‘I have the vent on, see.’ She indicates the tiny, spinning, dust-covered fan. ‘You look tired,’ she says gently, keen not to nag the boy. ‘Too much study, study, study.’

He looks up at the window and undoes the top button on his shirt. Mary does not like the way he has taken to wearing collarless shirts; she watches MTV sometimes, and knows this is not a fashion among young people. She notices too, as he goes under the sink, that his trousers – muted green cotton with a sharp crease down the middle – are for a much older man.

‘What you looking for?’ she asks as he rummages around her collection of multi-buy discount cleaning products, fifty pack of sponges and long abandoned, but not yet disposed of, cutlery holders and soap dishes.

‘You need to oil your window.’ He twists the nozzle on a rusty can of WD-40.

‘Don’t worry about my window.’

He stops and looks down at her. His almond-shaped eyes search for something.

‘What?’ She touches her face, wondering if a stray Rice Krispie is stuck on her cheek.

‘You’re saying I look tired. You all right? You look a bit … frazzled.’

‘I worked forty-eight hours already this week – what do you expect me to look like? Imelda Marcos?’

Malachi blesses her with one of his rare smiles and then positions his knees into the two small free spots on the worktop. He seems more sullen than usual.

‘Are you okay?’ Mary asks as he squirts the window frame.

‘Yep. I’m always okay. Just hot and this smog, it plays havoc with my asthma.’ He jumps down and stares blankly across the kitchen.

Mary knows he’s still hung up on the blonde girl from upstairs. ‘Well, I’m glad you’re not still sad about whatshername.’

‘I have a hundred other things to think about,’ he snaps.

She was the first girl of Malachi’s Mary had ever met. He even brought her over for dinner once, one wet afternoon where they sat, with plates on their laps, eating chicken bistek.

‘Some things are not meant to be. I could see it from the start,’ Mary lies, for all she saw that afternoon was Malachi buzzing around the girl like she was the best thing since they started slicing bread. ‘I always know when couples don’t match. I even said it about Charles and Diana, but did anyone listen to me?’

‘I really don’t want to talk about this.’

Mary throws her arms up. ‘Me neither. Goodbye, Blondie. Plenty more pussy in the cattery.’

He wipes his face to hide his embarrassment and she’s pleased to see the tiniest of smiles emerge on his sad face.

‘Why’d you make so much food?’ he asks.