He had been at the ironing board, she thought. His shirt was neat, the cuffs just showing beneath the sleeves of a brown tweed jacket, a sober tie knotted in a tight old-fashioned knot just under the jut of his Adam’s apple. Not cool, but polished and smelling faintly of aftershave. She wondered if he had gone out during the afternoon and bought that.

He was sitting watching the news and Pansy sat beside him, her head on his knee, watching his face with care as if she needed to read his thoughts.

‘Da-daaa!’

Clara posed by the door, one hand on the frame, the other on her hip.

He jumped to his feet. He looked startled by her appearance, as if, she thought, he had already moved out of her life and was expecting to see some totally different person.

‘Oh, hello,’ he stammered. ‘Great, you look great.’ He plunged a hand into a pocket and rattled some coins. He cleared his throat, laughed suddenly. ‘You certainly don’t look postoperative.’

She was pleased that he felt like making a joke and laughed too. ‘How about a glass of wine before we go? Where are we going anyway?’

‘I bought a bottle of champagne – it’s in the fridge. Will I open that? I’ve ordered a taxi.’

‘My word, we are pushing out the boat.’ She regretted having said that and put out her hand towards him. ‘I’m sorry. I’d love some champagne. It is the most medicinal of all drinks, and no matter how you say I look, I am still in need of medication.’

He reached out and touched her hand briefly. He went into the kitchen and she listened to him opening and closing doors. I don’t really like this man, she thought, and yet here I am all dollied up and prepared to spend an evening in flirtatious conversation with him – or that’s the way things seem to be moving. Pop the champagne cork and flirtation seems to be in the air.

Effervescence.

Perhaps that is all there is to me. A few bubbles here, a few there; gone in a flash, leaving no memory. Oh, I expect a few students will remember some of the rubbish I have churned out in my life, about Elizabeth Bowen, Kate O’Brien, formidable ladies, Edna O’Brien, Iris Murdoch, none of them effervescent, vanishing women. God, I need that champagne, and quick, before I change my mind about this outing and opt to spend the evening in front of the telly.

‘Hey!’ He was standing in front of her, a full glass in each hand.

‘You do slip away.’ He offered her a glass.

‘Thank you.’ She took the glass from his hand.

Bubbles rose and rose to the top. She held it up, towards him.

‘The man from North Antrim.’

‘The Gingerbread Woman.’

She gave a little gasp as he said those words. ‘How odd. Why do you call me that?’