He didn’t know what that ‘something else’ was.

‘What else?’

He blurted out the first thing that came.

‘Meet me tomorrow, at the Ha’Penny Bridge at 10 o’clock! Do you know where it is?’

He wasn’t sure where it came from or where it was. He had read about it once, in Ulysses maybe.

‘Move your leg!’

She pushed her knee into his thigh. He didn’t let her go.

‘Answer me first. Will you come?’

‘Move your leg and I’ll answer you!’

He moved, so she could position herself where her husband had stood moments before. She leaned in close so he could feel her breath on his ear. It made his chest flutter.

‘Yes I know where the Ha’penny Bridge is. Everybody in Dublin knows where it is. As far as me agreeing to meet you there at 10 o’ clock tomorrow is concerned, GO FUCK YOURSELF, CORMAC!’

With his ear still ringing, he turned to see the door close behind her.

He looked at Harry, who was sipping his pint and trying unsuccessfully to look nonchalant. Cormac raised his glass to him.

‘You are a complete dick, Harry! But thanks for bringing me to her. And not telling me she was married. I wouldn’t have come if I’d known.’

‘No problem, my friend, and may I say, I thought you handled her and the husband particularly well!’

‘Harry.’

‘What?’

‘Fuck off!’

‘Roger that, my friend. Roger that!’

16

Harry’s gentle snoring had gone from being a source of great annoyance to a comfort for Cormac. He guessed it must be around 4 a.m., but refused to confirm it by checking the red glow emanating from Harry’s bedside table. Knowing would guarantee he would never sleep. He had spent many a night in hotel rooms in exasperated amazement at how uncomfortable they could be. He was convinced there must be a sadistic room designer somewhere out there who took sick pleasure in destroying the lives of businessmen and travellers all over the world. The air conditioning was always too noisy. The heating always set too high. And the beds designed for anti- sleep. He’d lost count of the occasions when his legs had kicked their way out of the perfectly folded prison they were trapped in. And the pillows! Oh God! The fucking pillows!

The four pints in O’Donohue’s would ordinarily have provided the antidote. Seeing Bernadette again had completely negated their effect. He always expected she would be angry and she certainly hadn’t disappointed him. But married? Why had he not considered she would be married? Of course she would be married. She was a 40-year-old woman he had deserted as an 18-year-old girl. She was a stranger to him. She’d lived a life he knew nothing about for more than 22 years; a life he had no right to know anything about. After all, he’d married Jill, and there were other relationships along the way, weren’t there? He tried to think of them. There was Rachael, an ambitious young barrister, with whom he’d endured two months of torture due to her inability to accept his love for Annie was not something she needed to, or could ever hope to, compete for. There was a divorced journalist called Jane, or was it June? Who carried more baggage than an average airport carousel and therefore lasted less than a month. There were uncomfortable dinner dates with two or three others whose names he couldn’t, or didn’t care to, remember. But mainly there had been Annie and work. Yes, Annie had been his life and work his mistress. But Bernadette, she was entitled to fill her life any way she chose. Maybe she’d had 5 husbands? 50 lovers? 100, even? He sat up and switched on his lamp to banish the last thought from his mind.