Is that why you’re angry? he said.

I try not to be, but I can’t help it.

God did this, you know, he said. Put you in front of me when I’ve nothing to offer you.

An ugly sound woke her; a gull scrawking on the windowsill. It flew away, leaving a drip of grey fluid drooling down the glass. Michael was curved around her back, a hand on her belly. She lifted his arm and went to the bathroom. Her hair was matted, the nightdress creased like a wrung cloth. When she went back into the room he was sitting up, a sheet across his thighs. Take that bloody thing off, he said.

She felt her arms fly up and wrap across her breasts. What’s wrong with it?

You look like Bertha Rochester.

She went to get into bed and he moved across to her side. Take it off where you are. Please.

She crossed her arms and lifted the sides of the nightdress, pulling it over her head as slowly as she could bear it. He took her hand and helped her on to the bed, lowering her on to his cock. She waited for him to kiss her, touch her, but all he did was put his hands on her buttocks. She began to move, watching his eyes, the slow blinks. Listening to the small clicks that came from the back of his throat.

As they finished, the clattering of delft outside the room, a rap on the door.

Jesus, she said, falling on his chest.

I ordered breakfast.

She climbed off him and pulled on the nightdress. On the corridor, she bent to lift the tray, cotton clinging to the mess he’d left between her legs. A door closed and she looked up. Two nuns were sweeping along the carpet towards her, eyes downcast. She murmured a greeting and reversed into the room.

You just said, ‘Good morning, sisters.’ With no drawers on.

Yeah.

She kissed his shoulder. Buttered his toast. Poured his tea.

A draught from the river that swept dust and litter from the pavement. Cushla narrowed her eyes at the light. He’d brought sunglasses. Wide, grand streets, a café with a smell of coffee that slowed her step. A curved Georgian building with blocked-up windows; he said there was once a tax on glass. Through the arch at Trinity College, across the cobbles. He pointed at where he’d sat in lectures, where he ate cheap lunches. Where he played cricket and won a yard-of-ale contest.