“That’s him fucked,” said the barman. The estranged husband went into a pub. The other drinkers looked over at him with long knowing glances. “He must be having a bit on the side, all right,” the barman concluded.

“That’s wonderful,” said Catherine.

After the break for advertisements the husband left the pub. Immediately the other drinkers in hostile asides were discussing him and his fancy woman. Much tut-tutting followed. He had been seen leaving a cinema in Dublin holding her hand. Sympathy was expressed towards the wife. Then the bar-room door opened.

“Is that her?” shouted the barman.

“Unfortunately, yes,” said Catherine.

“She’s a pretty lady,” he said, “no more then yourself.”

Sara, in a mini-skirt and bright red high heels entered. Her red hair was swept up into a bee-hive. “Oh dear,” said Catherine, taking a furious gulp of her drink. With a gleaming smile Sara sat on a high stool at the bar. The shocked pub in Glenroe went quiet. “Holy God,” said Miley. “That’s the hussy,” someone hissed. “That’s right,” laughed the barman. Then with great effrontery, and giving a lopsided grin, she ordered a gin and tonic. All the locals watched malevolently as Sara lifted out a small make-up mirror to study her over-painted face.

“And you’d be?” asked the landlord.

“Bridie Smith,” replied Sara. “I’m just visiting.”

With an innocent smile, Bridie Smith lifted her hand to shake his. But the landlord did not take it. Her hand stayed there, in the middle-distance, and longingly the camera lingered on it, with its ring and brightly painted fingernails.

“Dear God,” said Catherine, and she covered her face.

“Delighted, I’m sure,” said Bridie Smith in a broad Northern Irish accent.

“So Bridie’s one of us,” said the barman as the theme tune played and the credits came up. “That wasn’t at all bad.”

In those last few weeks Jack was drunk most days. In the Crown Bar he saw Helen sitting with friends. He found his way to her table and swayed lightly to and fro. She got up and took him away to the bar.

“I don’t like to see you like this,” said Helen Wynne.

“I’m sorry,” he told her.

“You’re not the real you,” she said, “when you’re drunk.”

“I’m just going out of my mind.”

“She loves you.”

“That,” said Jack, “is unfortunately no help.”

“You were happy once, you’ll be happy together again.”

“I’m sorry to be coming out with all this to you.”

“You will just have to sort it out between you,” said Helen, “It’s up to yourselves.”

Helen refocused her eyes.

“You’re getting drunk quicker these days,” she said carefully.

“Can I join you and your friend?” he asked.

“It’d be better if you didn’t. She sees you in black and white, and for the minute you’re all black.”

“All right,” replied Jack angrily.