I almost laughed when she said there was in fact a significant chance that Jerome might well be there – herself and Angela were planning on catching up with an old crowd and they had a number of friends in common with Jerome. I felt a very slight nauseous spittle develop in the back of my throat when I heard this but I acted like it meant nothing. I was being analysed and I felt that I had to go along with whatever Jenny was offering me. It was a test.

The beach began to feel oppressive. The small car park by the tunnel was empty except for a lone metallic silver car. I focused on the deep red of the litter bins and the brighter red lifebuoys. Dalkey Island and its splendour seemed to be trying its best to distract me but right then I had eyes only for car parks and litter bins; such was the sense of an uncomfortable feeling overtaking me.

Jealousy. I had learnt all about jealousy from Othello and I understood the significance of how dangerous it could become. I knew that girls didn’t want to be with someone who showed signs of being aggressively jealous, so I attempted to act like nothing on earth mattered more in that precise moment, other than the fact that Jenny was going to have a great night out with Angela. But in my head I knew that something had shifted. My thoughts had moved from envy, that I would miss out on a nice dinner and a good night out, to jealousy that Jerome would be around and that he might charm Jenny back to him. I couldn’t lose her, not now.

I made a play at picking up a few stones for distraction. I chose stones for colour and for texture and I came across one that I knew was much older than the rest. It had minute fossil flecks across its width and a golden shimmer that made it look as though it was rusted. It was exquisite. I chose another. It was pale coral with a silver glittery finish which reminded me of a Bourjois eyeshadow that Jenny often wore.

I apologized to Jenny for over-reacting and said I was going for a swim and she should join me. In spite of the fact she wasn’t partial to the cold of the Irish Sea, I insisted. She turned away from me and began to change and I spoke some more about the varieties of stone. She didn’t say anything. Her bikini was cerise pink and more suited to a holiday in Spain but it was still lovely on her. The colour reminded me of a nail polish that my mother used to wear, when I was young. She would hold me as we crossed the road together, her nails digging sharply into the palms of my hands as if she never wanted to let me go.