Sunday evening. They were sitting in the comfy armchairs in the window of the Royal Oak. She was leafing through Vogue. He scanned his Iphone.
He looked at her.
‘It’s time we moved on,’ he said.
She held his gaze.
“I know,” she said. “I feel so fucking miserable. I hate the thought of seeing you walk through the door every day. There’s nothing there. You must know I’m seeing someone else. I deserve love, don’t I? I’m not a bad person. You can’t say that, can you?”
“No,” he said. “I just meant let’s try the bar round the corner.”