There was always a distinctive bark from the exhaust when George pulled out onto the main road. Not that he drove anything sporty, it was a hole in the back box. George kept insisting he could fix it himself and then never seemed to get round to it.

Amelia had to steady herself from a burst of vertigo. Her legs felt like they'd disappeared for a moment. She knew that from his room at the front of the house Steve would be listening for that same sound. The footsteps down the stairs weren't long in coming. Two at a time, always two at a time, going down and coming up, always in a hurry. She began clearing the dishes away, dunking them in the sink, with her back to the door. Half of her, the sane half, hoped he would carry on along the hall and disappear with a slam. Instead, the latch clicked behind her.

'Can't you do that later?'

She knew he wouldn't touch her. Not here. Too much of George in this room. But in the cold front room smelling of sweat and rugby shirts and dirty socks it would be different.

'Can't we talk? First. I mean-' God, I can't even speak normally, she thought.

'I've got a lecture at 10.'

'I can drive you. Let me drive you there. Then we'd have more time.'

'I can take the bus.' He was a twitching bundle of energy, the same height as the man in the Ford estate with the rattling exhaust.

Amelia dried her hands and then picked something up from the nearest chair, a blob of green and white and brown.

'I put so much love into this jumper,' she said. 'He never wears it.'

Steve didn't answer. It's not fair to expect him to answer, she told herself. She wondered if a 30 years older version of him would remember what she was cradling in her arms and what she'd confessed about it. Would it be too late for him then if he did understand? Would he have sleepwalked his way into a married wasteland of his own?

'How's the cough?'

'It's nothing.'

'I keep telling George he needs to sort out that radiator. He doesn't listen to me, though.'

'It's OK.'

'I've got some Pavacol.'

'Really. It's nothing.'

Yes, she thought. You're indestructible at your age and you think you'll be like that forever. She was at the foot of the steps leading out of the kitchen, Steve was towering over her.

'Do you think we'll ever talk?'

'What's there to talk about?'

The door closed. That's it, I've scared him off, she thought. Great clumping footsteps pounded up the stairs two at a time. In comparison, her own were almost silent, as though she was afraid George would hear the creaking third step from out there five miles away on the A34. Steve was right. What was there to talk about?