That wasn’t all Paul had forgotten about the lunch; reaching the bungalow, he remembered the conversation they had gone on to have next. With Darya glued to the television news, he had made a point of offering Nikolai the use of the house in Littlestone. It was, as he knew, a ridiculous offer. It would never be accepted, which was why he could make the gesture in an airy, offhand way. No one had to know that it wasn’t a large house, wasn’t the kind of place where people came down for a weekend. He described the beach, the canals – ‘like St Petersburg’s!’ He was aware of Darya, who sat stiffly, listening. He meant for her to hear. He wanted to punish her, and so he took the game they had played together on the train, took what had been private and made it a general thing, open to all and therefore valueless. ‘Any of you,’ he said blandly to the room. ‘You’d be very welcome.’

Darya had glanced at him before looking away. It was as if he had torn the house down before her eyes. And that was the moment he felt bad. More than bad, he felt ashamed. Even so, he did not stop talking, he couldn’t stop talking. By then he had drunk a lot, as had the other men, but it was he who had got drunk. It was he who, on offering Nikolai a top-up, accidentally called him Koly, Darya’s intimate name for him. His boss let out a harsh laugh and they stared at each other before Paul laughed too.

On the path outside Nan’s house, he scrunched up the newspaper. The recycling bin was full, which meant he had to use some force to wedge the paper down the side, shifting the glass bottles so that they chinked in a cosy way. That morning, running out of coffee grounds, he had gone searching for the tin of instant. He had finally found it, plus Nan’s note. You’re a good boy, Paul.

The words had comforted him then, but tonight he wondered if there wasn’t a hint of complicity in her words, something cynical and knowing. He was uneasy as he flipped the lid on the plastic bin, covering his work of the night before. That was when, labouring in darkness so the neighbours wouldn’t see, he had tipped in bottle after bottle from the supply in the back room. Now he had only to grip the handle and manoeuvre the bin towards the street. Feeling sorry for himself, he shoved it in disgust. Before he could help it the bin toppled forward, and the glass came pouring out in an almost elegant cascade. Everything was breaking, and he felt he was breaking too.

‘Damn!’ he cried. Too late. He knew he had pushed too hard, and now he was terrified to think of the damage he had done.

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