,’ I say, pushing my empty glass gently towards the other side of the bar. ‘I actually have a kid. A girl, Annie, she’s six. I mean, there’s no way on earth I’m having another, no way, but she’s my world.’

      ‘Who’s her dad?’ he asks, bluntly.

      ‘Wow, you went straight there, didn’t you?’ I say, stunned by his nerve, but also relieved by the idea of getting it out the way. I think of Sophie, in that hideous marriage where her entire life is a lie. I’m not doing that. If this goes anywhere, he’s going to have to take me for who I am.

      ‘A guy called Nick. I never caught his surname.’ I open my eyes wide and raise my eyebrows, as if to say, ‘Go on, bring on the judgement.’

      ‘OK, that’s … was it a one-night stand, or something more sinister?’

      ‘Oh no, nothing sinister. A one-night stand. A very quick, very nice one-night stand where one of my eggs got jiggy with one of his sperms. And before you ask how he reacted, he doesn’t know. I never told him.’

      I don’t look up. Fuck it. I’m forty-two. I’m a mother. I’m very specifically looking for someone to be a part of mine and Annie’s life and if he can’t take the truth about me, then what’s the point in us having another drink? I prepare myself to be rejected.

      He calls the waiter over.

      ‘Can I get a bottle of champagne, please?’

      ‘What’s that for?’ I ask, a little confused.

      ‘If this works out, I just got a free kid.’ He thumps my leg back and laughs.

      This guy is fucking brilliant.

       Stella

      I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror and force myself not to look away. There is a reason I don’t do this very often. It’s impossible to forget someone whose face you see every time you see your own. At times it seems cruel, at other times I’ve felt so lucky that when I need to see Alice, I can.

      I scrunch my nose up and widen my mouth, but I can’t quite manage it the way she used to. It was the only way people could really tell us apart, by her smile. It was her own, even I couldn’t do it so sweetly.

      Our mum used to say that she was the rose and I was the thorn. Part of the same flower, but with a totally different effect on the world. My spiky nature was hidden by her softness. Now I’m exposed, without the petals of her personality to hide behind. It’s a daily struggle not to prick anyone who comes near me.

      ‘Why are you wearing that?’ says Phil, coming into the bathroom.

      ‘You made me jump, I didn’t hear you get home,’ I say, snapping myself out of Alice mode. He puts a tube of toothpaste into the little cup by the sink, and starts unwrapping a new razor.

      ‘Did you get dinner? I was going to make tuna bake?’ I say, realising he’s been to the shop and wanting to distract him from his question.

      ‘I got chicken. Why are you wearing that, Stella?’

      He is referring to the skirt I have on. A purple and blue vintage circle skirt with a bird print on it. It was Alice’s. Her favourite item of clothing. I can’t bring myself to chuck it out and I wear it all the time, even though it makes Phil really angry when I do.

      ‘It’s just a skirt, Phil,’ I say, walking huffily into the bedroom. Come on, Stella, don’t snap, I think to myself. What would Alice say? I try to be more like her. More reasonable, more kind, more happy. Even though I want to bite him, make him sting. There is a bomb inside me that is ready to explode. But if it goes off, I’m not sure anyone would survive the destruction. So I swallow hard, channel Alice, and try to put out the lit fuse.

      ‘Maybe it’s time to get rid of her clothes?’ he says, knowing he is on dangerous ground.

      ‘Sure,’ I say calmly. ‘And why don’t I just shave off my face while I’m at it?’

      ‘OK, Stella, don’t be like that. You need to let Alice go. It’s time.’

      I walk calmly into the kitchen.

      ‘How would you like the chicken done?’ I ask him. He follows me in.

      ‘I don’t think it’s healthy for you to wear Alice’s clothes any more, OK?’

      ‘I could breadcrumb it? Or do a stir fry?’ I get the wok out of a cupboard.

      ‘Stella, for fuck’s sake, will you listen to me. Take that skirt off!’

      ‘Fine,’ I shout, slamming the wok on the work surface. I pull the waistband open and push the skirt to the ground. Stepping out of it, I pick it up and I screw it into a ball, then smash it into the bin. ‘There, OK? Happy now?’

      Phil looks at me pitifully, and shakes his head.

      ‘Now, would you like breaded chicken, or a stir fry?’ I ask him, very calmly, standing in my knickers, holding a spatula.

      ‘You need help, Stella. You seriously