‘I’m not sure I want to be with Therese. That’s what I want to tell you. There are no guarantees with that relationship, if you’d call it a relationship. This is a confusing time and I’m sorry I’m dragging you into my confusion.’

‘Michael, you’re now making this worse than it already is.’

‘I’m not doing it on purpose. I don’t know what I’m doing.’

‘I can tell that,’ said Emily. ‘If I could help you, I still wouldn’t.’

She passed the time between her conversation with Michael and the call she made to her mother in Ipswich by consecutively smoking two cigarettes outside, a few doors down from the hotel, amid the chuckle-speak of people leaving bars, before she disposed of the packet in a bin on the street. She understood what was happening: marriages ended; people were suddenly alone; people retreated into behaviours that reminded them of their past self. You had to give yourself a break! But she couldn’t exalt in her failures anymore—at least not right now. ‘Fuck you, again,’ she said, wedging the Marlboro packet into the overstuffed bin. She went upstairs and sat on the floor, stiffly stretching before folding her legs and calling Ipswich.

‘What’s wrong with your voice?’ her mother asked. ‘You sound nasal.’

Smoking made Emily sound like she had a cold. ‘I picked up a bug on the flight. The usual thing.’

‘We went shopping today,’ her mother said. ‘Here, Rick wants to talk to you.’

Emily’s stepfather, Rick, got on the phone and said: ‘Right. We saw some overcoats in town, good tweed ones. Made in Donegal, on sale, all sizes, men’s and women’s. Would you like me to buy one for you? I’m going back tomorrow. You’d be a small, I’d say. The clothes are true to size.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘All right. Okay. Anyway, the price was reasonable and the colours were tremendous. Send me an email if you change your mind. I’ll put your mother back on.’