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here.”
    â€œIt’s
always
raining there. Do you miss me a bit?”
    â€œI miss you so much pumpkin, you have no idea. The worse is sleeping alone. The bed so cold. But I know you’ll be back soon.”
    â€œTwo weeks seems like too long now.”
    â€œYes. But it’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
    â€œThis call must be costing a fortune.”
    â€œYes. It’s a mobile, so a fortune. Where are you staying tonight?”
    â€œI don’t know yet. I have my stuff with me, so probably at a hotel nearby.”
    A sparrow lands on the furthest arm of the bench and looks at me quizzically. I wish I could show Ricardo.
    â€œIf you have a normal phone, text me the number and I can call you,” Ricardo says.
    â€œOK. And if I have wifi I can Skype you. Are you at your mum’s place?”
    â€œNo Chupy. I’m staying with friends. I didn’t want to stay in the flat on my own.”
    â€œOh good. I’m glad you’re not on your own.”
    â€œJust text me the number and I’ll call you.”
    â€œOK. Love you.”
    â€œYou too, mi amor. You too. Good luck with Jenny and Tom.”
    â€œThanks. I’ll need it.”
    â€œCiao.”
    â€œCiao.”
    â€œBye.”
    â€œBye.”
    â€œI’m hanging now.”
    â€œOK. It’s hanging
up
though.”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œYou have to say,
hanging up
. Hanging is something different.”
    â€œOK. Bye.”
    â€œBye.”
    â€œAre you still there Chupy?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOK, here goes. I’m really hanging
up
now.”
    â€œBye.”
    I sigh and smile at the phone and slip it back in my pocket.
    â€œHe’s gone now,” I say to the sparrow. “Now, what do
you
want?”
    Being spoken to apparently is not what the sparrow wants. It hops and flutters away.
    And then, feeling a hundred times happier than before the call, I head off in search of a cup of coffee and a sandwich.

One At a Time
    Wakes are always strange affairs. Sometimes everyone is shell-shocked and miserable – people who really just want to be alone with their grief. But just as often everyone ends up drunk and full of inappropriate laughter.
    Jenny’s mother’s sendoff is in a class of its own though. It feels like a subdued, unpopular village fête. Three old ladies are serving cucumber sandwiches and pouring tea, mainly, it would seem, for themselves.
    The single man, a dapper, grey haired chap, is smoking his pipe, respectfully blowing his fumes through a cracked window. At the bottom of the garden, beneath an apple tree, I can see Tom and Jenny sitting on a floral swing-chair. They are holding glistening tumblers with slices of lemon and ice cubes. I see that Tom alone spots me peering out at them. And I see that he pretends not to notice.
    I tuck my bag in a cupboard under the stairs and, refusing a cup of tea, head for the kitchen. If I have to face Tom again, I need a drink first.
    I find a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in the fridge, and pour myself a stiff gin and tonic.
    â€œThere’s vodka in the freezer if you prefer,” a voice says behind me. I turn to see the man with the pipe, now extinguished, winking at me. “That’s what the other youngsters are drinking,” he explains, nodding towards the garden.
    â€œMore of a gin man, myself,” I say, realising as I say it that I have for some reason copied his clipped major’s accent.
    â€œMother’s ruin,” he says.
    â€œSo they say. Can I serve you one?”
    â€œNo, strictly tea here I’m afraid,” he says. “Driving and all.”
    I hold out a hand and we shake. “Mark,” I say.
    â€œMark also,” he says. “A friend of Jenny’s, is it?”
    The
“is it,”
amuses me, because, with his accent he sounds like Armstrong and Miller.
    I resist the urge to reply,
“Isn’t it, though?”
    â€œYes,” I say,