Helping Anton prepare for the birthday meal with Júlía had put him in the mood. Everything he had explained to him about how he should groom himself and treat the lady had triggered his own desire to be somewhere with a drink in one hand and a beautiful woman on his arm. There was no point letting Agla destroy his zest for life.

His phone pinged and he swore as he read the message. His date had pulled out; something unexpected had come up at the last moment. The truth of it probably was that she had looked him up in the National Registry or somewhere to check on his age. That was one of the problems with Tinder, his usual charm didn’t come across. He suddenly recalled another girl. He scrolled though his contacts, looking for her number. He had hung on to it even though he rarely liked to sleep with the same woman twice. This one was rather special though. She was young, gorgeous and had a daddy complex that left her with a weakness for older men. He punched in a message and had a reply within seconds: Go fuck yourself Ingimar.

‘You look smart,’ Rebekka said as he came down the stairs. ‘Where are you off to?’

Ingimar went over to her and kissed her forehead. The wind had been taken out of his sails, and the moment he saw Rebekka all the energy drained from him, and he realised that he couldn’t be bothered to go to some bar to pick up a woman.

‘Nowhere. I’m staying here with you.’

Rebekka seemed to be taken by surprise. They had not touched for a long time and any kind of tenderness between them was a rarity. But she was quick to sidestep it.

‘Isn’t that jacket getting too small for you?’ she said, and he waited for the expected insult. ‘You great lummock.’

He tried to pull the jacket closed over his midriff, but couldn’t. In any case, he always left the jacket open, so nobody would see that it didn’t make any difference that it couldn’t be buttoned up.

‘We’re neither of us at our best,’ he said, and Rebekka looked nonplussed, before turning away, topping up her glass and taking another mouthful.

‘Not me, at any rate,’ she said, stretching with theatrical exaggeration. She wore creased pyjamas, no make-up and her hair was in disarray. ‘It’s a while since I was at my best,’ she said and sat on a chair at the kitchen table.

‘Would you like something to eat?’ Ingimar asked. ‘A couple of fried eggs or some toast?’

‘Don’t act as if you give a shit whether I eat anything or not. That kind of pretend concern gets on my tits.’