She puts the vase on the counter and moves towards him. He stands there while she wraps her arms around him, but makes no attempt to take his hands from his pockets and reciprocate the hug.

‘That’s it,’ he says softly. ‘Zero publicity.’

‘Not zero,’ she corrects him, drawing back so her eyes can scour his face. ‘You’ve that Liffey Sound interview next week.’

‘Community radio doesn’t count.’

‘And you’ve the short story in the RTÉ Guide.’

‘No one reads the stories, Hil. They just get the Guide for the celebrity gossip and the TV listings.’

‘That’s not true. And, anyway,’ she says, moving on swiftly, ‘it’s the reviews that count, and you can be damned sure they’ll be good ones. The book is wonderful.’

His head is tilted to one side, giving her a sad little smile. ‘You’re very loyal, Hil,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

She feels a short stabbing pain in her chest, disturbed by this remark and all the layers within it. She rubs his arm briskly and goes back to her flowers. ‘They’ll be here any minute.’

‘Yes.’

‘You can carve the ham, if you like.’

‘Right-ho,’ he says, in a flat voice, and she carries the vase of flowers out into the garden.

Greg has mown the lawn and the dog is lying in the shade of the rhododendron. At the back of the garden, the hydrangeas are taking over. The rosebushes look a little ragged and the mini-fuchsia has failed to flower again. She wishes Greg would just submit to her suggestions and get a landscape gardener in to dig it all up and plant it anew. It baffles her that he is dead-set against the notion of getting help in the garden yet grumbles any time she prods him to tidy it up. But that is a dilemma for another day.

A warm breeze is ruffling the skirt of the tablecloth. She smooths the fabric, places the vase at the centre, straightens the cutlery and tucks the napkins under the plates, then stands back, pleased with the scene she surveys. As pleased as she can be with that word lodged in her heart.