42

“Thanks.” I can’t help smiling at the compliment. Noah is bright. Although “well balanced” I’m not so sure about. Do well-balanced kids boast about their fictitious heart transplants?

“He seems very happy.” Lorcan takes a handful of peanuts. “Was custody amicable?”

At the word “custody,” my internal radar springs into action and I feel my heart automatically start to pound, ready for battle. My body is flooding with adrenaline. I’m fingering my memory stick nervously. I have speeches lined up in my head. Long, erudite, scathing speeches. Also: I want to punch someone.

“Only, some of my friends have had fairly torrid times with custody battles,” Lorcan adds.

“Right.” I’m trying to achieve composure. “Right. I bet.”

Torrid? I want to exclaim. You want to hear about torrid?

But at the same time Barnaby’s voice is ringing in my ears like the chime of a warning bell. You said whatever you did, you wouldn’t end up bitter.

“But you haven’t suffered?” says Lorcan.

“Not at all.” From nowhere,