‘I manage to run things when you’re not there,’ he barks, beckoning her into the hallway. Sorry, he mouths with a broad shouldered shrug, turning to march into the kitchen and motioning for Kerry to follow as he continues his conversation. He jabs at a chair, indicating that she should sit. She does so, like an obedient hound, wondering if she might also be offered a biscuit. As Kerry waits for him to finish, feeling a little stranded, she takes in the undeniable maleness of the sparse and functional room. These days, whilst she no longer registers the clutter in friends’ houses (it’s as unremarkable as chairs or carpeting), she never fails to register the absence of it. No children live here, that’s for sure. And that’s good, she decides, having wondered how she’d feel if a little boy or girl were being forced to part with their beloved pet. ‘So, there’s a queue,’ James barks into his phone. ‘I’d hazard a guess that they’re customers, Luke. I’d say that’s good.
