I’m spreading thin-cut marmalade on thick-sliced Mother’s Pride when you slam out of our High Barnet bathroom in your dressing gown. Although you insist with a sniff that everything’s fine, I know your heart’s been broken by yet another silver-tongued City-boy. I touch my hand to your shoulder and tell you I’m here if you want to talk, it’s what flatmates are for. I don’t tell you, my green-eyed Aisling, how I long to be more.

I take you for tea at my mum’s in Milford. When we take Dippy the whippet across the field, you stick your fingers in your mouth to whistle him back. You stumble in Mum’s size-six wellies and take my arm, Mum doubtless watching from the window. She’s made a cake and smiles expectantly until I whisper in the kitchen how she’s got it all wrong.

I biff your bridegroom’s bicep, as if he’s a mate, while you beam at his side, your freckles glorious, your copper hair shining. When the DJ plays ‘Come On Eileen’ you pull me up with both hands. Eileen segues into ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ and we sway together, my fingertips smoothing the silk of your dress. Later, I seek comfort with Colleen who claims kin with you from Cork, although I suspect it’s more like Kilburn.

You fly in from Florida, a vice-president now, logistics or something. Your schedule’s tight and I pretend mine is too, so we agree we’ll do breakfast. You stride into the Intercontinental, your hair in a bob, all power dressy and air kissy though I’m aching to hug you. Over blueberry waffles and decaf Columbian you flourish photos of your kids, the eldest already eleven. When you ask about mine, I tell you they live with their mum.

I drive down to Stroud where you’ve retired at fifty to raise sheep called Wiltshire Horn. We drink Mad Fish Sauvignon Blanc, chatting until late. The house is Georgian with plenty of bedrooms but you’re single again and lead me to yours, where you’re loving and gentle but I’ve drunk far too much. Next day, over builder’s tea and doorstep toast, you’re as zingy as your homemade marmalade. The trouble is, I’m two years deep with someone else.

Your daughter Gráinne shares the green eyes which so bewitched me so long ago. In her high-ceilinged Henley sitting room, I find you silver-haired at sixty-one. You smile and inch your arms above the covers of your hospital bed, palms upwards in welcome. Gráinne brings tea, gesturing for me to pour, before leaving us to meander through memories until you tell me you’re tired. As I touch my trembling lips to your dry cheek and whisper your name, you place your hand in mine.