“Ah, Terry, don’t be like that. It’s just...it’s been weird, these past few days.”

“Weird?”

“Not weird exactly. Just, strange, I suppose. The house feels strange. When you’re not in it.”

He can’t bring himself to say that he misses me. Although it’s not really me he misses. It’s the house with me in it. Dinners made, his shirts ironed, floors washed, silver polished.

Yes, I am someone who polishes silver. What on earth was I thinking?

I make a solemn vow, in the bathroom of a French wine cellar that turns into a jazz club on a full-moon night, never to polish silver again.

Ever.

“Well, good luck with your interview,” I say.

“I’ll ring you when it’s over.”

“Okay.”

“Goodbye then.”

“Goodbye.”

I lean my forehead against the mirror, close my eyes. The cold, hard surface feels good against my face. Cools it. Although the low, dense heat inside me remains. I breathe deeply in an effort to dispel it.

It’s not Brendan’s fault.

He’s just stressed about work. And it’s a stressful situation. Still, the resentment smoulders.

I have no right to feel resentful. I have run away from my life. At an inconvenient time. I should feel remorseful.

Shouldn’t I?

I feel tears gathering behind my eyes. Crybaby.

I straighten, glare at myself in the mirror. Point a finger at my face. My flushed, resentful face.

“Stop it,” I shout at the woman in the mirror, who looks shocked as if I have smacked her across her face.

Still, it works. Instead of crying, I pick my makeup out of my handbag, set to work on repairing my flushed, resentful face.

Back in the cellar, the crowd has thickened and the dancing continues. I stand on the rungs of a bar stool to scan the crowd for Dad. Iris appears at the bar, out of breath. “Those fuckers know how to dance,” she says, leaning on the counter.

“They really do,” I say, looking at the blur of dancers moving across the floor. “Have you seen Dad?” I ask.

Iris nods. “I saw him earlier. Still waltzing with Dapper Dan. French people do geriatric really well, don’t they?”

“They’re pickled in wine,” I say.

“He’s not a bad mover, your dad.”

“Mam always said he was a great dancer,” I say. “But I never saw him dancing until tonight.”

The woman behind the bar refills my glass and pours a fresh one for Iris. Iris grins at me and clinks her glass against mine. “Isn’t this place fucking brilliant?”

“It really is,” I say. “And you were brilliant on the piano by the way. It’s been ages since you played.”

“It felt really good, being able to play again,” says Iris. She looks so happy. I think this might be a good time to bring up Zurich. How I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want to go. Not really. How fine it would be for her to change her mind.

How fucking brilliant.

26

If another driver is attempting to provoke you, don’t react.