‘I’d like to talk to you. Can we meet in the Magpie?’Tom taking her for a drink was a rare occurrence these days and, more than a little curious, Annie turned up only to discover him moodily flipping a beer mat over and over. Heart sinking, she ordered them a glass of wine each and a packet of salt and vinegar crisps to share. The Magpie was a defiantly unreconstructed old-fashioned pub – none of your glass and chrome but plenty of dark-wood furniture and dimly lit nooks. Seated on banquettes that had seen better times, they faced each other across a table that bore the imprint of many glasses.‘Just like we used to …’ she said. ‘Do you remember?’ Before the children, they had met frequently in a pub after Tom finished work to drink beer, eat crisps and play cards or darts.‘Yup.’She caught the echo of real distress. ‘Tom, why couldn’t you talk to me at home?’He looked away. ‘Emily’s there. But I might as well get to the point.’‘Which is?’‘My mother.’ He reached over and laid his hand on Annie’s.
