The house looked like a bunker. What was it about concrete? In five hundred years were people going to stand under bridges on the M6 admiring the stains?

He put the magazine down and started the Telegraph crossword.

Nanosecond. Byzantium. Quiff.

Jean appeared at seven thirty wearing her purple bathrobe. “Trouble sleeping?”

“Woke up at six. Couldn’t quite manage to drift off again.”

“I see you used Jamie’s whatsit.”

“It’s rather good, actually,” George replied, though, in truth, the caffeine had given him a hand tremor and the unpleasant sensation you had when you were waiting for bad news.

“Can I get you anything? Or are you fully toasted?”

“Some apple juice would be good. Thank you.”

Some mornings he would look at her and be mildly repulsed by this plump, aging woman with the witch hair and the wattles. Then, on mornings like this…“Love” was perhaps the wrong word, though a couple of months back they had surprised themselves by waking up simultaneously in that hotel in Blakeney and having intercourse without even brushing their teeth.

He put his arm around her hips and she idly stroked his head in the way one might stroke a dog.

There were days when being a dog seemed an enviable thing.

“I forgot to say.” She peeled away. “Katie rang last night. They’re coming for lunch.”

“They?”

“She and Jacob and Ray. Katie thought it would be nice to get out of London for the day.”

Bloody hell. That was all he needed.

Jean bent into the fridge. “Just try to be civil.”

3

Jean rinsed the stripy mugs and put them onto the rack.

A few minutes later George reappeared in his work clothes and headed down the garden to lay bricks in the drizzle.

Secretly she was rather proud of him. Pauline’s husband started to go downhill as soon as they handed him the engraved decanter. Eight weeks later he was in the middle of the lawn at 3:00 a.m. with a bottle of Scotch inside him, barking like a dog.