“Yeah. I’m doing the Bedford Half. It’s this Sunday.”
“Oh right. Great. I was thinking of doing a half-marathon and then I remembered I hate running.”
This had sounded funnier in her head than it did as actual words being vocalised out of her mouth.
She didn’t even hate running. But still, she was perturbed to see the seriousness of his expression.
The silence went beyond awkward into something else.
“You told me you had a cat,” he said eventually. “Yes. I have a cat.”
“I remembered his name. Voltaire. A ginger tabby?”
“Yeah. I call him Volts. He finds Voltaire a bit pretentious.”
“It turns out he’s not massively into eighteenth-century French philosophy and literature.”
“He’s quite down-to-earth. You know. For a cat.” Ash looked down at her slippers.
“I’m afraid I think he’s dead.” “What?” “He’s lying very still by the side of the road.”
“I saw the name on the collar, I think a car might have hit him. I’m sorry, Nora.”
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