‘If you’re too tired I don’t want to put you under pressure.’ His eyes were concerned.

‘I’m not too tired.’ She could manage one night, couldn’t she?

Roll on August the thirty-first. After that, everything would be back to normal.

*

Red-eyed and agitated, Clodagh surveyed the kitchen table. There was nothing left to iron. She’d done everything: Dylan’s T-shirts, his shirts, his underpants, even his socks.

The guilt, the guilt, the horrible corrosive guilt. She could hardly bear herself, she wanted to tear her skin off with self-hatred.

She was going to make it up to all of them. She was going to be the most devoted wife and mother there ever was. Craig and Molly were going to eat everything on their plates. She moaned softly – what kind of mother had she become? Giving them biscuits on tap, letting them stay up as late as they wanted. Well, no more. She was going to be so strict. Borderline dangerous, in fact. And poor Dylan. Poor devoted, hardworking Dylan, he didn’t deserve this. The betrayal, the terrible cruelty, the cold withdrawal of her love: she hadn’t been able to let him touch her since she’d started this affair.

Affair. Her breath spasmed in her chest – she was having an affair. She swayed with vertigo at its enormity. What if she got caught? What if Dylan found out? Her heart nearly seized up at the thought. She was going to stop this now. Right now,

She hated herself, she hated what she was doing, and if she stopped before anyone found out, she could make everything all right, almost as if it had never happened. Fired by resolve, she picked up the phone. ‘It’s me.’

‘Hi, me.’

‘I want this to stop.’

He sighed. ‘Again?’

‘I mean it, I’m not going to see you any more. Don’t ring me, don’t call to the house. I love my children, I love my husband.’

After a crackly pause, he said, ‘OK.’

‘OK?’

‘OK. I understand. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye?’

‘What else is there to say?’

She replaced the phone, unexpectedly cheated. Where was the warm reward for having done the right thing? Instead she felt dissatisfied and empty – and stung. He hadn’t put up much of a fight. And he was supposed to be crazy about her. Bastard.

Earlier, she’d entertained a daft notion that she was going to darn the holes in Dylan’s socks in another desperate attempt to demonstrate her love for him. But as she desultorily returned to the kitchen, all her housewifely resolve melted. Fuck it, she thought listlessly, Dylan could buy new socks.

Almost against her will she ran back to the hall, snatched the phone and pressed the redial button.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Get over here now.’ Her voice was tearful and angry. ‘The kids are out, we have until four o’clock.’

‘I’m on my way.’

It was eight-thirty before Ashling left the office. Nauseous with exhaustion, she couldn’t face the ten-minute walk home, so she got a taxi. Slumping back, she checked the messages on her mobile. Only one. From Marcus. He wouldn’t be coming over tonight, something about having to go to a gig. Thank God, she exhaled. Now she could ring Clodagh, then go straight to bed. And in two weeks’ time, when all this was over, she’d make it up to Marcus…

As she got out of the taxi she met Boo, who was sporting a black eye.

‘What happened to you!’

‘Saturday night’s all right for fighting,’ he quipped. ‘A few nights ago. Bloke, drunk, looking for aggro. Oh, the joys of life on the streets!’

‘That’s awful!’

The words were out before Ashling could stop them. ‘Do you mind me asking, but why are you, er, homeless?’

‘Career move,’ Boo deadpanned. ‘I make two hundred quid a day begging, all us homeless people do, didn’t you read about it in the papers?’

‘Really?’

‘No,’ he scoffed sarcastically. ‘I’m lucky to net two hundred pence. It’s the old story. No job without an address, no address without a job.’

Ashling was familiar with the concept, but she’d never really believed it actually happened.

‘But don’t you have a, you know, um, family to help you? Like parents?’

‘Yes and no.’ With a slight laugh he expounded, ‘My poor ma isn’t in the best of health. Mentally speaking. And my da did a very good impression of the invisible man when I was five. I was brought up in foster homes.’

‘Oh God.’ Ashling was sorry she’d ever opened the discussion.

‘Yeah, I’m a walking cliché,’ Boo said ruefully. ‘It’s very embarrassing. And I couldn’t really settle in any of the foster homes because I wanted to be with my ma, so I managed to make my way through the educational system without passing a single exam. So even if I got an address, I probably still wouldn’t be able to get a job.’

‘Why don’t the corporation house you?’

‘Women and children first. If I could get pregnant I’d stand a better chance. But childless men are meant to be able to take care of themselves so we’re their lowest priority.’

‘What about hostels?’ Ashling had heard such things existed.

‘No room at the inn. More homeless people in this city than you can shake a stick at.’

‘Oh. Oh, that’s terrible. All of it.’

‘Sorry, Ashling, I’ve ruined your day now, haven’t I?’

‘No,’ she sighed. ‘It wasn’t going very well anyway.’

‘Hey, I finished Sinister Days,’ Boo called after her. ‘Those serial killers sure do know how to mutilate. And I’m halfway through Sorted! and I counted the word “shag” thirteen times on one page.’

‘Imagine that.’ She hadn’t the energy for Boo’s book ‘reviews’.

Ashling trudged up the stairs, poured herself a glass of wine and listened to her answering machine. After a lengthy absence, the messages from Cormac were back. Apparently, the hyacinth bulbs would be delivered next weekend, but the tulips would take a bit longer.

Then, sheepishly, Ashling rang Clodagh. She hadn’t spoken to her in a couple of weeks, since the weekend she’d been in Cork, actually.

‘I’m really, really sorry,’ Ashling prostrated herself. ‘And I’m probably not going to be able to see you until after this fecking magazine is launched. I’m there most nights until nine and I’m so tired I hardly know my own name.’