‘Should we stop for something?’ she said. Paul turned on her a frowning smile. ‘I mean, a drink, or something.’ She faltered, seeing his look. ‘Or just a coffee, maybe. I’ve been waiting an age.’

His smile had switched itself off, leaving only the frown.

‘I’m sorry, my darling,’ he said, in that sweetly condescending way that he spoke to her sometimes. ‘I wasn’t in charge of the plane, you know, or of the fog, for that matter.’

She nodded, compressing her lips. She hated when he spoke to her like that, as if she were a child, or a stupid person. She wasn’t stupid. She was as clever as he was, in her way. He had been gone only a week, and yet, now that he was back, he seemed changed, in some way. Had something happened, that he should find her more provoking and annoying than before? But no, she told herself, no, she was imagining things.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said lightly. ‘Let’s go to the flat, shall we? I bought a cake.’

They walked out to the taxi rank. The porter was waiting with Paul’s modest suitcase – how did he manage, being away so many days with so few things? He pressed a coin into the man’s hand and the man saluted, and, turning away, glanced at Phoebe and back at Paul, and smirked. She had a name for that look – the Irish innuendo. She felt like putting out her tongue at the fellow. If she did, what would Paul say? Nothing, probably. He probably wouldn’t notice her doing it, and even if he did, he wouldn’t understand. And when Paul didn’t understand something, he took no interest in it.

The taxi driver, a black-haired, slightly rat-faced fellow, was stowing the little suitcase in the boot. He came and opened the rear door for Phoebe. As she was climbing in, Paul said to her across the roof of the car:

‘Actually, I must go straight to the Institute.’

He worked in – or, as he would say, was attached to – the Institute for Advanced Medicine, on Merrion Square.

‘Oh, I see,’ she said, and climbed into the taxi and sat down with her handbag on her lap and gazed straight ahead. She hadn’t missed the forced casualness with which he had said it. She felt a fool for having bought that cake.