I'm woken by the sound of something knocking against the bedroom door, and I open my eyes to see Steven pushing a serving trolley in from the other room. He's in his posh pyjamas; hotel slippers on his feet; hair freshly washed, and combed back neatly.
He's got a white linen napkin draped over his forearm.
"Room service waiters wear PJs these days?" I say. "I approve..."
He smiles. "I got us breakfast in bed."
"Mind if I go to the gents' first?"
"Course not."
I get out of bed. Stop to give him a kiss on the cheek. His hair is damp still. The lotions and potions in the bathroom here are a different flavour than the one he usually uses; wouldn't stop me knowing with my eyes shut that it was him, though.
"Happy birthday, Steven."
"Ta. Happy anniversary."
"Happy anniversary."
:::::::
He's back in bed, sitting up, when I return from the bathroom. I grab a T-shirt and boxers to put on, seeing as he's all buttoned-up in his pyjamas; then I get in bed, and then I kiss him properly.
"They put it on trays for us," he says once our attention returns to the breakfast. "I asked them to, because of having it in bed."
"You told them that, did you?"
"Yeah, when I phoned down."
"Okay."
"You'll have to pass me mine – you're nearer."
I reach for the trolley, pull it close to the bed, and pour us an orange juice each, and a coffee from the cafetière, then carefully pass him his tray and get mine too. There are silver domes covering the plates: I remove them to the trolley.
The breakfasts are the full works, and Steven's has an extra sausage, I notice.
"This is yours," he says. "I asked for an extra one for you."
"I knew there was a reason I married you..."
He forks it across to my plate.
"To us," Steven says.
"To you. And us."
We toast ourselves in orange juice.
"Mind you, it's not out anniversary yet, is it. I mean, it is, obviously... but it won't be exactly a year until this afternoon, cos that was when we actually got married, weren't it."
"If you wanna be pedantic..."
He laughs. "I'm just saying, we should have a little celebration at five forty-five."
"Five forty-five if you'd turned up on time. Half six, more like."
"I weren't that late."
"Six fifteen, then," I say.
"Six, if that." He pauses for a mouthful of egg and bacon, then he says, "Did you really think I'd stood you up?"
"Of course I did. You know I did."
"Well, you're an idiot. Nothing would've made me leave you, and nothing ever will. Once you came home from prison, there was never gonna be anything that would make me stop wanting to be with you, Brendan. We'd lost too much time already."
If this was a movie, there'd be a whole orchestra on the soundtrack, but it's real life, and there's nothing in his demeanour or his casual delivery that suggests he's even aware how big – how heart-stopping – are the statements he's making.
He looks at me when I don't respond
"Alright," I say. "We'll mark the occasion at six o'clock. Long as it don't mean I gotta wait that long for my present..."
"I thought you wasn't bothered about presents. You might not even like it, anyway, though, Brendan."
"All the more reason to hand it over, y'know, get the disappointment over with."
He looks at me to see how serious I'm being; I wink at him.
"Well, you're gonna have to wait for your present anyway," he says, "Cos it's in the car – your card an' all."
"So's yours, as it happens."
"We'll go downstairs, then, eh? Have another walk, couldn't we – before it rains again, anyway."
"If you like, yeah. Give them a chance to get in here and clean the room, anyways."
Then his phone buzzes. "It'll be Amy, or the kids, before school – first day of term, innit," he says, then nods in confirmation when he sees on his screen that it's her. "Hiya. … Thanks, Ames. … No, you didn't wake us up. We're having breakfast actually. … What? … Oh, no, it's fine, it's not gonna go cold in two minutes, is it. … Alright, yeah, that'll be nice. … Okay, bye for now, then." He mouths to me, She's putting the kids on.
Leah and Lucas shout – so loud I hear it too, and Steven has to hold his phone away from his ear for a second – "Happy birthday! Happy anniversary!"
He says to them, "Aww, thank you. On your way to school, are you? … Yes, we're still in the hotel, and we're having our breakfast." He smiles at me as he says, "No, not coco pops. We've got a full English today. … What's in it? Everything really. Sausage and bacon and egg, and fried bread and mushrooms and tomatoes. … Yeah, you can fry bread, I swear down. Why, have you not heard of it before? … Well, Mummy's right, it's probably not that good for you, but we're having it for a special treat. … Yeah, he's here. … Course you can. Bye from me, then. Love you millions. Here's Daddy Brendan."
He hands his phone to me.
"Morning," I say.
Leah and Lucas both say, "Happy anniversary, Brendan!"
