“I don’t know his name!” said Jane, and Madeline recognized the gritted-teeth note in her voice too, because there was something in your children that could bring out the child in yourself. Nothing and nobody could aggravate you the way your child could aggravate you.

“Oh, Ziggy, darling, see, this happens all the time,” said Madeline. For God’s sake. It probably did. There were plenty of single mothers in the area. Madeline was going to have a word with Miss Barnes tomorrow to ensure that she stopped assigning this ridiculous project. Why try to slot fractured families into neat little boxes in this day and age?

“This is what you do. You write ‘Ziggy’s dad.’ You know how to write ‘Ziggy,’ don’t you? Of course you do, that’s it.”

To her relief, Ziggy obeyed, writing his name with his tongue out the side of his mouth to help him concentrate. “What neat writing!” encouraged Madeline feverishly. She didn’t want to give him time to think. “You are a much neater writer than my Chloe. And that’s it! You’re done! Your mum and I will stick down the rest of the photos while you’re asleep. Now. Story time! Right? And I’m wondering, could I read you a story? Would that be OK? I’d love to see your favorite book.”

Ziggy nodded dumbly, seemingly overwhelmed by her torrent of chatter. He stood up, his little shoulders drooping.

“Good night, Ziggy,” said Jane.

“Good night, Mummy,” said Ziggy. They kissed each other good night like warring spouses, their eyes not meeting, and then Ziggy took Madeline’s hand and allowed her to lead him off to his bedroom.

In less than ten minutes she was back out in the living room. Jane looked up. She was carefully pasting the last photo onto the family tree.

“Out like a light,” said Madeline. “He actually fell asleep while I was reading, like a child in a movie. I didn’t know children really did that.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Jane. “You shouldn’t have to come over here and put another child to bed, but I am so grateful to you, because I didn’t want to get into a conversation with him just before bed about that, and—”

“Shhhh.” Madeline sat down next to her and put her hand on her arm. “It was nothing. I know what it’s like. Kindergarten is stressful. They get so tired.”

“He’s never been like that before,” said Jane. “About his father. I mean, I always knew it might be an issue one day, but I thought it wouldn’t be until he was thirteen or something. I thought I’d have time to work out exactly what to say. Mum and Dad always said stick to the truth, but you know, the truth isn’t always . . . it’s not always . . . well, it’s not always that—”

“Palatable,” offered Madeline.

“Yes,” said Jane. She adjusted the corner of the photo she’d just glued down and surveyed the piece of cardboard. “He’ll be the only one in the class without a picture in the box for his father.”

“That’s not the end of the world,” said Madeline. She touched the photo of Jane’s dad with Ziggy on his lap. “Plenty of lovely men in his life.” She looked at Jane. “It’s annoying that we don’t have anyone with two mummies in the class. Or two daddies. When Abigail was at primary school in the Inner West, we had all sorts of families. We’re a bit too white-bread here on the peninsula. We like to think we’re terribly diverse, but it’s only our bank accounts that vary.”

“I do know his name,” said Jane quietly.

“You mean Ziggy’s father?” Madeline lowered her voice too.

“Yes,” said Jane. “His name was Saxon Banks.” Her mouth went a bit wonky when she said the words, as if she were trying to make unfamiliar sounds from a foreign language. “Sounds like a respectable name, doesn’t it? A fine, upstanding citizen. Quite sexy too! Sexy Saxon.” She shuddered.

“Did you ever try to get in touch with him?” asked Madeline. “To tell him about Ziggy?”

“I did not,” said Jane. It was an oddly formal turn of phrase.

“And why did you not?” Madeline imitated her tone.

“Because Saxon Banks was not a very nice fellow,” said Jane. She put on a silly, posh voice and held her chin high, but her eyes were bright. “He was not a nice chap at all.”

Madeline returned to her normal voice. “Oh, Jane, what did that bastard do to you?”

31.

Jane couldn’t believe she’d said his name out loud to Madeline. Saxon Banks. As if Saxon Banks were just another person.

“Do you want to tell me?” said Madeline. “You don’t have to tell me.”

She was obviously curious, but not in that avid way that Jane’s friends had been the next day (“Spill, Jane, spill! Give us the dirt!”), and she was sympathetic, but her sympathy wasn’t weighed down by maternal love, like it would be if it were Jane’s mother hearing the story.

“It’s not that big a deal, really,” said Jane.

Madeline sat back in her chair. She took off the two hand-painted wooden bangles she was wearing on her wrist and placed them carefully on top of each other on the table in front of her. She pushed the family tree project to one side.

“OK,” she said. She knew it was a big deal.

Jane cleared her throat. She took a piece of gum out of the packet on the table.

“We went to a bar,” she said.