He kissed her and went to the bathroom. She took a bundle from her basket – knickers, tights, a toothbrush, cold cream – and left it on the far side of the bed, nearest the window. At home she slept in the middle of her bed; she liked the idea of having a side. A tap running, a cough. She paused in the corridor on her way to the sitting room. Michael was at the basin, soaping his underarms with a flannel like a labourer.

Papers spilling from a leather briefcase on to the dining table, otherwise the room was tidy. Tumblers gleaming on the tray that held the decanter. The hearth swept and dusted, brasses bright. The sort of cleaning Gina did, or used to do. Cushla sat on the sofa, a Chesterfield upholstered in maroon-coloured leather, the paraphernalia of his evenings beside her on a folded card table. Pipe, tobacco, matches. Newspaper, glasses, pen. Siobhán de Buitléar’s copy of Dúil. Cushla put it at the bottom of the pile so she wouldn’t have to look at it.

They left his flat and started towards Penny’s house, Michael carrying a bottle of brandy that he hadn’t put in a bag, something delinquent in how he was swinging it by the neck. Sometimes his elbow grazed her arm, her breast. They were in step, her soles slapping the pavement in time to his. He watched their feet, laughed.

I’m not doing it on purpose, she said.

It’s those long legs of yours.

At the door, Michael pressed the bell and leaned suddenly to kiss her hard on the mouth. They were drawing apart when the door opened. Penny was in the checked apron, smiling, then her face closed, as if she had seen something she shouldn’t. She turned quickly and walked in ahead of them. When they reached the kitchen, the others were watching the door, and Cushla wondered what Penny’s face might have given away.

Victor and Jane were already there. The six of them murmured greetings and exchanged kisses that didn’t connect, except Victor’s, which were more liquid than air. There was a charge of something in him. Drink or anger. Maybe both. Jane had painted a circle of pink blusher on each of her cheeks, the effect Pierrot-like with the layered mascara. They took their seats. Wine sloshing in glasses, the scrape of chairs. Melba toast heaped in a raffia basket. A squat cylinder of pâté in a silver dish, a butter knife jabbed in its centre. Pearl onions and rings of sliced gherkin in a sugar bowl.