They make quite a sight: George in his smart braces and Betty all in black, Lucky and Poppy on the outside, happily reunited. They pass the baker, who runs out of her shop while her pasties burn, to tell the florist that GEORGE AND BETTY are OFF TO GET MARRIED at the church. Curtains twitch and the rumour mill grinds as they pass by, arm in arm, along the busy pavement, by the pond and over the road to the church, where Betty pats George lightly on the arm and indicates with her head that Bill is ‘that way’.

Ellen is at the back, underneath a yew tree. Light filters between the leaves, speckles the grass around her modest white grave. The inscription is simple: ‘Ellen Dempsey 1943–2018’. Nothing else. George forbade it. Barbara had wanted ‘loved and missed’ and George had told her to fuck off.

Now he regrets it. His wife was so much more than Ellen Dempsey. She was all the seasons. He should have put that. Instead he puts his knees into the grass and his forehead against the stone, which has been warmed by the sun.

‘Hello, wife,’ he says. ‘Hello, my lovely old wife.’

George manoeuvres himself so he’s sitting with his back to Ellen’s headstone, his legs stretched out, filling her space with himself. Protecting her. Poppy sits on his lap, a solemn little face on little brown paws. George is grateful for the warmth of this dog, his little hot-water bottle.

He lays the flowers down next to him, then pulls out the letters, the ones he’d hidden under the bed. The ones he’d decided always to have to hand. He opens the first with the care with which he’d have cradled the baby they never had, and slowly, haltingly, he answers all her questions.

Dan

(Things are not always what they seem)

THEY ARE IN BED when Atticus tells Dan he’s going to work, at a friend’s gallery opening. Dan is surprised then pleased that Atticus is going back to work. He wants to know all about it, but Atticus is vague. ‘It’s only small. He’s been nagging me to help him.’

Dan wonders who ‘he’ is and how he’s been nagging Atticus – via letters, emails, texts? Shit. Texts. He pulls out his phone and calls Luke again, but Luke doesn’t answer. ‘He must be at work already. I wonder what he wanted,’ he mutters to Atticus. ‘I had a load of missed calls from him.’

Atticus is distracted and doesn’t respond. Dan wonders if he’s nervous about the gallery opening as he shoots a text off to Luke: You okay? Ring me. You’d best not be pussying out of the Ironman, dude!

Dan puts the phone down and rolls over. He doesn’t have a client till ten, so he reaches for Atticus, but Atticus pulls away and slides out of bed, reaches for his jeans instead.