Cushla flipped through the glossy pages but was too skittish to read even the captions on fashion spreads. It was five days since she had been to the pictures with Gerry and there had been no word from Michael. She had hardly eaten. It was as though a sickness had settled in her, an actual physical ache deep in her bowels. Sometimes she thought she was hungry but, when she went to the fridge, she was nauseated by its contents. She had looked at the phone number he gave her so often she knew it by heart but could not bring herself to dial it; not out of pride – she had abandoned that when she presented herself at his door – but because she could not bear to hear it ring out. She looked up at Gina and her head felt light. She should try to eat. I might cook, she said.

Her mother made a noise like a snort but, seeing an opportunity, poured herself a gin, saying she was celebrating a night off from the drudgery. The only cookbook in the house was the Hamlyn All Colour one. Some of the dishes looked horrific. Turkey suspended in aspic with segments of mandarin orange, unnatural-looking swirly puddings. She found a recipe for Spaghetti Milanese and went hunting for ingredients. She had to use ham from a slipper-shaped tin you opened with a key, and mushrooms from a jar. The pasta was about a yard long, a purchase she had made in a deli in Belfast when she was buying canned shrimps for Gina, so she took down the fish kettle and filled it with water. There was a yellow tidemark around its sides from when she had boiled the eggs with the gorse blossoms. The sauce was more a matter of chucking things in a pot than cooking, but she liked the musty, minty smell of dried oregano. As she was about to bend the spaghetti into the pot, the phone rang. Gina was reading the magazine again, smoke snaking over her head, and made no move to get up.

Cushla half-ran to the hall and when she lifted the receiver her hello came out high and breathy. She knew by the pause it was Michael. There were voices in the background, a television.

You’ve been exerting yourself, he said.

I’m cooking. She heard the ping of a till. Are you in the pub?

Yes. I came in looking for you. I can be there in five minutes.

The joy at hearing him dissolved. Michael, I haven’t heard from you for days and you want me to drop everything.

I couldn’t get away. Please meet me.

Jesus. OK. But don’t park outside the house. I’ll walk around the bend.

Who was that? said Gina when she went back to the kitchen.

Gerry Devlin. I forgot there was a meeting in the school about the Communion. I’ll boil that stuff when I get back.