Where things are.
The company is fine. That is the strange, flat truth of it. Forty-one properties do not notice.
The divorce came through in the September. There was almost nothing to divide, which I knew, and which is why the bank statement under the ring was always the whole of the message.
I sold the townhouse. I live in the flat above our office on Cardigan Street, which my father did for two years in the nineties and which everybody tells me is a bad idea.
I am seeing somebody on Wednesdays. Not a man. A therapist.
And Grady lives in Lindhaven now. He moved there in the January, which I did not expect and which I have not asked about.
He works for a builders' merchant. He is doing his hours at a furniture project.
And the last thing.
In the August he wrote to me. One page.
