Yeah, she said. And kind of disturbing. Nora is all the women I know.

Not you.

No?

You’re far too argumentative.

She laughed, but felt uneasy. She dressed for him, tolerated the disdain of his friends, suffered his absences and lapses of contact; like Nora she had been ‘performing tricks’ for him.

Across the big boulevard, the widest street in Europe, he told her. Cars parked along the kerbs, bicycles swerving unsteadily under half-pissed backsides. It felt strange to be in the centre of a city at night.

He brought her to a Chinese restaurant, a dim room with lacquered screens and red lamps. He ordered for them, ribs in a sticky glaze, chicken in a gelatinous sauce with chunks of pineapple. When the wine arrived he tasted it. Christ, he said, screwing his face up. It was the stuff Eamonn had brought to lunch on Easter Sunday.

Was it hard for you to get away? he said.

No, she said, and felt a stab of guilt. She had left school after lunch, claiming to have an urgent dental appointment. For Gina, who was having her roots done, she left a note on the kitchen table: Mummy! I’m away to Dublin for the weekend. Back Sunday. C xxx. What about you?

No.

Did you have to lie?

He took a long drink from his wine glass. I don’t lie, Cushla, he said. I omit to mention things.

They walked back to the hotel without speaking. He bought a whiskey at the bar to bring upstairs. The priest from earlier was still at the counter, a stunned, rhapsodic expression on his face.

He’s sitting there since I checked in, Cushla said.

It must be a lonely life, he said. His kindness made her ache.

Upstairs, they stepped out of their shoes. She took her nightdress from the drawer and went into the bathroom, leaving him propped against the pillows in his clothes, drinking. She removed her make-up, brushed her teeth. The nightdress was long and made of white cotton, with a fine lace trim. She liked how it looked with her hair down.

Michael had put his glasses on and opened Cosmopolitan. She sat on the side of the bed and applied hand cream the way Gina had showed her. One finger at a time, like putting on a glove.

Melvyn Bragg: The Man Who Makes 600,000 People Stay Home and Tune into Culture on Saturday Nights, he read aloud.

I’d stay in for Melvyn Bragg, she said.

He rolled so that he was propped on his elbow, looking at her. Do you think we’re ridiculous?

Where did that come out of?

Do you?

Not when we’re alone, but yeah, sometimes I do. Your friends think I’m some dolly bird you picked up in a pub. Which I kind of am, to be fair. And you’re married, which makes me your bit on the side. We’re actually worse than ridiculous.