"Thank you."
"We said happy birthday to our dad," says Lucas, "And happy anniversary."
"Your dad had to go one better, didn't he?"
They laugh.
"We've got to go now," says Leah.
"That was short and sweet. At school now, are you?"
"Outside the gate," she says.
"Okay. Have a good one."
"Bye, Brendan," they say.
I look at the time on Steven's phone when they've hung up. "Didn't realise we'd got up so early."
"I know. I woke up well early, and I waited a bit, but then I wanted to get brekkie sorted while you were still snoozing, so it would be a surprise."
"It was. Thank you."
"Plus we went to bed early, didn't we, and we did get a lot of sleep, in between..."
"In between what, Steven?"
"If you can't remember, I'm not telling you."
In the dark, we were, last time I woke in the night. Darkness like black velvet – darker than it ever gets in town – and silent, but for his quiet breathing, once I held mine to hear it.
He deserved his sleep, but I woke him. Nothing so obvious as shaking him awake, or speaking to him: just moved against him like I might move in my sleep, to give myself plausible deniability if he got annoyed at being disturbed. And it wasn't even sex I was after, particularly, because the satisfaction from the times before was still in my body, bone marrow deep. Just, at that pitch of night, sometimes you want a comrade.
Anyways. He wasn't annoyed. Sighed, and stroked a hand across my chest, and followed it so he was lying on me, full length. Heavier than you'd ever believe if you saw him in the daytime.
We kissed, till he got tired and he sunk his forehead onto my pillow beside my head. I took hold of his waist and slid him up a little, so I could get my teeth on his collar bone as he lay on me.
He groaned.
I stroked his backside. Touched his ring, lightly. My question – Mm? – answered: Mm. So I pressed a fingertip there. He was sticky still with lube and cum, and not entirely recovered either, so there was no resistance when I slipped my finger into him, and played. His breath was hot in my ear.
That was all we did that time. He came without drama, and I didn't at all. My erection, untrapped from between our bodies when he rolled off me, subsided as I fell back to sleep, too lazy to finish.
"Oh, I remember alright," I say, and pull aside the collar of his pyjamas to expose the night's lovebite.
"Alright, don't spill me coffee." He's smiling. He's also blushing.
"Your cheeks gone red? Bit late to be the blushing bride, a year later..."
"Not a bride, am I."
"No. But you are blushing."
He shakes his head, and moves on.
"Amy said they're gonna give me my birthday prezzie next weekend, so the kids can see me opening it. That's good – makes me birthday last longer." Then he laughs. "Bit greedy, really, when you think about it. This is, like, day three celebrating our anniversary, and now my birthday's gonna last a week."
"You deserve it," I say; then when I feel him looking at me – the intensity of it – I say, "Just don't get used to it. You're not getting a party every year."
"I know I'm not. No one has a party for every anniversary, do they. But we could have one for our fifth, eh?"
"What? No. Twenty-fifth, maybe."
He laughs. "Right, so I've got to wait another twenty-four years?"
"Yep."
"I can have birthday parties, though, can't I. I could have one for me thirtieth. Here, we could have a joint party, for my thirtieth and your fortieth, Bren – how about that?"
"I'm starting to regret raising your expectations," I say, and then I see from his face that he's pulling my leg. "Oh, very funny..."
Then he laughs that ridiculous laugh that I couldn't live without.
:::::::
We've finished breakfast.
"You've had your shower," I say, "So I won't ask you if you want to share mine."
"Did you hear me? I tried to be quiet."
"No, I was dead to the world. Your hair was wet, is all."
"Oh, right. Yeah, I thought I'd better have mine, cos I knew I'd have to answer the door to the room service man, didn't I."
"Yeah, you'd want to be clean for him..."
He laughs. "You know what I mean. Respectable."
"Okay." I put our breakfast trays back on the trolley, and then I get out of bed, tnd lean over and kiss him. "Best go make myself respectable."
:::::::
He's still in the bedroom when I come out of the bathroom, but he's dressed now, in a tracksuit, and putting on his trainers.
"Have you got any money with you, Brendan?" he asks.
"Money? Yeah, some." I go to the wardrobe, find the right pocket and take out my money clip. "How much d'you want?"
"No, sorry, not notes. Coins, I meant, for throwing in the fountain. I've not got any with me, that's all."
"For throwing in the fountain?"
"We said we would, didn't we. I thought we could do that today, when we go out for our walk."
"There'll be some in the car."
"Or, actually, don't worry. We'll get a cup of coffee downstairs, won't we, so I'll pay cash for that and get change."
