Connie sobs. Maybe it’s the bad joke; more likely it’s the last straw that this jerk Faber probably was, so I put my arm around her, raising her up. Connie is the kind of girl a man feels like protecting. She’s beautiful like she belongs in a fifties movie; Rita Hayworth hair that ripples when she walks like lava flowing down a mountain, and wide green eyes that still have some warmth in them in spite of a shitty job and shittier ex.

‘Come on, darlin’, he’s gone for good. You’ll never see him again.’

‘No one says darlin’ any more, Dan. Only in the movies.’

I squeeze her shoulder. ‘I’m Irish, darlin’, we’re different.’

Connie adjusts the polka-dot bikini that passes for a uniform in this place.

‘Yeah? Good different, I hope. That creep was bad different. What would you call a worm like that in Ireland?’

I think about this. ‘In Ireland he would be referred to as a galloping gobshite. Or a worm.’

Connie smiles a watery smile, but at least it’s something. Better than the despair in her eyes when I came in here.

‘Galloping gobshite. I like that. I gotta visit Ireland; I say it every year. Little Alfredo would love it, and Eva too. Green fields and friendly people.’

‘Not so much of either any more,’ I confide. ‘Not since the country got moneyed.’

‘You could bring us, Dan. Show us around. Give us the authentic tour.’

My stomach flips. ‘Any time, Connie. You know how I feel.’ Connie reaches up and tugs at the band of the black watch cap I wear every waking hour.

‘So how’s it looking, baby?’

I am sensitive on this subject generally, but Connie and me go back nearly two years, which is a lifetime in this business. We got history, as they say. One weekend a few months back, she got a sitter and we had ourselves a fling. It could have gone further but she didn’t want a new dad for her kids. I just want to feel young for a couple nights, Dan. Okay?

Twenty-eight and she wants to feel young again.

Every guy’s dream, right? Couple of no-strings nights with a cocktail hostess. I didn’t push it; now I’m thinking I should have.

‘It’s looking fine,’ I tell her. ‘I got my check-up with Zeb tomorrow.’

‘Can I see?’ she asks, long nails already peeling off the watch cap.

My hands jerk up to stop her, but I force them back down. About time I got an opinion.

She folds the cap into her long fingers, then pushes me back under a recessed spotlight.

‘Zeb did this?’

‘Yeah. He had a few nurses too, preparing the follicles. Students I think.’