He tried out his bad English on her and she smiled politely, replying in her half-remembered French. He told her, swapping between languages, that he worked in printing and he was actually from Belgium, here on business and returning home tomorrow. His name was Michel; he had a wife who was a nurse, and two children, both teenage boys. They used the house like a hotel nowadays. His mother lived with them as well and that hadn’t been easy. She was old and forgetful; his wife was impatient with her, and resented the extra work. But what can you do, he asked, shrugging. She’s my mother, after all. He said it was sometimes a relief to travel on business. They ran out of conversation, yet still he fixed his tired brown eyes on her face.

In this new life of hers, thought Irene, she could take him upstairs to her poky room. Then tomorrow he would drive north, and she would head on south. Why not? Why shouldn’t she have casual sex in an anonymous hotel before continuing her journey? It was what women did in films and books, especially French ones, where the lack of meaning took on its own kind of existential significance. She glanced across the table. He had a slight paunch, his neck was sunburned, his collar a bit grubby. She finished her coffee.

‘Another?’ he asked. He put his hand over hers.

No, she wouldn’t have another. She wouldn’t take him to her room. There was not a trace of desire in her; her flesh felt stiff and chilly and separate. The thought of him touching her, the thought of taking her clothes off in front of him and climbing under the starched sheets while he fumbled with a condom was simply impossible. She stood up and he rose also, pulling back her chair, placing his arm under her elbow.

‘Goodnight,’ she said kindly. ‘Good luck with everything.’

He gave the slightest grimace but then nodded. It didn’t really matter to him. She had just been a lonely woman sitting at the next-door table. He leant forward and kissed her on both cheeks. She smelt toothpaste.

‘Good luck to you, too,’ he said.