:::::::
Downstairs, we go to the bar, and before we've ordered, the girl who's serving – same one as yesterday – says, "Are you getting drinks to take outside with you?"
"Yeah, we are, if that's okay," Steven says. "How did you know?"
"You're wearing coats," she says, and she turns and gets Hugo's two mugs from the shelf behind her. "What would you like today?"
"Coffees, please," he says. He looks pleased as punch that we're getting special treatment.
"Milk or cream?" she asks.
"You want cream, don't you?" Steven says to me. "Alright, yeah, we'll have cream, ta."
He pays in cash to get some coins back, and we take our mugs of coffee, and head out of the front door of the hotel.
"Car park first, or fountain?" I ask.
"Fountain, eh?" he says, so we step off the gravel and start walking across the wet grass towards it. "D'you reckon they'll be watching us going off with the car keys, and think we're doing a runner without paying?"
He says it in almost a whisper, even though we're the only people out here.
"Who's 'they'? The guards?"
"Yeah." He does a funny walk too, like he's sneaking off, to make me laugh; makes himself laugh too. "No, actually, we'll be alright. We've not took our luggage with us, so they'll know we're coming back."
"Unless that's part of our plan," I say. "We could'a thrown our bags out the window to an accomplice, under cover of darkness."
"Oh yeah, we could've done that. Best not, though, eh, because then we could never come back here, could we, unless we wanted to get arrested."
"Good point. Anyhow, there's not much left to pay – I paid most of it up front, so."
"Did you?"
"Yep. Ain't worth the trouble of having the police on your tail for." I pat his backside to illustrate the tail in question.
"D'you think I'm daft, wanting to throw a coin in there?" he asks.
"If it's good enough for the Trevi fountain, I guess..."
"That's the one in Rome, innit."
I look at him. "It is, yeah."
"Don't look so surprised, Brendan. I've always wanted to go to Rome, me."
"You have? I didn't know that." We get to the fountain and look into it: under the water, there's already a scattering of coins, so I say, "If you're daft, Steven, so are plenty of other people, by the looks of it. But no, I don't think you're daft."
He scoops his change out of his pocket, and offers it to me. I take a fifty pence piece from his palm.
"You've got to make a wish," he says.
"Okay."
It's no dafter than throwing the key from a padlock into the Liffey, is what I think.
I hold the coin in my fist.
For him to be well and with me, always.
I throw it into the water, watch it flutter to the bottom.
He's got a coin in his hand, his fingers closed tightly around it.
"I don't know what to wish for now," he says; then, "Okay, yeah I do."
He brings his hand to his lips, and either whispers into it or kisses it, eyes closed. Then he throws his coin. It doesn't drift, but arrows to where mine lies, and comes to rest, touching it.
We look at each other, then turn and walk back across the lawn, shoulder to shoulder. Stop for a minute to work out which windows are our suite: easy to find, because they're right in the middle, with the best view.
Once we're back on the gravelled driveway, we follow it where it forks off around the side of the house.
"The car park is behind the hedge," I say.
"How do you know? They parked the car for us, didn't they."
"I had to go to the car to fetch this to give you." I grab his wrist, tap his silver cuff. "Three hundred and sixty-five days ago exactly..."
"Three hundred and sixty-six," he says. "It was a leap year."
"Seriously? I knew it felt like a long time..."
He punches my arm, and I laugh.
We've reached the hotel's car park.
"There's more cars than I thought there'd be," Steven says. "Must've been a squash when all our lot's cars were in here."
We go to our car, and I unlock it.
"After you."
"Alright, hold me cup. And don't look. Go on, turn your back – have a look at the cars, see which one you reckon is Hugo's, or something."
"Okay." I turn away, then glance and see that he's in the back, feeling behind the child seat; I look away again before he catches me looking. "I dunno. Something practical, he'd drive."
"Your go." Steven has reappeared beside me, empty handed.
I give him back his coffee, than I walk around him: nothing to see; no bulges in his pockets. "Must be something small, is it? Where've you put it? Up your bum?"
I say the last part in his accent, which earns me an unimpressed look.
"It's in me coat. And nothing's going up me bum, mate, cos it needs a rest after the weekend we've had."
"Not even..?" I say, and I waggle my little finger at him.
He gives me another in his repertoire of eye-rolls.
"Go and get me prezzie, then," he says. "I won't look."
"Okay." I hand him my mug.
"I reckon that dark blue one's Hugo's, y'know," he says.
