As she perused her broadsheet-sized menu, twelve or fourteen black-and-white-attired staff stood to attention in various parts of the silent room. When she looked up from her menu, they’d all exchanged places, but neither she nor Dylan had seen them move.

‘It’s like something out of a science-fiction film,’ she whispered.

Dylan laughed, the sound loud in the empty room, and Clod-agh’s head abruptly tightened as she experienced that peculiar feeling again – that she didn’t know him. But this was the man she’d once thought she’d die if she didn’t possess. Stirred by an echo of that intense love, she was suddenly struck dumb. Perplexed because she couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him.

Only for a second. Then, of course, she had oodles of stuff. I mean, she thought, loose with relief, this is Dylan.

‘Do you think I should take Molly to the doctor?’

Dylan didn’t answer.

‘If she doesn’t knock off the hunger-strike soon,’ Clodagh chattered, ‘I’ll really have to. She’s getting no nourishment from all the chocolate and –’

‘What are you having to start?’ Dylan interrupted, brusquely.

‘Oh! Oh, I don’t know.’

‘The menu’s spectacular,’ Dylan said, a little too pointedly.

‘Oh right.’

‘Can’t you forget about the kids just for a couple of hours?’

‘Sorry. Am I driving you mad?’

‘Round the bend,’ he agreed, in exasperation.

She began to settle down. After all, she was in a lovely restaurant with her lovely husband. They were drinking gin-and-tonics and eating tomato bread. Delicious food and several bottles of wine would soon be on their way, and her children were safe at home with two people who weren’t paedophiles or child-batterers. What could be nicer?

‘Sorry,’ she repeated, and this time really did study the menu. ‘I see what you mean,’ she acknowledged. ‘Oh, they’ve mussels. And goat’s cheese soufflé. Bloody hell! What’ll I have?’

‘Starter or soup,’ Dylan said thoughtfully, ‘that is the question.’

‘“Or?”’ Clodagh challenged. ‘What’s this “or” word? I think what you mean is “and”.’

With the desperation of one who rarely gets out, Clodagh over-ordered wildly, mad-keen to wring as much enjoyment as possible from this infrequent treat. Starters and sorbets and soups and side-orders. Main-courses and red wine and white wine and water.

‘Sparkling or still?’ The waiter asked, his hand hurting. Now he knew how Tolstoy felt, having to write War and Peace.

Puzzled, Clodagh looked at him – surely it was obvious? –’Both!’

‘Very good.’

‘Is there anything else we can order?’ Clodagh shivered gleefully, when he’d gone.

‘Not for the moment,’ Dylan laughed, swept up in her enthusiasm. ‘But wait till we’ve got this consignment out of the way.’

‘Will we have dessert and cheese?’

‘’Course. Irish coffees?’

‘And dessert wine. And petit fours.’

‘French coffees?’

‘Mais oui! I might even have a cigar.’

‘That’s my girl.’

By the time they were a couple of courses in, Clodagh was dreamy from food and drink, but still bothered by an inability to relax. Then she realized what the problem was.

‘It’s such a long time since I’ve had an uninterrupted dinner that I can’t break the habit,’ she said. ‘I keep getting the urge to jump up and cut up other people’s dinners for them… See your man over there?’ – she indicated a New-York-loft-boy type who was playing with his food – ‘I want to stick a bit of his filet mignon on a fork and say, “Open wide for the birdy.” In fact, I think I will.’

Dylan was half-appalled and amused as Clodagh pretended to stand up. Then she stopped and twisted and turned anxiously.

‘Why… ? Why am I sticking to the chair?’ She put a hand down to investigate. ‘I’ve a patch of black sticky stuff on my bum. Tar, maybe. Damn, on my lovely new dress. How did I manage that?’ Tentatively she brought her fingertips to her nose, sniffed, then started to laugh. ‘It’s blackberry jam. Bet it was Molly, the little brat. She’s a scream, isn’t she?’

‘She’s brilliant.’ Dylan wasn’t entirely undreamy himself.

‘Would you say they’re all right?’ Clodagh asked, suddenly anxious.

‘Of course! And Ashling and Ted have the mobile number. They’ll ring if anything goes wrong.’

‘Like what? What could go wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Give me your mobile and I’ll make a quick call.’

Dylan’s eyes pleaded with her. ‘Can’t you just leave it for one night? We’ve only been gone an hour.’

‘You’re right,’ Clodagh agreed. ‘I’m being ridiculous.’

She turned her attention back to her chowder.

‘No, I can’t bear it,’ she burst out.’Give me the mobile.’

With a sigh Dylan handed it over.

‘Hello, Ted, it’s Clodagh, just checking that everything’s OK.’

‘We’re having a blast,’ Ted lied, as Ashling held her hands over Craig’s and Molly’s agape mouths.

So, can I have a word with them?’

‘They’re, um, busy. Playing. Yes, that’s right, playing with Ashling.’

‘Oh. Well, then, see you later.

‘It’s very annoying,’ Clodagh said mournfully, as she snapped the phone closed. ‘They drive me mad all week, I can’t wait for even five minutes away from them, then I go out for the evening and I worry about them!’

‘We can go home if you want,’ Dylan said tightly. ‘And have oven-chips and a non-stop string of demands.’

‘When you put it like that… Sorry, Dylan. I am actually having a nice time. A very nice time.’

Not quite the same could be said of Ashling and Ted. It had taken ages for Craig and Molly to stop crying after their parents had left. They’d eventually quietened down – but only after they’d commandeered the telly to watch The Little Mermaid and Ted had to forgo watching Stars in Their Eyes.