I was twenty-one when I first saw Tom’s smile. Myself and my friend Emer were walking down Jones Road in the shadow of Croke Park when a gang of lads approached us. Tom was one of them, holding a flag on his way to the match, his tall fit body hidden beneath a Dublin jersey. Emer had made me go to the match, said the craic would be brilliant. She had got the coveted tickets from her boyfriend. Tom was one of his mates. The long-awaited win had injected everyone with the energy to celebrate until four in the morning and that’s when he kissed me. When our destiny was sealed. After a few months dating, Amber’s conception accelerated our plans. I never doubted that I wanted to marry Tom. I loved him from the start, his gentleness, his kindness, his way of making me feel like I was the only girl in the world. The idea of spending my life with him was a dream come true. So getting married earlier than we planned didn’t matter to me, or to him. We were both happy about it. My father wasn’t so thrilled but he put his hand in his wallet, which unlike his heart was always full, and made the day happen.

Tom’s phone beeps. He takes it from the pocket in his jeans and glances at the screen before putting it down on the table. If he leaves the room now, I could have a quick look in the contacts, see if there’s a Kenny.

‘I think I heard one of the boys stirring, Tom, will you check?’

‘I didn’t hear anything.’

‘All right,’ I sigh, lifting my feet to the floor. ‘I’ll go.’

‘No, I’ll do it.’

With Tom out of the room, I jump up from the sofa and grab his phone. The screen lights up the moment I swipe it. No lock. He’s certainly not trying to hide anything here, which is good. Still, my eyes troll through the contacts list while my ears listen out carefully for his familiar thud on the stairs.

Amber, Alan, Brian, Colm… on and on until I reach K.

Kilkenny Golf Club, Karina Ryan, Kohl Tyres. Kenny’s… My stomach rises, retreating when I see the name beside it. Golf Shop. Kenny’s Golf Shop, where Tom gets all the tools he blames when he’s had a bad day on the course.

A door above my head closes. Tom’s footsteps on the stairs. I place the phone on the table and move back to the sofa.

Go out, light, please go out.

The screen is still lit up, taking forever to go dark. But it does. Just as Tom walks in through the door.

‘They’re both out cold up there,’ he says, opening the drinks cabinet and taking out a bottle of Baileys.