The two hours in the car, which I have gone back through because I want to know when I decided.
I left Dray Lines at a quarter past two.
And I rehearsed it the whole way. Properly — out loud, at the windscreen, the way you do.
The version I had was: find her before the speeches, get her into the room off the corridor with the mirrors, say this came to his office on Tuesday and I'd want to know, put it in her hand, leave.
Four sentences. I had them down to four sentences somewhere around the third roundabout.
And I had also worked out, by about the hour mark, that she might not believe me — that there was a version where my sister looked at a woman she had not spoken to properly since 2019 and decided it was spite.
So I put the covering page in a plain blue folder and sealed it, because an envelope you have to open yourself is harder to dismiss than a woman talking.
