He did not ask for anything and he did not apologise, which I appreciated more than I expected, because the apology would have been for the wrong list.
He wrote to tell me that he had had the test.
In the June. On his own. He did not tell Verity either.
And then he wrote the result, in one line, in the middle of a page, with a space above it and a space below it.
I am not going to put it here.
It is his, and he has told two people, and I am one of them, and I have discovered that being one of two people is a heavier thing than I would have guessed.
But I will say this, because it is mine.
When I opened that letter I was standing in my kitchen at seven in the morning, and before I read the line I already knew which way I wanted it to go.
