1975
“Rory, I’ve something to tell you.”
The way I say it makes him put down his fork. “Ah no, Jo.” How can he tell from what I have said? Is it in my voice or my face that he reads it?
We are supposed to be celebrating. It is my birthday tomorrow, my eighteenth. I am officially an adult at last and we are here, at the Granada Restaurant, at a candlelit table with linen napkins and a bottle of wine like a proper pair of adults. Soup finished, waiting for our steaks, which will be followed by Black Forest gateau.
Rory’s treat, from his bar wages, and a fine treat for two impoverished students. Or it would be, if only…
“Yes,” I say. “I’m afraid so. Yes.”
“Jesus. Oh God, Jo. I don’t believe it. f**k!”
“That’s what did it, all right.”
He lashes me a that’s-not-funny look. “But I though
