‘Are you alive?’ she asked. ‘You look like a ghost.’ Her fingers were icy cold.

‘So do you,’ he whispered.

Inside the house Pansy hearing their approach began to bark.

The sheets smelled of apples.

For a few moments he wondered why and then he fell asleep and he dreamed, only maybe it wasn’t really a dream, maybe he wasn’t asleep only locked into recollection, his head buried in the apple-scented pillows.

She took a bite from the apple and handed it to him. It was red and shiny, like an apple in a fairy story, an apple full of wishes or poison; how did you ever know before you bit into it?

‘Yuk,’ she said. ‘Plastic.’

He looked at it for a moment; the soft flesh was decorated by her toothmarks. He wound down the window and threw the apple across the road.

‘Biodegradable,’ he said.

‘I doubt it.’

Away below them the golden beach curved towards a distant pier and a conglomeration of little houses; the lough was grey, but out beyond it, the sun shone on the cold blue ocean, moving like a spotlight across the waves.

He put his arm around her and pulled her towards him. Her hair was wet, her face cold. Seeing the empty beach twenty minutes earlier, the fool had stripped off all her clothes and run straight into the water; now she was wrapped in his anorak and smelling and tasting of salt.

‘Why are we so happy? Don’t be negative about it this time. Just answer me.’

‘Because, darling Lar, there is absolutely no reason for us to be unhappy. We have everything that any sane person could possibly want.’ She held up her fingers in front of his face. ‘Love. A roof. Food. Work. And heavenly Moya.’ She bent each finger as she spoke each world. ‘And this lovely day of blue and gold and sea and hills just to ourselves, to smile at each other and talk about the future. It would be disgraceful if we weren’t happy.’

He had to believe her; she spoke with such conviction.

‘Nothing else matters. Nothing. No thing. That’s where other people go wrong. They don’t understand how little really matters.’

A small fishing boat butted against the incoming tide, heading for the open sea; three gulls circled round it, hoping for scraps, fish heads, mouldy bread, anything in fact that no one else wanted. She nudged at him with her wet hair, pushing it into his face, his mouth tasting the salt.

‘Sweetheart,’ she whispered. He loved it when she called him sweetheart. ‘I think Moya needs a brother.’

He laughed. ‘Do you want to do something about this now? Is it that urgent? I’m more than willing, even in this public place.’

‘No. Hang on, don’t be daft. Once my exhibition is opened. That very day, perhaps. Then we go for it. Wham. We will populate the world with beautiful people. People like us – happy, loving people. Then nothing can ever go wrong again. The world will become a perfect place because of us.’