I can’t go back to the club, she thought. Not now I know.

Sean was up, whistling as he rattled cups and spooned freshly ground coffee into the machine.

‘I went to the Art Gallery on Friday,’ Rhona heard herself say in a detached voice.

Sean didn’t answer at first and she wondered whether he had been listening. Often when he whistled he was miles away, planning a tune in his head. Not this time. This time he heard her.

He brought the cafetière over to the table and poured the coffee. He was whistling again, bringing the notes to a proper end before he spoke.

‘Ordinary people go to art galleries here. I like that. It reminds me of Dublin.’

His voice was unperturbed and soothing. He was not going to be drawn into a sparring match. They lapsed into silence. Rhona fingered her cup.

‘You were in the Gallery on Friday,’ she said.

‘I was.’

(Was that a question or an answer?)

‘You were with a woman,’ she said.

‘I was.’

He took a sip of coffee then placed his cup gently back on the saucer. He did everything like that, his big hands moving in firm gentle ways.

‘Who was she?’ Rhona tried to make her voice as if she didn’t care.

Sean studied her carefully, his eyes catching hers.

‘A woman I know who likes art galleries,’ he said.

‘Like me.’

‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘not like you.’ He ran his fingers through his hair.

I’ve got to him, she thought. She waited for him to say something else, then interrupted him when he tried.

‘Rhona . . .’

‘Are you fucking her?’

‘Fucking her?’ He repeated the words so lightly they no longer seemed important. ‘It doesn’t matter if I am.’

‘It matters to me,’ she said angrily.

He didn’t answer. In the distance Rhona heard a church clock chime. She counted eight before he spoke.

‘That’s because you make it matter,’ he said quietly.

Sean was never outright angry. When he was ruffled or irritated he always gave the impression he couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Sometimes Rhona wished he would argue with her, let it out. But he never did and she was always left yapping at his heels like a terrier.

‘If I tell you I’m not, will you believe me?’ he said.

She had known this would happen.

‘Listen.’ He reached over the table and lifted her chin and made her look at him. ‘I will not cook for her or play for her or stroke the back of her neck when she’s tired,’ and he ran his hand tenderly down the curve of her face.

They left the table without clearing it and moved through to the living room. Sean lit the gas fire and closed the curtains. He sat on the couch and made a place for her in the crook of his arm. Rhona allowed herself to slip close against him, laying her head on his chest; already thinking of what her life would be like without him.