“Pint? The early houses’ll be opening.” “You must be joking.” “To celebrate.” Steve, God help me, also does positivity better than I do. I give him a stare that should nip that in the bud. “Celebrate what?” He grins. Steve is thirty-three, a year older than me, but he looks younger: maybe the schoolboy build, all gangly legs and skinny shoulders; maybe the orange hair that sticks up in the wrong places; or maybe the relentless godawful cheerfulness. “We got them, did you not notice?” “Your granny could’ve got those two.” “Probably. And she’d’ve gone for a pint after.” “She was an alco, yeah?”
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