he was in the middle of the paediatric corridor at Thornhill like a man who had bought the flooring, one hand on a changing bag and the other on a buggy, wearing the smile he gets when he thinks he has won something.
Next to him: Yvie.
My best friend of eleven years. The one who used to sit in my kitchen and tell me he would come round.
She was holding a bottle and her hands were not steady, and she was fussing with a blanket over a little
