‘Twelve and eight,’ she said. ‘What about you? Any kids? I bet you ended up with loads of them running around you. A football team.’

Tony laughed mirthlessly. ‘No,’ he said softly, Martin flashing momentarily in his mind. ‘No kids.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Karen offered, motioning towards him, her hand outstretched a moment as if to touch his arm. But the movement faltered and she brought the hand back safely to nestle with her other on top of the paper again.

He felt a strange disloyalty to Ann, in not mentioning her. Karen had two children; whether she’d married or not, she’d moved on with her life, he reasoned. It seemed only right that he should acknowledge Ann’s place in his.

‘We lost one,’ he said, the words catching in his throat.

‘Oh, Tony, I’m so sorry,’ Karen said. ‘That’s terrible.’

‘We didn’t try again after that. And then my wife died last year and so, that’s that. That’s my life; thirty years in thirty seconds.’

His comment hung in the silence between them as both tried to determine how best to move on past it, past the tone of disappointment that lay implicit in his words.

‘I’m sorry,’ Karen repeated simply.

Tony feigned nonchalance. ‘I’ve killed the mood,’ he said, then immediately regretted the choice of words. ‘Excuse me. I’m going to the toilet.’

As he made his way through the lounge, the ferry, which till now had been creeping up Belfast Lough, began to accelerate, the engines roaring into life, the surge of motion causing him to stumble as he walked. To his left, a collection of amusements clattered and jingled brightly. Two lorry drivers sat, backs turned on each other, feeding coins into their respective machines.

He pushed out through the side door, on to the deck, a thick buffeting wind catching the door and slamming it shut behind him. The water was slate grey, reflecting the cloud heavy sky above, and foamed with the wash from the ferry’s wake. Seagulls hung low over the ridged surface of the lough. Further along the deck, a couple stood kissing. Both wore plastic raincoats over shorts, pinched at the waist by bum-bags. The mahogany of both sets of legs suggested they were tourists, swapping the bright heat of home for the perpetual gloam of Ireland.

Whether they were aware of his presence or not, they did not stop. She stood on tiptoe while he was leaning down to her, cupping her face in his hands. Tony watched their ease a moment. He remembered that with Karen, that final night. He’d felt at ease with her, not self-conscious in his nakedness as he had with Ann, and she with him, even after twenty years of marriage. Sex in a darkened room, always the same position, always the same responses. Even their kisses had become mechanical, perfunctory. That didn’t mean that he didn’t love her, of course; just that they hadn’t fulfilled each other’s needs so much as kept them at bay.