Sam had put on her scruffiest, comfiest pair of pyjamas and made herself as comfortable as possible on the sofa. She was willing her mind to settle down and watch the DVD she had put on, but it was impossible. Her imagination was running wild; she didn't even know what movie she was supposed to be watching.
She glanced at her watch. Seven thirty. They would all be there by now. Everyone was to get there for seven, and Mickey would tell Phil they were just going for a drink there at quarter past. I wonder if he likes it. He had said he didn't want any fuss, but I know Phil. He loves a party. Correction, I knew Phil.
The phone interrupted her thoughts. Phil flashed up on the screen. She ignored the call. What could she say to him? I don't want you to go. He'd made it perfectly clear it was what he wanted. I'm gonna miss you. He already knew that. I love you. She couldn't say that. It was true, but it wasn't what he wanted to hear.
Sam tried concentrating on the film, but it was no good. Her phone rang again. This time it was Mickey.