‘But…’ Ella was appalled to hear her buddy Dennis being accused like this. His story—that his wife had bullied him in here—she’d bought wholesale. It copper-fastened her conviction that she too was here just to please others.

‘What the hell’s got into you?’ Chalkie asked Giles.

Giles shrugged. ‘Dennis almost died from alcohol poisoning. It’s not funny.’

‘Ah, stop!’ Dennis protested. ‘We’re only having a bit of a laugh.’

With a sharp nod of agreement, Ella glared at Giles.

*

At the end of the session, when they rose to stream out, I said, ‘Dennis, stay behind for a moment?’

‘Oh, lads, I’m in the soup!’

After shutting the door, I said, ‘Dennis, your clothes.’

He plucked at his suit jacket. ‘Made by the fair hands of Makee’s of Mullingar. No doubt you’ve some husband or boyfriend that needs “bespoke tailoring”, a fine-looking woman like yourself? Mention my name to Mossie Makee and he’ll look after you and the lucky man in question.’ His exaggerated wink indicated that a hefty discount would be mine.

‘Dennis, your clothes are filthy.’ I indicated the stains on his tie, the unidentifiable blobs on his shirt. ‘You need to do your laundry. Also you’ve been here almost a week and you haven’t had a shower.’

‘I have a bath every Easter Sunday,’ he declared. ‘Whether I need it or not! Harhar.’

‘Dennis, you need to shower every day. And get someone to show you how the washing machine works.’

‘Shur, the wife will be in with clean togs for me next weekend.’

‘Wash your clothes.’ I could be quite frightening when I really made an effort. ‘Tonight, Dennis.’

As I left the room, he yelled after me, in sudden, real rage, ‘What’s any of that got to do with drinking too much?’

Plenty. Addicts hated themselves and many couldn’t treat themselves with the barest of civility. He’d learn.

When I switched my phone on, there was a message from Helen. Meet me? Need to talk to you.

This sort of thing—Helen proposing a one-on-one casual hang—was a bit weird. She must want to talk about whatever she’d been doing the Friday morning of Mrs Costello’s funeral. Impossible to guess what—she could be splitting up with Artie, embarking on a solo expedition to the North Pole—knowing Helen it could be anything. But I hoped she was okay.

When? Today? Red Kite Farmhouse 5.45?

Immediately she replied, Not Red Kite Farmhouse. Hate that place. Full of Scummy Mummies.

Of course. Everyone else adored Red Kite Farmhouse—their twee aesthetic, their artfully mismatched trestle tables, their giant over-priced cherry scones. Helen had to be different.

Then another message arrived. Okay, Red Kite Farmhouse it is. Just don’t bore on about the fucking scones. I get it, they’re BIG.