OK, she said.

They would meet on Monday. He would pick her up outside the house at seven. He would drive her there so she would know where to go in future. His voice had dropped to a whisper. Maybe he was asking her out.

What did your young man think of Philadelphia, Here I Come? he said.

Gerry’s not my young man. He’s a fella from work.

Michael lit a cigarette and didn’t say anything.

When they got home, Gina put a tray of bacon rashers under the grill. She served them in floury baps blobbed with HP sauce. They ate in front of the television, the burnt, lardy taste reminding Cushla of Saturday evenings when her father was alive. There was a Western on. She and Eamonn had watched it as children. He had been wearing a cowboy suit, a wooden pistol in the holster, and laughed at Cushla for weeping as the Indians were being massacred.

A game show, the hostess twirling like a figurine on the lid of a jewellery box to show off her ballgown. A contestant, slathered in shaving foam, trying to remember the labour-saving devices and toys that had just juddered past him on a conveyor belt.

I can’t see the point of those machines that wake you up with a cup of tea, said Gina.

That’s because you have me.

It’s nice you’re in tonight, said Gina. You’ve been out a good bit lately. She was smiling, but her eyes were shining, as if she was trying not to cry. Cushla felt a stab of guilt and resolved to tell Eamonn she would not be available for the three shifts she had volunteered for: it was enough that she would see Michael on Monday. She stretched on the sofa, a cushion behind her head, and felt her body sink into sleep. When she woke there was a trail of slobber on her chin. Michael Parkinson’s guest was Helen Mirren. She looked fabulous, Cushla thought, in a black dress with tiny straps, twirling a long feather in her fingers. Parkinson asked her about being sexy. She made a joke of it, tried to change the subject, but he kept at her, referring to her attributes. Specifically her bosoms.

Dirty article, said Gina.

Isn’t he.

I meant her.

6

Clothes on her bed, over the back of the Lloyd Loom chair in the corner, drooping from hangers on the front of the open wardrobe door, where they had been considered briefly and rejected. She settled on a bottle-green georgette blouse over jeans; the grey parallels had looked wifey with the top’s pussycat bow. She had twice applied eyeshadow and taken it off, but the intention was still on her face. He would be here in a few minutes. She would have to do.

That’s nice on you, Gina said when Cushla went downstairs, her mouth pleated at the corners, as if she begrudged the compliment.

Cushla reached for the spark guard. A flame leapt in the grate, catching the notches in the crystal tumbler Gina had tried to hide on the floor beside her chair. Cushla slammed the guard in place, brass jangling against marble.