A Grand Old Time: The laugh-out-loud and feel-good romantic comedy with a difference you must read in 2018. Judy Leigh

Jim’s sad face, so like Brendan’s now, as he observed her from beneath his cap, his eyes misting. Evie clambered out of the bath, wrapped herself in a towel and took another to dry her hair. She looked at the blotching blue bruise and the new heaviness as she tried to lift her arm. Her jaw tightened.

      She could go back to the Lodge. At least she’d be safe there. Safe but bored and wasting away. A memory drifted back to Evie like a faint odour, one which made her squirm and feel uncomfortable. She remembered walking in a park in Dublin, almost a year ago. It was early autumn and she’d needed to get out of the house, with memories of Jim whispering at her from each corner and the Hoover sitting squat in the middle of the hallway and the windows smeared and dirty in the sunlight, screaming at her to clean them. She liked the open space of the park, the long pathways, how trees and plants were different shades of greens and reds beneath the wide white sky and how sparse little flowers made dots of vibrant colour. A dog had come from nowhere, rushed at her in a whirl, and then she was on the ground, and its paws were on her chest and she could feel the heat of its breath, smell the stink of its wet pink tongue. A man had grabbed its collar. ‘Get down now, will you, Bucket.’

      The young man had been ever so polite. He had shouted at the dog and attached a lead to the collar. Her memory became muddled at this point. The young man had a shaved head and a brown jacket, she thought. The dog was big, an Alsatian, perhaps, with huge beads for eyes and slavering chops. Evie had been shaken, deep inside her bones, she had been terrified. The young man’s voice was a rattle in her head. He’d helped her stand up, apologised, said something about Bucket being only a pup. She’d muttered that it was all right, she was fine, and she’d turned round, gone home, skulked back to the Hoover and the smeared windows.

      Later that week, she had spoken to Brendan and Maura about the dog and the subject of her safety and her loneliness. They had brought up the possibility of her moving to a home. To Sheldon Lodge.

      But the feeling of the lurching dog was still with her, the way it rushed at her and bowled her over, its heavy paws poking into her chest. She thought of the young lad who had just attacked her in the dark alley, pulling at her handbag, swearing at her, his voice like a growling animal’s. The Lodge was warm, peaceful, safe.

      Evie bit her lip and sat up straight, thinking. She had survived. A kind man had helped her, called her plucky. Her handbag was intact and so was she. She was on holiday, she’d been shopping for new clothes and she was newly blonde. She breathed out. ‘I’m damned if I’m giving up. I haven’t got to seventy-five and learned nothing about fighting back.’

      Evie took out the mobile phone. The crack reflected light off the screen but the clouds still came up bright blue. Her green jacket had mud and gravel stuck to a sleeve but it was intact. The jeans would clean up in a wash and the red mark on her face and the bruise on her arm would fade before too long. Evie went to the minibar and poured herself a gin and tonic. The sharpness in her throat gave her a sudden purpose. She would ring reception, organise for the jeans to be laundered. Then she would order a pizza.

      When Brendan arrived home, the house was in darkness. He frowned. Maura seldom went to the supermarket without him and it was unusual for her to be visiting friends in the evening. He dropped his bag in the hallway. His copy of the Irish Times would be waiting and he would have a quiet read before dinner and then he would mark the poetry homework for a few hours.

      A gentle voice came from the dining room. ‘In here, Brendan.’

      The table was set for dinner, an array of little tea lights, their flames shimmering in the darkness. Brendan recalled his Uncle Patrick’s funeral, which he’d attended when he was a teenager, and he felt the draughty air of the church on his skin as he thought of his own father’s death last year, the solid coffin containing someone cold he would never touch again.

      Maura was sitting at the head of the table and she had a casserole dish in front of her. She removed the lid and steam rose up, the flickering candles casting shadows against the wall, a sorceress standing over a cauldron. A bottle of wine was open and there were two empty glasses. Brendan stared.

      Maura slithered from her seat and came towards him. She was wearing a black dress with a low neck, and he could see the pink of her flesh moving beneath the fabric. The straps slipped from their position and she hoisted them back up. Her hair touched her shoulders, sprayed in a shell of loose gold curls. She put her arms around his neck and he breathed in rose petals.

      ‘I’ve made us chicken chasseur.’ He turned to look at the table and she kissed his cheek. Brendan turned back to kiss her but she moved her face away.

      ‘We’ve a lovely bottle of Pinot Grigio. It’s been chilling for hours.’

      Brendan shivered without meaning to.

      ‘I thought we could have dinner then maybe we could have an early night.’ She batted her eyelids and gave him a flirtatious look.

      Brendan took another look at his wife. It wasn’t his birthday and he had not forgotten their anniversary, so why …?

      ‘Come and sit down, darling. I cooked it specially.’

      He had never heard her call him ‘darling’ before. He sat down like a dutiful child as she stood over him and ladled chicken and sauce onto his plate. She poured the wine into his glass, leaning heavily on his shoulder, and he heard the liquid gurgle and splash. Maura’s cleavage was not far from his face and he remembered a time when he used to kiss her there. She had been young and vulnerable in his arms and his chest had filled with the pain of too much love. His mind wandered to a possible bedroom scene after dinner and he tried to recall how long it had been since they had shared any real closeness. In the candle light, her face took on a soft glow and he noticed how perfectly rounded her shoulders were. He shook his head. His eyes flicked back to the tough skin of the chicken.

      ‘Eat up, darling,’ said Maura. She moved back to her seat and ladled meat onto her plate.

      Brendan tried to cut into the chicken breast, but his knife slipped. He took a forkful of mushrooms and onions and watched the gravy drip between the prongs. Maura’s mouth was full.

      ‘How’s your food?’ she asked him, her eyebrows high in eagerness, and he bobbed his head politely and made a contented sound.

      ‘Lovely, thanks.’

      ‘I thought a nice piece of chicken would be just perfect.’

      ‘It’s delicious.’

      She looked at him for a moment, their eyes holding, and Brendan wondered whether to compliment her on the dress. He thought the shiny black material and her gold curls gave her the air of a movie star. For a moment, he wanted to tell her that he loved her. He opened his mouth, but no words came, so he filled it with a forkful of chicken.

      The clatter of knives and forks on china continued for a few moments then she said, ‘And how was your day, then?’

      ‘OK. Busy.’

      ‘I’ve made us a cheesecake for dessert.’

      ‘Lovely.’

      ‘It’s strawberry.’

      Maura had almost finished all the food on her plate. Brendan swiped his fork at the meat. He glanced across at her. She smiled back at him as if a stretching grin could sustain the boundaries of a shrivelling marriage.

      ‘Eat up then, darling.’

      Brendan took a breath. ‘I – I had a text from my mother today.’

      ‘Oh?’ Maura’s brows came together.

      ‘She’s in Liverpool.’

      ‘Indeed?’ Her smile had gone.

      ‘But she’s fine.’

      ‘When did she say she’d be home?’

      ‘She didn’t.’

      ‘That was good of her.’

      Brendan