‘Jesus.’
‘It's efficient.’
‘It's terrifying.’
‘It's how I grew up. You grow up with exact portions and you learn that there's never more. Never surplus. Never an extra place.’
The line was quiet. The dark on both sides. From the other end, the faint sound of music, what Rory was playing earlier, still on, still low.
‘Yesterday... I told Gemma,’ Neil said.
Silence.
‘About you. About us.’
A long beat. The sound of Rory breathing.
‘What did she say?’
‘She said bring you for tea.’
Another silence. Shorter. Then Rory's voice, rough and low and carrying something that sounded, for the first time, like hope: ‘Yeah?’
Soft.
‘Yeah.’
‘Was she...’
‘She wasn't surprised. She said she knew from the acrylic paint.’
‘The acrylic paint?’
‘I started buying acrylic paint for Freddie. For your class. She apparently took this as conclusive evidence.’
‘That you were sleeping with the art teacher?’
‘That I was doing something that wasn't running five miles and marking essays. The acrylic paint was, in her words, 'the first sign of life in four years.'’
Rory laughed, low. ‘I like Gemma.’
‘Everyone likes Gemma. Gemma is the most likeable person I know. She's also the most terrifying.’
‘More terrifying than your mum?’
‘Different kind. My mum is terrifying because she's cold. Gemma's terrifying because she's right. About everything. Always.’
‘She was right about you.’
‘She was right about me.’
‘Night, Neil.’
‘Night.’
Neither hung up. Three seconds of open line. Breathing. The dark on both sides.
Rory hung up first. The screen darkened.
