Emmet was an entertaining quizmaster. Confident, funny, with Dervla as his sidekick, the relationship between them clearly affectionate. The bar staff were kept busy between rounds. Eliza tried to imagine the pub more than thirty years earlier, her mother serving, collecting glasses, joking with a younger Emmet. Sheila was on the other side of the room. Every time Eliza looked across, she felt her scrutiny.

After a final round devoted to Irish sporting heroes, they lost their lead. Not to Sheila’s team. To a different table, vocal in victory, accepting the weekly trophy like a conquering football team. Eliza checked the time. It was past eleven.

Lawrence must have been waiting for her cue. He stood up. ‘Ready when you are,’ he said.

She saw that he still had half a pint in front of him. ‘You’re welcome to stay.’

He shook his head. ‘Chauffeur rule number seven. Escort home is mandatory.’

She tried to get to Emmet and Dervla to say goodbye, but they were too busy. She’d come back in the morning before they left, she decided. There was no sign of Sheila. Perhaps she could talk to her again in the morning too.

It was a short walk in the cool air to their hotel. She thanked Lawrence as they stepped into the foyer.

‘I still think we were robbed,’ he said. ‘Your knowledge of volcanoes in the Asia-Pacific region was truly impressive.’

She smiled. ‘As was yours on the Spanish Civil War.’

They had a brief exchange regarding the morning’s arrangements. They’d leave for the ferry at ten. Back in her room, she checked her messages. Rose again. Her godmothers. All asking if she wanted to talk. She felt too tired. Overwhelmed, again. She texted, thanking them, saying she’d call in the morning. She checked Scrabble. Sullivan had played a word. She played one back, then waited. No reply. She hoped he was tucked up at home, asleep after a great day out with his dad.

As she got into bed, she hoped sleep would be possible for her too.

She woke at seven-thirty to a loud ringing sound. She hadn’t set her alarm. It was the bedside phone. She reached up and answered. It was the hotel receptionist.

‘Good morning, Ms Miller. Mrs Foley is downstairs to see you.’

She was still half-asleep. ‘Mrs Foley?’ Did she mean Dervla?

‘I’ll put her on. One moment.’

She sat upright, trying to wake up.

‘Eliza.’ An elderly woman. An Irish accent. ‘I presumed you were staying here.’

Emmet’s mother, Eliza realised. ‘Mrs Foley? Is everything all right?’

‘You can call me Sheila. I need to talk to you before you leave. Please. As soon as possible.’

Eliza began to explain that she was still in bed. She was interrupted.

‘I’ll wait downstairs. Thank you.’