I try to shut the thoughts away but the words he says prise open my every defence. I can’t not hear it. He talks about his life, his friends, the plans we’ve made, the things we’ve achieved, places we’ve been. He talks about his grandmother, about my own family history. He claims he’s talked to the bank manager. He shows me photographs of us in the pub, laughing with his mates. One of me in a dress – says I look fit. But he never once asks me how I feel: never imagines that I could be the one in charge.
“Let’s talk. Everyone likes to talk. We want to talk. You want to talk. We must talk. It is important to talk. We will not be being responsible if we do not talk.”
“But we have made our decision. We talked amongst ourselves. You were not invited to talk, but that is not our fault. If you want to talk you will be talking to yourselves.”
“What did we say? Did we say anything certain? We said we might talk, but we might not. Maybe we will talk soon. There is no point talking. We do not want to talk.”