She can feel him looking, knows he is taking note of the silver strappy sandals she is wearing, and her new dress – a sedate navy sundress with pleats in the skirt. More sober than her usual colourful outfits but she has noticed that Leah wears simple monochrome, muted shades, and doesn’t want to appear garish in the young woman’s eyes. At her throat is the necklace Greg had bought for her one Christmas in Weir’s – a silver chain with a little pendant heart. She’d picked it out herself. Charlotte had worn something similar.

Greg hovers by the doorway, his hands in his pockets. Glancing at him as she strips off her gardening gloves, she notes that he, too, has changed for the occasion. She takes in the pressed navy chinos and crisp white shirt he is wearing with approval.

For over a year now, Hilary and Greg have occupied separate bedrooms. It was not something discussed or agreed upon, more an arrangement that came about by chance. A winter flu that turned into a prolonged chest infection had kept Greg awake night after night for weeks, hunched forward as coughing racked his lungs. It was his own idea to remove himself from the marital bed and take the spare room at the back. Hilary didn’t object, or suggest he return once his cough had finally disappeared. One afternoon, she had looked in his wardrobe to find it emptied of his possessions and felt a curious finality in the arrangement. A vital change to their marriage executed without a single word spoken on the subject.

It had pained her a little, but the hurt didn’t run deep and was soon forgotten. It was natural, she supposed, in the course of a long marriage that eventually that side of things would come to an end. There was an honesty about it, and a relief, to acknowledge – tacitly – that their relationship was more companionable than anything else. It didn’t mean she didn’t care about him any longer. She still loved him, in her own way. It was a practical step – and Hilary prides herself on being a practical person. Besides, it will make things easier in the long run. Especially now, with Anton’s return and what that means for all three of them.

Outside in the garden, the round table is covered with a bright printed cloth and set for four, the Newbridge silverware catching the sunlight, knives shining like cutlasses. She slips the snapdragons into their vase, and turns to take them outdoors, then notes the preoccupied look on Greg’s face.

‘Everything all right?’ she asks, and his eyes flicker towards her.

‘An email from Cormac,’ he says, referring to his publisher. ‘They’ve heard back from RTÉ.’

‘Oh?’ she asks hopefully.

‘They’ve passed.’

‘Oh, Greg.’

‘So have TV3. And Newstalk.’