I got in about seven-thirty. On the way back, I’d nipped into a phonebox and rung up Chloë. We’d been talking for about twenty minutes and had promised to meet up at the weekend.
Chris was in front of the telly. I don’t think either of us said anything when I walked in. I read the paper until the silence made my guts ache, then I went into the bedroom and got changed.
‘I’m going out,’ I said, sticking my head round the door.
‘Mh.’
‘Want to come?’
‘What y’goin’ out for?’
I mentioned a couple of shows that I knew wouldn’t interest him. He grunted. I could tell he was going no further than the bog that night. Desired result.
