The tables of the Shamrock and Clover were already full by breakfast time; a plump forty-something businessman, whose drooping head suggested an early start on the hard stuff, gazed blearily up at me, cradling his glass between fat hands. Vera was at the far end, angrily shifting tables and people’s feet to sweep under them as if she were chasing mice. I was wearing a man’s style blue shirt – it was easier to feel confident if you were wearing men’s clothes, I had decided – and observed, distantly, that it was almost the same shade as Richard’s. ‘Richard – I wanted to talk to you about what happened last week.’ Around us the airport was half full of bank-holiday passengers; there were fewer suits than usual, and an undertow of small, crying children. Behind the till, a new banner offered the chance to ‘Get Your Trip Off to a Good Start! Coffee, Croissant and a Chaser!’ Richard moved briskly around the bar, placing newly filled cups of coffee and plastic-wrapped cereal bars on a tray, his brow furrowed in concentration.
