1995
It is my week for visitors. At four in the afternoon, I look up from my desk and find Rory's wife is standing at the door looking in at me. A thought jumps into my head: You're too late. Too late by one day.
"I'm sorry to be doing this to you," she says.
Then don't, I think. Don't do it.
Her face is impassive, but I can read embarrassment, though she is not blushing. She doesn't have the complexion for blushing.
"Can I...er, come in?"
I want to say no, but I push my chair back instead, bring her through to the back to sit on the grass where Maeve and I went before. She is better looking than I realised: hair highlighted blonde, body exercised and groomed, good clothes. Not unlike my sister, in fact. For the first time this summer, I feel scruffy in my shorts and T-shirt.
I take
