“His mum had loved her ornaments, as she called them, but when she died, his dad waited about a week before boxing them up and giving them to a charity shop. “I loved your mum, Quinton,” he’d said, “but I hate them fuckin’ porcelaincats.”

“I don't know what's going on with Mum and Dad, but it's weird. Mum keeps asking Dad to do things and he keeps doing them Unfotunately, she hasn't said 'Hand over your money and make your way to Europe!”

“Mum calls you happy.” Emily giggled.“Huh? I don’t know your Mom…” “She says men like you are happy!”Garry stared at her, uncomprehending. He’d rarely felt less happy in his life.“She means gay,” Max said, and now there was a grin on his face.”

“She turned to put the basket of bread on the table and saw Brian, and the clutch of mums and zinnias he held in his hand."It seemed to call for them," he said.She stared at the cheerful fall bloossoms, then up into his face. "You picked me flowers."The sheer disbelief in her voice had him moving his shoulders restlessly. "Well,you made me dinner, with wine and candles and the whole of it. Bedsides, they're your flowers anyway.""No,they're not." Drowning in love she set the basket down, waited. "Until you give them to me.""I'll never understand why women are so sensitive over posies." He held them out."Thank you." She closed her eyes, buried her face in them. She wanted to remember the exact fragrance, the exact texture. Then lowering them again, she lifted her mouth to his for a kiss. Rubbed her cheek against his.His arms came around her so suddenly, so tightly, she gasped. "Brian? What is it?"That gesture,the simple and sweet gesture of cheek against cheek nearly destroyed him. "It's nothing. I just like the way you feel against me when I hold you.""Hold me any tighter,I'll be through you.”

“Then Dad started going on about the complex geological formations in this part of the coast until Mum told him to shut up. But she was smiling when she said it. Lucy liked that.”

“They couldn't talk. They were not good talkers, either of them. And once, long ago now, she had bought a notebook for a course. It lay empty and forgotten on the kitchen table until one afternoon, when she had gone out to the shops and he was worried that she would be killed by a bus or by lightning, he opened the notebook and he wrote lines about how he loved her, the way he loved her, about his fucking heart and crap like that, about his body brimful and his scrambled head. All that. She came back from the shops. He left the notebook where it was, and he didn't mention it. And it wasn't until about a week later that he noticed it again, and he flicked it open, and he saw his lines followed by lines from her. She'd written words that she had never said. He sat down. He read them over and over for a long time. Then he wrote a paragraph for her to find.”