"But you seemed so happy together. I thought you were...oh, I'm sorry Lillian."

Kippy patted her back clumsily, jumping back as soon as he could and making his way past her to her living room. Despite the gay man's reputation as a more understanding, empathic human than your average guy, his partner didn't demonstrate any such capacity, John reflected.

He reminded him of his own father, whose default expression was horror if anything emotional came up in conversation. As a twenty-year old, telling his father that he was gay had been mortifying. Not because he feared his father's reaction—though he'd been a little wary—just that he knew John Snr wanted no part of a discussion about feelings.

"Gay?" he said, his eyes blinking rapidly. "Ah. Um. Well, you take care."

And that was it. The detail was left for his mother to find out. Perhaps she passed it on anyway. "John, your son is gay. El Papa does not approve, but we will. We'll also need to meet a boyfriend at some point. You'll shake hands with him and be normal."

Luckily for John Snr, Kippy was so blokey they could chat about football, cars and the vagaries of the Glasgow weather. Now, Kippy reacted the same way his father had years ago when his younger sister burst into tears over some teenage boy—stumbling words and a hasty retreat.

John had dragged him to the flat when she called to say she'd split up with Richie. She mentioned she'd met Ash, it hadn't gone well, and she hadn't heard from him since. Couldn't she call him, John suggested tentatively, and Lillian bit his head off.

"We must see her," John told Kippy. "She's asked us both to come over. You owe Lillian an awful lot."

The point hit home. Lillian often claimed she was one hundred percent responsible for Kippy's happiness. She'd befriended him when they arrived together in Glasgow, both outsiders. Once she knew he was gay and just out, she went about finding him the experience he needed. And she'd introduced him to John.

"Aye, alright then," Kippy said, shrugging on his coat, hangdog expression in place. "We'll need beers and wine."

John handed those over now. He didn't say anything, but Lillian looked dreadful. She was tall and thin normally. Sudden weight loss didn't suit her. The new gauntness to her features added five years and her hair needed washing.

Still, she wasn't red-eyed this time. There was a sparkle there and she fluttered around him, taking his coat and the bag, and hurrying him into the living room too.

Freddie jumped on John straight away. He hadn't had the chance to change out of his work suit and the cat would cover his black trousers in white hair. In deference to Lillian's fragility, he didn't push the cat off, trying not to wince as Freddie kneaded claws into his legs.

"I must get you some drinks. And nibbles? What do you say—or I could phone out for an Indian or a Chinese. My treat, of course."

The chat had a brittle quality to it and John wondered if she was on something. It might explain the sparkly eyes.

He nodded anyway, saying 'yes' to an Indian takeaway. She'd always liked lavishing money on others. If it made her happy, what sacrifice was it to eat lamb bhuna, rice and a garlic naan? Friends who'd shared takeaways over the years knew each other's preferences. Lillian could rattle off their orders without having to ask.

She poured Cobra beers into glasses, handed them out and sat down on the two-seater sofa, a position that put her opposite him and Kippy, John noted.

"I've had an idea!" she said, fiddling with the label on her bottle. "Now, hear me through. I'll explain everything and how it would work. See what you think... it's a bit, out there, but if you can just listen and give it some consideration? You might—

"Cut to the chase, Lillian," Kippy said. "Me and John will zip it until you've finished, promise."

Lillian gulped her beer and put the bottle on the floor.

"The thing is...," the hands she pushed through her hair were red knuckled and bony, John noticed, the veins prominent, a sign she hadn't been eating. Should he get up and sit beside her, take one of those hands between his and rub warmth back into them?

He was struck by one of those regular moments where he wished he had the power to make Lillian's life better. His sister was like Lillian in many ways—loud, bossy and successful. But Adriana's confidence was genuine. John never wasted time wishing for a magic wand he could wave over her life. The knocks Adriana received bounced off her. Lillian looked too deflated this time. Whatever she wanted of them, he'd do it.

"I've been thinking about children, having one I mean" she blurted, eyes moving hurriedly from John to Kippy. "And wouldn't it be ideal—you two could be the sperm donors, we'd draw up a proper arrangement and everything, and we could share custody."

