Tony: We need to talk, call me when you can. And no, I didn’t arrange or agree to any interviews, so tell them to bugger off. Don’t speak to any journalists before speaking to me for the time being, no matter what they say.

I feel as if I might cry.

Six

Galway, 1987

“There now, why are you spoiling that pretty face with all those ugly tears?”

I look up to see a woman smiling down at me outside the closed shop. I ran all the way here after my brother shouted at me. All I wanted was to look at the red shoes I thought someone might buy me for my birthday this year, but they’re gone from the window. Some other little girl is wearing them, a little girl with a proper family and pretty shoes.

“Have you lost your mummy?” the woman asks.

I start to cry all over again. She takes a crumpled tissue from the sleeve of her white knitted cardigan, and I wipe my eyes. She’s very pretty. She has long dark curly hair, a bit like mine, and big green eyes that forget to blink. She’s a bit older than my brother, but much younger than my daddy. Her dress is covered in pink and white flowers, as if she were wearing a meadow, and she is the spit of how I imagine my mummy would have looked. If I hadn’t killed her with a wrong turn. I blow my nose and hand back the snotty rag.

“Well now, don’t you be worrying yourself, worrying never solved anything. I’m sure we can find your mummy.” I don’t know how to tell her that we can’t. She holds out her hand, and I see that her nails are the same color red as the shoes I wish were mine. She waits for me to hold it, and when I don’t, she bends down, until her face is level with my own.

“Now, I know you’ve probably been told not to talk to strangers, and that there are some bad people in the world, and that’s good if you have, because it’s true. But that’s also why I can’t leave you here on your own. It’s getting late, the shops are closed, the streets are empty, and if something were to happen to you, well, I’d never forgive myself. My name is Maggie, what’s yours?”

“Ciara.”

“Hello, Ciara. It’s nice to meet you.” She shakes my hand. “There, now we’re not strangers anymore.” I smile; she’s funny and I like her. “So, why don’t you come with me, and if we can’t find your mummy, we can call the police and they can take you home. Does that sound all right with you?” I think about it. It’s an awful long walk back home, and it is getting dark already. I take the nice lady’s hand and walk beside her, even though I know home is back the other way.

Seven

London, 2017

Jack takes my hand in his. He stares at me across the hotel restaurant table, and it feels as though everyone in the room is watching us. It’s impossible not to form a relationship offscreen when you spend this many months filming together. I know he’s enjoying this moment, and his touch feels more intimate than it should. I’m scared of what is about to happen, but it’s far too late for that now, too late to pretend we both don’t know what happens next. I can see people staring in our direction, people who know who we are, and I think he senses my apprehension, gently squeezing my fingers in silent reassurance. There’s really no need. When I make my mind up about something, it’s almost impossible for anyone to change it, including me.

He pays the bill with cash, then stands, leaving the table without another word. I wipe my mouth with the napkin from my lap, even though I’ve hardly eaten a thing. I think about Ben for the briefest of moments, instantly wishing that I hadn’t, because the thought of him is hard to extinguish once inside my head. I can’t remember the last time Ben took me for a romantic meal or made me feel attractive. But then, the present is always a superior time; looking down its nose at the past, turning away from the temptations of the future. I ignore the fear trying to hold me back and follow Jack. Despite my hesitation, I always knew that I would when the time came.

He gets into the hotel lift up ahead of me. The doors start to close but I don’t run to catch up, I don’t need to. The metal jaws slide open again, right on time, to swallow me whole as I step inside. We don’t speak in the lift, just stand side by side. We’ve evolved as a species to hide our lust, like a dirty secret, even though finding other people attractive is exactly what we were designed to do. Still, I’ve never done anything like this before.

I’m aware of other people in the lift around us, aware of being watched. With each floor we pass I feel more anxious about our final destination. I always knew this was going to happen, even the first time we met. My heart changes speed inside my ears, I’m breathing too fast and I worry that he can tell how scared I am of what we’re about to do. His hand brushes mine as we step out onto the seventh floor, by accident I think. I wonder if he might hold it, but he doesn’t. He is not here to offer romance. That isn’t what this is and we both know that.

He slots the key card into the door, and for a moment I think it won’t work. Then I hope it won’t, something to buy me just a little bit more time. I don’t want to do this, which makes me wonder why I am. I seem to have spent my life doing things I don’t want to.

Inside the room, he takes off his jacket, flinging it onto the bed, as though he is angry with me, as though I have done something wrong. His handsome face turns to look in my direction, his features twisted into something resembling hate and disgust, as though he is mirroring my own thoughts about myself in this moment, in this room.

“I think we need to have a talk, don’t you? I’m married.” His final two words are like an accusation.

“I know,” I whisper.

He takes a step closer. “And I love my wife.”

“I know.” I’m not here for his love, she can keep that. I look away, but he takes my face in his hands and kisses me. I stand perfectly still, as though I don’t know what to do, and for a moment I worry that I can’t remember how. He is so gentle at first, careful, as though worried he might break me. I close my eyes—it’s easier to do this with them closed—and I kiss him back. He changes gear faster than I was anticipating, his hands sliding down from my cheeks, to my neck, to the dress covering my breasts, his fingertips tracing the outline of my bra beneath the thin cotton.

He stops and pulls away. “Fuck. What the fuck am I doing?”

I try to remember how to breathe. “I know, I’m sorry,” I reply, as though this were all my fault.

“It’s like you’re inside my head—”

“I’m sorry,” I say, again. “I think about you all the time. I know I shouldn’t, and I promise I’ve tried so hard not to, but I can’t help it—” My eyes fill with tears. He’s at least ten years older than me, and I feel like an inexperienced child.

“It’s okay. This, whatever this is, is not your fault. I think about you too.”

I stop crying when he says that, as though the latest sentence to have spilled from his mouth changes everything. He lifts my chin, turning my face to look up at his own, which my eyes search, trying to determine whether there is any truth in his words. Then I reach up to kiss him, my eyes offering an unspoken invitation, and this time he doesn’t hesitate. This time, our lives outside of this moment are buried and forgotten.