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through the window: leaping shadows of little Irish dancing girls reflected in stained glass, backs and arms stiff and rod-straight, circling, following the barked orders of their teacher. I watched as they thumped their soft-shoed feet on plywood; one over-zealous young dancer high-kicked across the floor at such speed that she almost collided with a stout, ginger-haired girl jigging and reeling over to her glass of orange. She took a few gulps and a mouthful of Tayto, then skipped back into the fold, ringlets bouncing, teeth munching. It would be ballet for Addie. No ringlets, red knees or fake tan.
    At the level crossing by the train station, an election poster had blown off its pole; the hopeful candidate grinned from where he was lying, in pinstriped suit and red tie, in the middle of the road. When the green man appeared, how people approached this obstacle seemed to depend on their political preference: some veered off course to walk around it; others marched straight over it, leaving muddy footprints on the candidate’s poised, neat-haired face.
    *
    Back in the flat I was a whirlwind of domestic activity. I scrubbed every corner of the kitchen, even the oven, leaving great brown streaks up my arms. I pulled out and washed all the shelves of the fridge, ran a J-cloth along the cruddy rubber. I mopped and cleanedthe old lino floor. I hoovered up enough of Alfie’s fur to make a sweater. I pulled out a tangle of the last tenant’s black hair that had been clogging up the plughole in the shower and used an old toothbrush to clean the grouting between the tiles. Then I wiped down the mildewed bathroom cabinet, and began to sort through the plastic bag into which I’d intended, when packing up the old house, to put only viable medicines that were of use and still in date. But I’d got bored five minutes into this job, had given up and shelved everything in: an ancient jar of Vicks VapoRub, gouged to its midnight blue base, some indigestion tablets, a packet of Beano plasters, one sachet of Alka-Seltzer, the stub from a Van Morrison concert, a Boots voucher expiring in November 2002, a little Playmobil man, two of Joe’s rusty Gillette razors.
    I dragged the first bin bag of clothes into the bedroom and emptied them out on the unmade bed. It was ridiculous how many bras I didn’t own. Other women had pretty lace ones, expensive ones they would only ever hand wash, ones given to them by a boyfriend in fabrics that caressed the skin, that made them feel wonderful; I had just two: both ancient, black, gel-filled.
    I folded Addie’s baby clothes and put them into the bottom drawer of the cupboard, hoping to use them again one day but not now sure how that would ever come about. I stuffed the shelves above with my own bally sweaters, unmatched slippers, things I would never wear again but was not quite able to throw out.
    He could never throw anything away. Even when he left, he left everything behind. Whenever we’d have clear-outs, he’d get distracted by some old jacket or hat he used to wear and he’d put them on and adopt poses like those men in Damart catalogues and I would giggle but at the same time whine at him to hurry up. Now his empty suits hung in the wardrobe like ghosts in a queue.
    The American one, black with a purplish sheen to it, still had a stain on the lapel from the night of that disastrous dinner party. It had been conceived, and guests invited, six months before it took place. The host was his boss at Browne & Davison. Joe had gone to the Dockers with one of his clients that day and after too many Jack Daniels, had ridden home on his motorbike to freshen up. He already had a hangover at five in the afternoon.
    Small boys in white shirts and grey flannel trousers, hair brushed and shining, opened the door to us and collected our coats. The house was merry and filling up with lots of faces that Joe should have known but couldn’t put names to. I smiled beside