“Oh,” says Iris. “I’ve only ever shouted at pigeons before. Or maybe that’s seagulls? Which are the ones that like chips?”

“I like chips,” says Dad.

Monsieur Lalouette points towards the back garden. We follow the line of his finger. In a cage at the end of the garden, there is a group—a flock?—of pigeons, roosting on a perch.

“They seem much bigger when they’re...alive,” says Iris.

“Qu-est-ce qu’elle a dit?” Monsieur Lalouette rounds on me, and I translate in a panic, which actually has a positive impact on my delivery.

“We only eat the babies,” he says, by way of explanation. The line is delivered in a monotone, devoid of any emotion.

I drop my fork onto the ceramic floor, and the clatter makes me jump and I bang my knee against the underside of the table.

“Are you all right, Terry?” says Iris. She puts her big, warm hand over mine, which is her way of saying sorry about eating most of a baby pigeon.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I say, picking up my fork.

Iris hides the remains of the little pigeon under some lettuce leaves.

Dad continues eating.

Dessert is raspberries from the garden and chocolate ice cream. “Do your children live nearby?” Iris asks.

Madame Lalouette glares at me and I translate. She shakes her head. “Non,” she says. She stands and gathers the empty plates, carries them to the kitchen.

On the wall behind the sideboard, I spot a photograph of the couple on their wedding day, standing outside a church. It is a formal photograph. Posed. They do not hold hands. Their smiles are small. There is a suggestion of touch along the stiff line of their arms. That is the height of the intimacy. It looks accidental, the touching of their arms, but I don’t think it is. In that touch, there is some unspoken pact. There are plans. And hope.

I try to remember when was the last time Brendan and I touched each other. On purpose.

Even accidentally.

My phone rings and I pick up my handbag, rummage inside. Monsieur Lalouette looks disapproving. I look at the screen. It is Anna.

“I need to take this call,” I explain in French. “It’s my daughter.”

“Does she not know that it is dinnertime?” Monsieur Lalouette asks, stunned.

“Well, it’s not dinnertime in Ireland,” is all I can come up with, and he nods, a curt nod, not quite mollified but willing to allow it.

I rush into the garden. “Anna? Hello, love. How are you? How’s the studying going?”

“When are you coming home, Mum?” Her voice sounds plaintive. I clench with worry.

“Is everything okay?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I’m going to fail philosophy and I’ve had a big fight with Philip and the dress rehearsal for Kate’s play was a disaster apparently so she’s—”

“Isn’t that good though?” I ask.

“Which bit?”

“About the dress rehearsal. I’ve heard that. If the dress rehearsal is bad, then the opening night will be fantastic.”