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about her.
    Christmas has come and gone, a miserable non- event under
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    sodden skies. Still, it was probably better all round that they were on their own. Roy’s present to her was a box of supermarket chocolates, the upmarket range admittedly. He accepted the sheepskin
    coat she bought him with muted thanks but no embarrassment.
    They ate Christmas dinner in silence and watched television while
    Roy drank and snored. No walks in the rain. No giggling. No silly
    games. No friends by the fireside. No family. These are the sacrifices she has chosen to make.
    In the evening, while Roy dozed on, she spoke with Stephen by
    telephone. He was solicitous and concerned, and quietly stricken.
    Call it off, she could hear him uttering wordlessly down the line in the interstices of their conversation. Call it off. But she knows she will not, cannot.
    She sits now at the kitchen table, her laptop unfolded before her,
    while Roy watches the television at something approaching full vol-
    ume. The neighbours have complained repeatedly but Roy is hard
    of hearing and stubborn.
    ‘Shall I get you some more of your ready meals?’ she shouts
    through, but he cannot hear. She goes into the living room and
    repeats her question. He makes an effort to disguise his annoyance
    and reduces the volume.
    ‘No,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’
    ‘Are you sure?’ she persists. ‘It seems hardly likely we’ll be able to get to the shops in the next few days.’
    ‘Oh, all right, then. A couple.’
    ‘I don’t know what we’d do without online supermarkets.’
    ‘No,’ he says, and is already turning back to the screen.
    ‘In fact I don’t know what we’d do without the internet.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You’ve never wanted to use it?’
    ‘Oh no,’ he chortles, and for a moment suspends his tetchiness.
    ‘Don’t trust those things. Wouldn’t know where to start. You’re
    braver than me, I must say.’
    ‘I don’t know. It’s not that difficult. I could show you.’
    ‘No thank you,’ he replies firmly. ‘I’m stuck in my ways. They’ve
    always done for me.’
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    There is a pause filled with the Technicolor flashes of the
    television.
    ‘But how did you find me?’ she asks with innocent curiosity.
    ‘Eh?’ he says, irritation simmering again.
    ‘The internet. We met via the internet.’
    He glares at her for a moment, as if she has accused him of infi-
    delity. Then he says, lightening perceptibly, ‘One of the neighbours.
    Nice lad. He’s hot on all that stuff. I began by using the newspaper.
    No, he said, that’s not the way to do it. Sat me down and took me
    through it. I’d sit in his flat and he’d press all the buttons. Like magic.
    But not for me. Can’t teach this old dog new tricks.’
    He smiles and begins to turn back to the television.
    Oh well, in for a penny, she thinks.
    ‘Roy,’ she says experimentally. She does not know why she has
    landed on what she is about to say. Possibly the mention of his old ways.
    ‘Yes,’ he says, still – just – with her.
    ‘You never talk about your past,’ she says gently.
    ‘Oh, I believe what’s done is done. No point in harking back,’ he
    says with an air of finality.
    ‘But there must be so many things you could tell me. So many
    memories. I’d be interested. I can imagine you have a history.’
    ‘Oh, at our age you’re bound to have a history,’ he says, maintain-
    ing his good humour, then the smile fades. ‘But you wouldn’t be
    interested in anything I’d have to say. My life’s been pretty boring.’
    ‘I find that hard to believe. What I find boring is the sound of my own voice wittering on with all of my stories.’
    He says nothing and his attention is being drawn by the bright
    lights on the screen.
    ‘And you have no mementoes,’ she says. ‘No photos. Why’s
    that?’
    ‘I did have,’ he says wistfully. ‘Used to keep