Free The Hole in the Middle by Kate Hilton

a desk, but otherwise you should have all the furniture you need,” she says. “So, what do you think?”
    â€œIt’s amazing,” I say. “But I probably can’t afford it. I didn’t have a chance to tell Will that I’m on a budget.”
    â€œCould you afford two hundred dollars a month?” she asks. “I think that would be reasonable.”
    â€œYes,” I say. “I could afford that.” She can’t be serious. It’s half of what I’m paying to live with Zoe. I’d live with strangers if I could save half of my rent; I’d even live with an engineer. At $200 a month, I might even be able to save enough to go and visit Zoe in Paris in the summer.
    â€œCome back upstairs and finish your champagne,” she says. “One always makes better decisions over champagne.”
    We rejoin Penelope in the sitting room, and I settle into an armchair by the fireplace with my glass of pink champagne. “It would be good for those boys to have a girl around,” says Lil. “And you seem a very sensible sort.” She looks at my boots. “More sensible than most, anyway. So, do we have a deal?”
    I can’t believe my luck. Excitement and relief explode out of me in a very unsophisticated giggle. I blush. “Yes,” I say. “We have a deal.”
    â€œMarvelous,” says Lil. “This will be great fun.”
    â€œDiverting,” says Penelope.
    â€œMost definitely. Diverting,” agrees Lil. “When will you move in?”

CHAPTER FIVE

    tuesday, december 3, 2013
    When the alarm goes off, I can hardly believe it, and I lie for a few minutes with my eyes closed, willing it not to be true. I’ve had so little sleep that I feel hungover, shaky and nauseated, and hollowed-out.
Sleep
is the wrong word, really; I haven’t slept, I’ve napped, a string of short and wildly unsatisfying naps, and now I have to get up and face the day. But I’m not going to do it without coffee, so I stagger downstairs.
    Jesse is already dressed and sitting at the breakfast bar, alternating between the newspaper and his BlackBerry.
    I pour a cup of coffee. “God, that was a terrible night,” I say.
    â€œAgreed.” Jesse barely glances up from the paper.
    â€œScotty was up, what, twice, three times? I lost track.” This is not, in fact, true. I know exactly how many times Scotty was awake, and for exactly how many minutes each time, which roughly equals the number of minutes that I lay in the dark awake, listening to Jesse snoring and wondering why I was the only one awake, plus the number of minutes that I snuggled upstairs with Scotty, composing bitter speeches in my head about Jesse’s failure to wake up for even a token attempt at shared parenting. This is a test, and Jesse has already failed.
    â€œThree o’clock and four-thirty, maybe, but he may have been up before I got home.” If I’m honest, I’m surprised that Jesse can provide an accurate report on Scotty’s nocturnal activity, but no less infuriated. I can feel color rising in my cheeks as I realize that Jesse was conscious enough to register the time but couldn’t muster the effort to participate.
    â€œI got up with him at midnight,” I say.
    â€œTough break,” he says.
    â€œAre you mad at me?” I ask.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œBecause you seem kind of grouchy.”
    â€œSophie.” Jesse looks exasperated. “I had the same night you did. I’m tired. I am trying to muster enough energy to get through the day. Must we turn this into a referendum on how well we communicate?”
    This is totally uncalled-for. “Jesse,” I say in a snarky tone. “That is a far bigger project than I have energy for this morning. I’m simply asking what you’re so pissed off about.”
    His expression is cool. “If you must know, I’m wondering what possessed you to let Scotty fall