Spluttering noises came from Kippy's direction, despite the promise not to interrupt. John waved a hand at him, irritated. Politeness meant they should at least hear her through.

"I know it's off the wall, but more people are doing it these days. Look at Elton John!"

Kippy made another harrumphing noise. John watched Lillian's gaze dart back to him again.

"Okay, that's maybe not the best example, but no-one can deny those kids of theirs are really happy. And we're all proof that a conventional set-up isn't the secret to a great life, is it?"

John demurred, though not loudly. He suspected Lillian's perfect life should have included marriage at a much younger age than she was now to a nice chap from the same background. She'd spent years claiming she wasn't maternal, but it was easy to picture her with two point four kids, those children indulged and spoiled, and brought up with that nod to open-mindedness the rich and privileged could so often afford.

The doorbell went and Kippy leapt up, saying he'd pay for it. Lillian appeared to have forgotten her promise anyway.

"Have you been thinking about this for long?" John asked. They listened to the door opening and Kippy's brief exchange with the delivery driver. He made his way through to the kitchen and they heard the rustle of bags being unpacked and food dished up.

The smell of it drifted through—garlic, cumin and coriander. John found his stomach rumbling in response and wondered how long late-night consumption of rich food would keep him awake. Kippy was still monitoring his diet too. He'd be lucky if his partner allowed him naan bread and more than a stingy portion of lamb.

Lillian dropped her voice. "Yes. And I've thought about it properly, how it would work and all that. I'm not being stupid and impulsive, John. I promise. I could go down the anonymous sperm donor route, but I'd much rather know my child's father, and have that child know you."

She picked up the bottle of beer again, finishing it in double-quick time. "Oh—and I'd be a responsible mummy-to-be." The empty bottle was placed on the coffee table and pushed away. "No drinking, eating properly, taking folic acid and all that."

John shifted in his seat. He rubbed a hand through the hair on the back of his head, feeling the bumps on his scalp. Would his child have that bumpy scalp too, the hook nose and the too close-together eyes? A squalling, dark-haired baby wrapped in a lacy white shawl floated in front of his eyes.

Fuck. Where had that come from? He'd focused on Lillian's words, hearing them as I'll get pregnant, I'll have a child, I'll do this with you. Only the 'I' word slipped through. The implications now struck him. She was offering them a child, a prospect he'd dismissed years ago.

Once, before he was with Kippy, he'd had a bizarre conversation about love and relationships with one wee guy stuck in a cell. The long-ago John, duty solicitor at the time, wanted to change the wee guy's life. He asked about his girlfriend. Did the lad want kids? After telling John he knew what he was—a bum-basher, aye, nae offence, mate—the wee guy reciprocated John's wishes for him.

I hope ye find love and hae some kids too.

John raised the subject with Kippy not long after they got together. "Would you like kids?" Kippy stared at him. He was so far from what had been imagined for him growing up in a small town the idea of adding children to the mix was too 'out there' for him.

Later, he said 'maybe', but not yet. They were having too much fun. The first few years too heady to want to spoil with a screaming, red-faced, attention-seeking addition.

And then it came up again, five years ago. At fifteen years older than Kippy, John no longer wanted to live in what felt like extended adolescence. Kippy, however, loved the hedonism of their lives. He put forward plenty of persuasive arguments. The world's over populated anyway. Spontaneity would vanish overnight. I don't know anything about weans. Kids would swallow my turps or something.

"Kippy'll need a lot of persuasion," he said, and Lillian nodded. "I know. But it's such a wonderful idea. I'm getting too close to forty and I don't want motherhood to be something I..."

She stopped, wiping her eyes.

"Lillian," John moved a hand, reaching over the coffee table to take hers. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

For a second or two, her face changed. "Richie, he was...oh, it was nothing to do with him. He needs someone more normal than me, I suppose."

The glitter returned to her eyes. "But a baby, John! Imagine it. Our genes, our commitment—we'll make it wonderful."

The rush of longing returned. John would reach his half-century this year. Not ideal for a first-time dad, but he was fit and healthy. The opportunity just presented to him was the closest he might come to fatherhood.

Why not reach out and grab it with two ready hands?