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?’

‘I don’t know. That’s what you look like, all dressed up in those clothes. You look good. Don’t be offended.’

‘I’m not. Just a bit bemused. You see, it’s what I’m going to call this book I may be writing.’ She lifted the glass to her lips and the bubbles rose and rose into her mouth. She tilted her head back and the liquid bubbled down her throat. The glass was empty. She held it out towards him.

He frowned.

‘That bottle cost twenty-five quid.’

‘Worth every penny.’

‘We should savour it.’

‘I am, believe me. I’d like to savour some more.’

He went back into the kitchen to get the bottle.

‘A great way to get rid of money,’ she called after him. ‘You never answered my question.’

‘What was that?’ He came back and poured more bubbles into her waiting glass.

‘Just about where we’re having dinner.’

For a moment he said nothing. Then he put the bottle down on the table.

‘It’s a place Caitlin always wanted to go. She’d heard about it, met the odd person who’d been there. She always had a fancy for me to take her there. I thought …’

‘Look – this isn’t a very good idea.’

‘I thought,’ he raised his voice slightly, ‘that she would like me to take you there. You’ve been so kind. I know she would like me to do that.’

‘Where is this place? What is it called?’

‘It’s in that hotel owned by U2.’

‘The Clarence? You’re mad, man. It costs an arm and a leg. This is …’

‘I’ve booked us a table.’

She was about to say ‘ridiculous’, but changed her mind. ‘… terribly kind. Terribly, extravagantly kind.’

‘She would …’ He stopped. He sipped at his wine. ‘It’s my pleasure,’ he said.

She smiled at him.

Her smile made him think of bodies touching and the smell he had got from her pillow of tangled hair and warmth.