Amelie thought about this. “But if nobody will give anybody the things they need, then nobody will ever have the things they need, and we’ll have to play the game forever.”

“And that, my darling”—Lauren grinned—“is capitalism.”

“I don’t like capitalism. Capitalism is stupid.”

“And to think when Karl Marx said that he got a whole school of philosophy named after him.”

“I don’t want a whole school of philosophy,” Amelie complained, with an air of impending pout. “I want the pink ones.”

“Okay.” Rosaline squared up her meagre haul of banknotes, finally accepting that Monopoly was a distraction rather than a solution. “I think we’ve got a problem.”

“Yes,” retorted Lauren, “you made us play a shit board game.”

“No, I mean the electrician definitely isn’t coming. And so I might not be able to use anything in my house for a week.”

“Does that mean I don’t have to have my hair washed?” asked Amelie.

“No. That’s the boiler, which is gas. And you still need to keep clean.”

“But maybe the aliens won’t like it. Maybe that’s why they keep making funny noises.”

“Maybe they’re trying to encourage you. Maybe they’re saying, Look after your hair, or we’ll take you away to our planet.” The moment it came out of her mouth, Rosaline knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“I’d like to go to an alien planet,” said Amelie. “I bet they’d look really oogly like anglerfish, and they wouldn’t care about my hair, because they don’t have any.”

Right. This was definitely a parenting moment. And the parenting moment was “Don’t completely lose it at your daughter because you’re stressed out of your mind and you’ve just played nearly two hours of Monopoly.” Rosaline took a deep breath. “Why don’t we pack this game up and then we need to think about what we’re doing over the next couple of days.”

There was a silence, filled only by the clattering of playing pieces being dropped somewhat dispiritedly into a red plastic box.

“Look,” said Lauren. “If you really need it, then—”

“No. I mean, thank you. But I can’t do that to you.”

“Thank fuck. I mean, Allison’s pretty sure I’m over you, but if I tried to move you and your child into the flat, I couldn’t guarantee the longevity of my marriage.”

“How would you feel”—Rosaline turned to Amelie in defeat—“about staying with Grandma and Granddad?”

“I just stayed with them.” Her voice was getting a fretful, teary edge. “Why can’t I stay here? Why can’t we get the electrics fixed?”

Fuck. Rosaline was failing as a parent. “Because I can’t get an electrician right now. But I will be able to get one soon.”

Amelie still looked on the verge of an understandable but unhelpful meltdown. “Then why don’t you ask the Viking?”

“Who?”

“The Viking cake man who made the crab. He’s an electrician. He said so.”

Did she mean Harry? Oh God, she did, and she was right. He was an electrician. And Rosaline had his card. And he had explicitly told her to call him if she ever needed anything.

She’d forgotten because she’d had no intention of ever calling him ever for any reason. And now they were sort of friends—wait, were they friends?—it somehow felt even worse to be all, Hi, I’ve mostly ignored you, except for your arms occasionally, and now and again your big brown eyes, but do you think you could possibly come and fix my shit for me?

Except if she didn’t, she’d be sitting in the dark, eating tins of uncooked beans until Monday while her child started a new, and probably better, life with Cordelia and St. John.

“I really feel like I’m letting the side down,” said Lauren, “because while I know a great many fabulous and talented lesbians, none of them are electricians.”

Rosaline’s phone was at five percent. Which meant, if she was doing this, it would have to be now.

Fuck, she had to, didn’t she?

She fished Harry’s card out from her bag and hesitantly dialled the number. It was fine. This would be embarrassing, and he’d probably have to fight hard not to start calling her “love” again, but she’d get over it. And besides, he was an electrician—if experience had taught her anything, he wouldn’t pick up.

“’Allo,” said Harry. “Dobson & Son Electricians. Can I help?”

Shit shit shit. “Um. Hi. It’s . . . Rosaline.”

“Oh. You all right, mate?”

“Not really. My electricity’s gone off and I can’t seem to get anyone out to fix it and you did say I should call you if I needed help. So I guess I’m calling you because I guess I need help?”

“Thank you for my crab,” shouted Amelie. “It was very . . . bready.”

“Tell me what happened?”

Rosaline blinked. “Well . . . she ate it?”

“With the electricity.”

“Sorry. That. Um, the trip-switch keeps tripping, and when I untrip it, it goes straight back.”

“Probably a short. If you tell me where you are, I’ll be right over.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s nearly seven and . . .”

“Nah, it’s fine. I was just trying to self-sauce my pud, but it’ll keep.”

God, what if he was eliminated because she’d made him do an emergency call-out at an unsociable hour on a Tuesday? “I don’t want to interfere with your practice. And I can, you know, pay you.”

Assuming he didn’t want a couple of hundred quid.

“No need, mate. Us bakers gotta stick together. I reckon I’ll be there in about an hour.”

“Okay. This is . . . kind of you. I really appreciate it.”

He hung up after that, which was fortunate, because Rosaline only had a minute or so left of battery, and vanishing without saying goodbye or thank you after someone had volunteered to do some quite highly skilled labour for free would have wiped out what little remained of her pride.

“Right.” She turned to Lauren and Amelie, who had been watching the call with equal curiosity. “He’ll be here by eight. So if you want to get back to your wife now, I’ll totally understand. And you”—she pointed at her daughter—“need to have a bath, wash your hair, and get ready for bed.”