How did other blokes manage it? There were seven of us working for Reg, and most of them were married. But they all had children, one way or another; that seemed to settle things back home. Mind you, Reg had four kids, lovely children, and that didn’t stop him carrying on with Sonia in the office. He’d kept Sonia going for years and nobody had thrown his belongings into the front garden. It didn’t seem fair.

I said nothing at work. This was partly pride. Years before, Eleni had come to the depot. She had been wearing her red PVC coat and white boots and they’d all whistled at her. She was ten years younger than me and ever so pretty—slim, skinny actually, with big eyes and sheeny olive skin. She looked fragile and yet bold; she walked as if she expected to be whistled at, which was half the trick. The rest of her family was running to fat, and Maria had a moustache; Eleni was the looker. I had been amazed that she wanted to marry me.

It was partly pride, that I didn’t speak—I wasn’t usually secretive. But I kept quiet out of self-preservation, too. It was so painful, to say the words out loud, and once I talked then something would have to happen. One week passed, and another. It was a cool, damp September; she didn’t phone. I felt I was sleepwalking.

Costas had lent me the flat above his electrical repair shop, up in London. It was nice of him because he’d only just done it up. It was near to the depot in Peckham and I could walk to work. This was just as well, because Eleni had told me she needed the car, being stuck out in Orpington. I offered to be stuck out in Orpington instead, I loved our house. I told her I’d like us to be stuck out there together, like before, but she wasn’t having any of that. So I let her keep the car; if I was nice she might reconsider what she was losing. I even began telling her my trick for starting it in cold weather—it was a seven-year-old Escort and I had tuned up the engine—but then I thought what the hell and put the phone down.

The back of Costas’s shop was heaped with microwaves and toasters. They had little tags but most of them were hopeless cases; it was like a hospital down there. Someone had even brought in their kid’s remote-controlled police car. One evening I came back with some Kentucky Fried Chicken, I’d had a drink on the way, and I stood looking at it all and realizing it was just useless. I thought of all the things I had bought for our home, sometimes with Eleni beside me, and how by moving my things into the garden she had turned my possessions into junk. It all seemed such a waste. Most of my tools had rusted up but I could never imagine buying any more.