I get his present out of the pocket in the driver's side front door, and slide it into my inside pocket.
I rejoin him. "Why's that?"
"That was quick." He looks me swiftly up and down, but obviously can't see the birthday present, so he returns his attention to the blue car. "Just, it's reliable-looking. Plus it's got mud on the wheels, and he's been to Wales, an't he, to see his family."
"And you reckon that's Welsh mud?"
He smiles. "I don't know."
"Walk?"
"Yeah, before it rains."
:::::::
We get as far as the lake, before the clouds darken and we decide to head back. We hurry, but we don't beat the rain.
Passing the orangery, he says, "See if it's open?" So we stop and he tries the door, and it lets us in; and the next minute, the rain is streaming down the vaulted glass roof, and gusting against the windows. "Blimey," he says.
"Might be stuck here for a while."
"At least it's warm." He undoes his coat, and I undo mine.
"Coffee's diluted," I say, but I finish mine anyhow.
"They've cleared everything up now. You wouldn't know we've had a party in here." He's wandering around, occasionally touching the leaf of a plant. "Makes it seem even more magical, Bren – like it was all magicked here for us, and magicked away again when we'd finished."
I take his present from my pocket and prop it on the shelf next to where the bar was on Saturday night.
"Have this now if you want," I say.
He looks, and comes over; picks up the present. The rain that's silvering the window panes is softening the light coming in: he looks airbrushed, unreal.
"Thank you," he says; he turns the birthday gift in his hands. "Did you wrap this up?"
"Why? Is it crap?"
"No. It just looks like... Like you didn't get the shop to do it."
"Second-hand bookshops don't provide that service, unfortunately."
"Not 'unfortunately'. I like that you did it."
"Oh. Okay."
He unpeels the sellotape from one end, and slides the book out of its wrapping. Looks at the cover, then at me.
"See," he says, "I said poems was our thing."
He's smiling.
"They're all short, see, so you can read one now and again, if you want. See if you like them. Doesn't matter if you don't – they're all by different people, so some you'll like, maybe, some you won't. I just thought, it's something you can – "
"No one's ever gave me a book in my life, except recipe books I've had off Tony before."
"No? No, Anne did, didn't she, she gave us her book."
"She gave me the audio book. The book book was for you." Then he says, "I love it, Brendan. I'm gonna read all of it."
"You got nothing to prove, okay. I won't be testing you."
He's opened the front cover now, and he's reading what I've written on the flyleaf. And now there are tears in his eyes.
"Bren, that's – "
"I didn't get you a card, so I thought I'd better write something in there..."
He nods. Carefully, he slips the slim anthology back inside its wrapping, as if instantly it's precious to him.
"I got you a card," he says. He takes it out of his coat pocket, and holds it out to me with both hands, like an offering.
"Thank you, Steven."
I take it out of the envelope. There's a rainbow on the front, and a silhouette of two men.
"Don't say it's too gay," Steven says.
I shake my head. Inside the card are the printed words Happy Anniversary to my Husband, but I'm reading what he has written, neatly and painstakingly, below the greeting.
To Brendan, Beidh grá agam daoibh go deo. From Steven – and then a line of kisses to the edge of the page.
"That's – "
"I copied it, obviously, from in here." He touches his silver cuff . "The engraving, like. I hope I got it right."
"Yeah." I clear my throat. "You got it right."
I read it again, then stand the card on the shelf.
"Also, I might as well give you your prezzie an' all, right, cos the longer I leave it, the more I'm worrying that you won't like it."
"I'll like it."
"You might be funny about it. But listen, yeah, there's no harm done, I can just bin it and we can forget I ever – " He stops himself, and pulls the zip of his tracksuit top part way down, and takes out what's tucked inside. "Here it is, anyway."
It's an A4-size brown envelope, just a little rumpled from how he's carried it against his chest.
"Wrap it yourself, did you?" I say, but his face is too serious for jokes.
I go to take the envelope, but he holds onto it.
"And it's not even a proper present."
"You already told me that," I say.
He lets me take it.
The envelope isn't sealed; I pull out the contents.
It's a document, printed on thick legal paper.
I Steven Hay of Flat 6 – and then my eyes skip past the address to the part where it says, – have given up my name Steven Hay and have adopted for all purposes the name Steven Brady Hay.
Signed as a deed on the 6th day of January 2017 as Steven Hay and Steven Brady Hay in the presence of – and then it's got the details of two witnesses, and then it's got Steven's signature, and then it's got Steven's new signature.
