He mumbled something about music and crossed the room to the stereo, where he began sorting through a stack of tapes. Without the camouflage of robes and manners and whiskey he seemed vulnerable. She went to the window. It was the first time she had seen his street in the daytime. There was a magnolia tree in his front garden, gnarled branches pimpled with green buds, a single white, starry blossom on the bare bark. The houses seemed to be washed in pink light. There was bossa nova playing from the speakers and, when he came to sit at the table, he pulled her on to his knee. She looked up at the curlicues and finials and smiled.

They left the flat together, getting into their own cars. He trailed her through the city. At a red light she checked her mirror, curious to see what other people saw. He was surprisingly unremarkable, just a middle-aged man in a decent car, and it was oddly thrilling to think of what they had been doing an hour earlier. As they approached her house, she checked the mirror one last time. He touched two fingers to his forehead in farewell and drove away, out the hill road. Something twisted in her. While she was looking at the pictures on his walls he was washing her off him. Making himself presentable for his wife.

She went into the house on her toes, laying her keys gently on the hall table. As she mounted the first step, the kitchen door opened and Gina bustled into the hall.

What are you doing up? Cushla asked.

What are you doing coming home at nine in the morning?

She scrambled in her head for an excuse, eventually muttering she’d had car trouble and stayed over at Gerry’s. She placed a foot on the second step but Gina had moved forward and was looming into her face.

Hoho! Car trouble indeed. You must think I’m some fool, she said, nostrils flaring.

Dear God. Are you actually sniffing me? said Cushla.

You’ll get yourself a reputation, carrying on like that, said Gina, her expression almost triumphant.

I am twenty-four, said Cushla, belting up the stairs, suddenly conscious that Michael’s smell was on her. Twenty. Bloody. Four.