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‘Can you find out their story? Who he is, who his wife is, why they wanted this house.’

‘Sure,’ Joanie said. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Is everything OK?’ Joanie said.

‘Yeah.’ Mary paused. ‘Pretty much.’

‘OK. I’ll ask around.’

‘Joanie?’ Mary said. ‘Can you make it a priority?’

When the call was over, she went to find Ryan.

‘Let’s eat out,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard the new Mexican restaurant is really good. I haven’t been.’

‘I’ve had lunch there,’ Ryan said. ‘It’s not bad.’

With Sandra? she almost said, but bit her lip. She didn’t need to add a new argument to the situation; she was close enough to an all-out panic as it was.

‘Let’s go,’ she said.

He sipped his beer. ‘What about my tagine?’

‘We can eat it tomorrow.’

He studied her for a moment. There was a glassy look in his eyes, maybe disappointment, maybe concern, and then he smiled.

‘Of course. Driving?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I need a drink.’

It was exactly what Mary needed. She’d had two margaritas while they waited for the food; it was amazing how quickly the alcohol calmed her anxiety. She knew it was temporary, but it worked. She could easily see how the temptation to reach for the bottle at the end of the day – or maybe at the start – could become overwhelming. She had always, in the best and worst of times, suffered from anxiety. It had been ever-present since she was a teenager, although back then she had not known what to call it. She had simply suffered through the wide-eyed insomnia or racing thoughts in the hope they would pass. Now she knew more, now she had strategies to cope, but when your anxiety was red-lining, when at every moment you expected some unnamed disaster to lurch out of nowhere and turn your life into a catastrophe, no solution was off the table.

And if any occasion called for some chemical assistance, this was it. She’d ordered a glass of red wine when the food came, and now she was feeling the effects. Her face was hot, and would, she was sure, be flushed. That was what happened these days when she drank; if she did intend to become an alcoholic, it would be obvious to anyone who was interested.

‘Anyone for dessert?’ she said, her voice a little thick.

‘Could I have fried ice cream, please?’ Otis said. The server nodded and turned to Sally.

‘Could I have the same, please?’

Ryan shook his head, and gestured to his glass. ‘One more.’

Mary smiled. It was gratifying to see her kids ask politely; from as soon as they could talk she had reminded them endlessly to say please and thank you. More than once she had almost given up, but now she was glad she had persisted.

‘I’ll take the cheque,’ she said. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

The server walked towards the kitchen, and as he left, she saw a familiar figure at the bar.

Mack. He was alone, a beer in front of him.

Two beers in front of him, one clearly belonging to the occupant of the empty bar stool to his right.

A few moments later, the occupant returned, wiping his hands on the front of his jeans.

It was Ben Cox. He said something and they both laughed, then drained their beers and shook hands. Mack reached for his wallet; Ben put his hand on Mack’s arm and took some cash from his pocket. He laid it on the bar and they headed for the exit.