Conversation, however, didn’t seem possible. She tried to think of some casual remark – about the scenery, for example. But there didn’t seem to be any way of describing it other than as ‘beautiful’ or ‘lovely’ or, worse, ‘very pretty’, and clichés would simply not do. Besides, the scenery was so beautiful, conversation seemed superfluous, intrusive, even. And she wasn’t going to talk about his work. Or hers. So she stayed silent.

Eventually, he turned the car down a narrow lane. The hedges either side were in desperate need of attention and there was a good solid strip of grass growing up the middle. It went downhill and seemed to lead towards the sea. It got even narrower and the hedges higher as they progressed.

‘Are you sure this is a road, and doesn’t just lead to a farm or something?’ said Laura, anxiety breaking her self-imposed silence. ‘It’s hardly wide enough for the car.’

‘It does lead to a farm. We’ll leave the car there and then walk. I hope you’ve got the right sort of shoes on.’ He glanced down at her feet.

‘Of course I have,’ she said, glad of her sturdy, flat-heeled boots, aware that he might think she was a complete airhead now. Just because she had got very drunk and had nearly done something very silly, had he got her pegged for a fool? If so, it was very unfair. She was intelligent and efficient in her real life. If only he could see her in the shop, discussing the latest literary phenomenon, running an event, then he’d be impressed.

Even before he parked the car, several farm dogs came leaping up to it, barking furiously. Laura thought of herself as an animal-lover, and any pet dog she met was greeted with a pat and a warm ‘hello’ but she suddenly felt unwilling to open the door. They looked positively feral.

Dermot seemed not to notice the ravening swarm and got out and walked round to the boot of the car. The dogs surrounded him. Laura turned anxiously from the front seat, wondering how she’d get help if they attacked him. They didn’t seem to be savaging him, however, or if they were, Dermot was saying very little about it. But why did no one appear to call them off? Or if they were guard dogs – the farmyard wasn’t far away – why didn’t anyone appear with a shotgun to order her and Dermot off their land? Surely someone must have heard the noise. Presumably Dermot actually knew the people and they wouldn’t mind him parking here. She’d spent most of her life in small towns and wasn’t sure of the ways of the countryside. And Ireland, by all accounts, was not just the countryside, but somewhere else altogether.