(I really don’t want to write about this. I really don’t want to invite him back into my memory, my life, where once again he might hurt me, as he did, but if I’m going to tell this, and be rid of him I know that I must.) So that morning I got up, made coffee and toast, and took it in to Lootie. She sat up in bed (yes, Rory, we were sleeping together) and said, ‘Did you check on your coat? For the garden party?’ I sat beside her, one hand on her leg, my coffee in the other. ‘It’s there,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that it’s there,’ she said, ‘but is it pressed? Is it nice?’ ‘You’re nice,’ I said, rubbing her leg. ‘Charlie,’ she said, pulling away. ‘I asked you to check that it was okay. Did you?’ ‘Why shouldn’t it be okay?’ I asked. ‘It just hangs in the cupboard. I never wear it.’ ‘Get it out,’ she said. ‘Show me.’ This was the second Sunday morning that Chanteleer had occupied our minds. So I said, ‘Why? Do you think Chanteleer might be keen on me?’ (Being ignorant, it was nothing to make jokes in those days.
