George is so angry he can’t speak. He’s so angry he’s forgotten all his favourite swear words. All he can do is stare at the letter while betrayal and humiliation stab at him like a thousand knives.

Ellen had asked Betty to befriend him. Betty had known his wife was dying before he did. The more he thinks about it, the crosser George gets. He can feel his heart racing and hopes he’s having a heart attack. He hopes it’s the end for him, right here in another man’s shed. He wants Betty to find him, to know she killed him with her lies and deceit and her fucking greasy cooking. And why did Ellen tell Betty all that stuff about them? What on earth had got into her? She never used to be so loose-lipped. Likening him to her Singer. That bit about her mum and dad. No one else would want him? The words hit him like gunfire. Stomach, legs, temple, a round of bullets in his heart.

George tries to stop breathing. He wants to choke and flail his arms as he falls. He wants to smash the plant pots, land on their spikes and make a bloody mess for Betty to slip in. The blood would be on her hands then. Maybe people will think she killed him. The idea is so wonderful he considers slashing his wrists with a jagged piece of pottery if this heart attack doesn’t finish him off first.

After five minutes of trying to cut off his air supply with his bare hands, George admits defeat. His heart will not stop fucking beating. He can feel it pounding like a machine-gun in his chest, firing him up.

His wife knew when she was dying, had it all planned out. George isn’t so lucky: he’s still here and, according to the doctor, he’s as fit as a fucking fiddle. Not even this shock can carry him off.

He sits down and wonders what to do next.

Dan

(Picture perfect)

DAN HAS STUBBLE RASH from kissing. Last night he and Atticus had been repeating the dinner and make-out session, and just as Dan was about to say, ‘Stay,’ Atticus pulled away. Dan wanted to demand that he carry on, but he couldn’t find the words.

‘You’re not ready,’ Atticus said, when Dan sighed in frustration.

‘I am,’ Dan had said shyly.

‘Trust me, Dan,’ Atticus replied. ‘Please.’

So they had parted, pink and rosy. Fitz had looked at Dan and something he saw made him bark, as if he could sense Dan’s frustration. Dan thought of the meat-filled bones he got Fitz from the butcher, which the dog loved but which also drove him mad. Fitz could never get to the jelly in the middle, no matter how hard he tried.