"It's not too late, Bren, right – I've not done nothing with it, I can decide not to, yeah, and just, like, rip it up. Cos they said – the solicitor – that it's not official until you start sending it off to get your passport, and change your name on your bank account, and the tax man and whatever, and – "
"Steven – "
"But it's up to you, yeah? So if you think it's weird, or... or stupid, we can just forget it."
"Steven."
"Anyway I asked the lads if they'd be okay with it, and they both said yes, and I asked your Cheryl, and she cried, but like, in a good way. I've not asked the kids, but Amy said they wouldn't mind, would they, because I'd still have Hay in my name, for Lucas. And Leah's not called Hay in any case, so it wouldn't even – "
"Steven Brady Hay."
"Yeah? I mean... Is that me?"
"That's you. Will you come here now?"
There's a second's pause. I feel like I can see the tension evaporating out of him, and then he steps into my arms, and I hold him as tight as I can.
He breaks it, which is good, because I wouldn't know how to.
"Think the rain's stopping," he says.
"Yeah. Yeah."
"Shall we go back, then?"
"Yeah."
I put the deed back in its envelope, along with the card he gave me, and I put them inside my coat so they won't get wet. He picks up his book and the mugs, and we leave the orangery. It's still spitting with rain, so we run along the path and up the steps, and in through the back door.
We return the mugs to the bar.
"Want another coffee, Brendan?"
"No. You?"
"No."
So we go back up to our suite.
It's been tidied and cleaned, and on the wee coffee table there are now two boxes. One is a box of chocolates, and I read what it says on the tag.
"It's from the Lomaxes," I tell Steven.
"Bloody hell, it's massive," Steven says. "Is it for me birthday, or for us for our anniversary?"
"Anniversary, it says. Why, would you keep them all to yourself if they were for your birthday?"
"Course I would."
"Thought so."
"What's the other box?"
We sit down on the couch, and he lifts off the lid.
There's a stiff card inside, with the hotel's name printed on it, and in calligraphy underneath it says, Steven & Brendan ~ 1st Wedding Anniversary Celebrations ~ January 2017
All our cards from the other night are in the box, tied with a ribbon. There's a copy of the lunch menu, and a sheet of paper with the recipes of the cocktails from the party. There are photographs: one of the room where we had lunch, with the table set; one of the orangery all ready for the party, and another taken during the party, from outside, so you can see a blur of people through the windows.
"Wasn't expecting this," I say.
"Me neither. But then, I wasn't expecting any of this, was I."
I add my card from Steven to the box, and put my present from him in there too, and replace the lid.
"Want a chocolate?" I ask.
He shakes his head. I put my arm round his shoulders, and kiss him.
"Your beard's cold."
"Sorry about that..."
He smiles, and takes off his trainers, and stands up and takes off his coat.
"Need a wee." He squeezes my shoulder as he leaves.
I take our coats through to the bedroom and hang them up. Take off my shoes. Sit on the bed and wait.
He comes straight to me. Stands between my knees, holds my face; bends and kisses me. I stand up and pull him against me.
When I stroke his behind, it feels like he's gone commando. I slide my hand down inside the seat of his trackies to verify, and I'm wrong, he's not commando: he's got his jockstrap on.
Okay.
I unzip his top, and he takes it off. I take my top off, and his T-shirt. We kiss. I hold his waist for as long as I can resist before I slide my hands down and take his trackpants with them. They fall to his ankles. I sit back down on the bed and press my face into his belly, and kiss there, and breathe there, while he grips my shoulders. Then I turn him around and look at him.
"Jesus, Steven."
"Like it?"
I bite his arse. He reaches behind him and grabs a handful of my hair. I bite harder.
Now I'm on the bed, on my back, and he's kneeling astride me, facing my feet, and he might not take a finger but he'll take my tongue in between his cheeks. His mouth is around my cock. I hold his thighs to keep him still so I can penetrate him, licking in as deep as it's possible to get. I can feel his noises vibrating around the head of my cock. What I'm doing to him throws him off what he's doing to me, and his throat hits wrong so he stops to cough, but then he gets back to it.
I feel for his dick. It's constrained in the mesh of the jockstrap. I run my fingers inside the pouch, and he comes on them. I wipe them on his thigh, and tongue-fuck him till he's finished, and then he tumbles off me to the side, weak from his own pleasure.
"Come on, Steven. Steven."
He looks at me, realises he's left me hanging. Laughs, and focuses, and finishes me off with his hand.
:::::::
I've made us a cup of tea, brought it to bed along with some of those shortbread biscuits, seeing as it's past lunchtime now. We prop ourselves with pillows against the headboard.
