On a Tuesday evening at about six, from her own mobile. That woman had never once rung me in eleven months and has not since.
And the fourth time was in the room, with the papers in front of me, and she said — and she had clearly decided to say it once more and then stop — I'd be happier if you let me look at Brackley.
She said it to the table and not to me, which I have thought about since — because that is how somebody says a thing they have decided to say once more and then stop.
And I said: I just want it over. I don't want to fight about money.
And she said — and this is the sentence, and she said it levelly, with her hands flat on the table:
This isn't fighting. This is arithmetic.
Four seconds of silence after it. I remember the clock.
