I should feel sorry for her, James’s wife, but of course I don’t; her presence has destroyed my life. She doesn’t have to say anything or move or even be aware of my presence … this is, of course, all quite untrue, early-morning blues. Even if she hadn’t existed, i would still be the ill, barren woman that he made me. His gift to me was not a million-dollar watch, it was the emptiness of my future.

Telephone.

She’s early today. Get the feet on the floor, so that I do not have to tell a lie. ‘Hello.’

‘I hope I didn’t wake you, darling.’

‘Of course not. I have been up for hours.’

‘What are your plans for the day?’

Slight pause. I can hear her soft waiting breaths. ‘Well …’

‘I thought you might like to go for a short drive. Powerscourt, Greystones, the Sally Gap. A little walk. Some fresh air and—’

‘No,’ I interrupt her. ‘Thanks, but no. I can’t.’

Another pause.

‘Thanks all the same. I have plans. All-day plans.’ I could feel her disbelief down the line. ‘I have to catch up with a lot of things – letters, pay some bills. And I’ve arranged to meet someone on Killiney Hill for a walk. A nice man, you’d like him. He has a dog. I’ve arranged … I can’t … So you see.’

She sighed.

‘I’ve decided to write a novel.’

First time I’ve spoken these words aloud.

‘Darling, what a good idea. You’ve had so many strange experiences. I’ve always thought …’

‘So I need to get organised before I start on that. You know, clear up the mess.’

‘Perhaps you might come and have supper?’

‘Yes. Thank you, I’d like that.’

‘I’ll come and collect you about seven.’

‘Mother, I can walk.’

‘I don’t want you overdoing things.’

‘Five minutes’ walk. I’ll see you just after seven. Have to fly. The kettle is boiling.’

End of conversation.

I will not get back into bed. I will go and put the kettle on and think about the novel I am now committed to write.

Caitlin held him and rocked him gently in her arms, his head crooked on her shoulder, as he had seen her hold the child so often.

‘If I were the painter,’ he had said, ‘I could paint you both now. Madonna and Child with rocks and sea.’

She laughed. ‘What a sentimentalist you are.’

‘Halo, blue dress, crinkling hair …’

‘Wrong-sex baby.’

‘Who’s to know?’

With a swift movement she handed him the child, who laughed and reached to touch his face.

‘On the other hand,’ she said, jumping to her feet, ‘I am the painter. Perhaps I should paint you. Father and Child. A modern sacred icon.’ She scrabbled for paper and pencil.

‘Halo,’ she murmured. ‘Blue shirt, crinkling hair, right-sex baby.’

The sound of the sea had been in his ears as he sat with the child circled in his arms. Her warm breath was on his neck and the only sounds were the waves shifting below them and the tiny scratch of Caitlin’s pencil.