"There you go, Steven Brady Hay." I pass him his tea.
"Ta." Then, when he sees me gulping mine down, he laughs.
"What?" I say. "Thirsty work, ain't it."
"Must be. Give us a biscuit, then."
"Here." I eat one too, and then I ask what I've been wanting to ask. "So. The name thing. When did you decide to..?"
"Dunno really. I've been thinking about it for ages, and then, like, with the anniversary coming up, and with the lads coming to stay, y'know, I thought I'd just see what they thought."
"You wouldn'a done it if they'd said no?"
"I don't know. I think I would've left if for a bit, and asked them again. Anyway, I didn't have to, did I, cos Paddy said yes, and then Declan did an' all."
"You asked Padraig first?"
He nods. "On the Saturday, when you and Dec went to fetch the kids from Amy's, and me and Paddy were on our own – that's when I asked him what he thought. He said it was cool. So then I asked Declan that night, when the kids had gone to bed. New Year's Eve, that was."
"And you got it all done and dusted on the sixth – that's the date on it. Inside a week, start to finish."
"I know. I thought I'd left it too late, because it was a bank holiday on the Monday, and then – d'you remember the day the lads went home, the Tuesday, I took Paddy out for a coffee in the morning? Well, that's when I rang the solicitor – our one, the one we had when we bought the flat – only their voicemail thing said they were closed till the next week. Today, in fact, that would be. So then I thought, like, all solicitors are gonna be the same, in't they, but Paddy said, like, why don't we google it? So we sat there with our phones, googling all the solicitors in Chester, and he found one that was open, and it was right near where we were sat having our coffee, so we went round there. And they were a criminal one – that's why they were open, for emergencies for criminals – and they said they didn't usually do things like changing names. But I think they felt sorry for us, specially with Paddy's little face, so they said they would do it. So I made the appointment, and then I went back there on Friday, with me old passport and our wedding certificate and everything, and they done it there and then."
"That's where you disappeared to, Friday morning?"
He grins. "Yeah. And it turned out you don't even need a solicitor if you're changing your name when you've got married, but I wanted to get everything right. Plus you need witnesses when you sign it, so it was easier to do it there. And as well, they printed off a list of who I'm meant to write to, and what my letters have to say, and they done extra copies of the deed thing an' all – official copies, like, so I haven't got to send off the original one. So it was worth it, and it weren't even all that expensive."
"I'll give you the money if you want."
"No, Brendan." He looks affronted.
"No, course not. I didn't mean – "
"It's your present."
"I know."
"It's nothing to what you've spent on me. I wouldn't even have a guess at how much this whole weekend's costing."
"It doesn't matter. It won't ever be enough to pay you back, Steven."
"Pay me back?"
"For everything. Everything you've done for me, it's... I don't know where I would be, if it wasn't for you. I wouldn't have my boys in my life, I know that much. Would'a pushed my sister away once too often, most likely. Would'na got out of the world I was in – that's if I was still in the world at all, which I doubt I would be."
"Shut up, don't say that. We're here, aren't we."
"Thanks to you, we are. So, spending whatever I've spent, and... and looking after you... it won't ever be enough. I know that."
"It is enough, for me. You can't keep thinking things like that, Bren, right, cos it's like... Right. See these shortbreads?"
"Excuse me?"
"Say these shortbreads are us, yeah – they're what we've got."
"We've got shortbreads. Okay."
"No, listen. I'm doing a metaphor, aren't I."
"Oh. So we're talking metaphorical shortbreads..."
He sighs. I shut up.
"So, right, when you're making shortbreads, you're gonna need flour, and sugar, and butter. The right amounts, obviously. So you and me, yeah, we've got that together. We've looked in our cupboards, and we've – somehow – we've found the flour and sugar and butter, right, and it doesn't matter who's brought how much of which, cos between us we've got the right amounts. And it doesn't matter who turns the oven on and who pays for the electric, because either way, we've made shortbreads. And I'll tell you what else doesn't matter, shall I?"
"Okay."
"It doesn't matter if there's an out-of-date... I dunno... jar of food colouring, yeah, stuck to the shelf at the back of the cupboard. I mean, we see it sometimes when we're getting something else out, and we're like, oh, it's still stuck there, then. But mostly we just don't even think about it. It doesn't matter, see, because there's no food colouring in the recipe, so it's got nothing to do with our shortbreads." He stops, then he says, "Right, you can talk now."
"I love you," is what I say.
