‘No?’ said Steve, who slumped opposite her, exhausted from work.
‘Maybe we should get a takeaway,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’
He lifted his glass of red. ‘Sure, sounds good. I’m happy to do whatever.’
‘Hmm, maybe. We should probably cook. I do fancy a takeaway though…’
Steve didn’t bother answering; a takeaway mentioned is a takeaway materialised.
‘Yeah,’ said Annabelle. ‘I’m thinking Indian.’