Betty finds her voice and forces her words to sound calm. ‘I. Am. Not. In. Love. With. You. Didn’t you read the letter? Ellen might have wanted you for your rudeness, but I don’t. Yes. I admit. I came to see you because Ellen asked me to. She dropped the letter in at the church for me, three days before she died. The Neighbourhood Watch thing wasn’t a lie, though. I’d had complaints about your dog. And when I got there and saw you …’ She trails off, and George remembers that afternoon. How drunk he’d been. How she’d called the doctor. Oh, the shame of it. How he wants to die from the shame of it all. ‘I did what anyone would do. I called the doctor and had a quick whizz round.’

‘I wouldn’t have done it.’ George is by the back door now, talking to the frosted glass, his face a pink blur.

‘Well, I did, and I’d do it again. I thought we’d become friends. I thought we had a bit of fun together.’

George turns to look at her and deep-fries her with his words. ‘You are not my friend. You never were, and you never will be. You were just someone who could walk my dog, clean my toilet and cook my dinner. You could have been anyone, and so could I. I don’t know what the fuck happened to your old man, but I know there’s a reason why you don’t talk about him. Why you don’t even have one fucking photo up of him.’ George twists and casts a hand wildly round the spotless house. ‘But I’m no surrogate husband. I’m no replacement.’

‘George! How dare you? I …’

Betty is as cross as he is now. He knows he’s about to get the spiel about how many cups of tea she’s made and how many cakes she’s baked. She’s probably got a booklet all about George somewhere. How many eggs she’s boiled. How many Marmite soldiers she’s prepared. How many bottles of bleach she’s squirted down his loo.

George can’t bear it. He needs to go home. He needs to sit in his chair and turn up the cricket and think of nothing and no one. ‘Not one word, Betty. I swear to fucking God, not one more word out of that lying cakehole of yours.’

Betty says nothing. She just nods, once, and it’s a sad sight, seeing the old battleaxe deflate, like a withered balloon. She’s got none of her daft sayings for him now. No ‘What’s this banana shenanigans?’ banter to butter him up. He’s stripped her like willow bark.