His phone is ringing when I come in from the bedroom. He wanders over to look out of the window as he answers it, even though it's pretty dark outside by this time in the afternoon.

Seeing as his back is towards me and he's not heard me coming, I pause to listen.

"Hiya, Cheryl. … Aww, thank you. … No, he's just in the bathroom at the minute. … Yeah, I gave it to him when we was out for a walk – we went in the orangery, and I gave it to him there. … Yeah, he was. He was just really, really happy. Hang on, I'll go and give him a shout – "

Then he turns round and sees me. I make out I was just walking in through the doorway, rather than standing in it; but I doubt he's fooled.

"Alright?" I say.

"He's here, actually," he says to my sister. "I'll put you on speaker. Right, you're on speaker now."

"Hi Bren," Cheryl says. "Happy anniversary."

"Our anniversary, is it?" I say. "Slipped my mind..."

Cheryl laughs. Steven smiles.

We sit down on the couch.

"Sure, I believe you," says Cheryl. "So, you liked Ste's present, did you? Ste Brady Hay..."

"Looks like I'm stuck with him now, so."

"Ah, you're all jokes, Brendan, but you can't fool me. You're pleased as punch, eh? I knew you would be."

"He is," says Steven.

"What he said," I say.

"So cute," Cheryl says.

"Alright, sis, was there anything you wanted, or..?"

"Ignore him, Chez – he's just all embarrassed."

She laughs again, then she says, "I just phoned to wish yous both a happy anniversary from us, and a happy birthday to you, Ste. You've got your dinner in the restaurant lined up for tonight, eh?"

"We have, yeah," says Steven. "Candlelit. We've just phoned down and made it a bit earlier, actually, cos we didn't have a proper lunch, so Brendan's tummy's rumbling."

"Should I ask why you missed your lunch..?"

"No," I say.

Steven and I look at each other. His eyes are bright. His skin is bright.

"We – " he says, and I press my finger on his lips to stop him; he grins, moves my hand away. "We ate all the snacks in the room – you know, the biscuits and peanuts and fruit and that – so we didn't want a proper lunch on top of that."

Okay. That's some of what we ate instead of lunch.

"There was something delivered to our room," I say. "A box of stuff. The cards from Saturday, some photos, the menus. Know anything about it, Chez?"

"Ah, yes. I mean, it's nothing to do with me, but when I was talking to Hugo, asking him to make sure your cards were kept for you after the party, he said they always do that – for anyone who has a party or an event, I suppose – they collect up any mementos, print off some photos, and put them in a wee box. Who were the photos of? Only I told him – we told him, Mitzeee and I – you were super-paranoid about being in photographs."

"It's fine," says Steven, "They've gave us photos of the room where we had the lunch, but before anyone was there, and the same with the orangery when it was all ready before the party started. I did see people taking pics though – our lot, I mean, the guests – cos you can't stop them, can you, people taking selfies."

"Exactly, we couldn't put a ban on," Cheryl says. "We told everyone not to post any pictures of yous two online, though."

"Good," I say.

Then Cheryl asks, "You got another call coming in?" because there's a phone ringing.

"Yeah, it's the room phone," Steven says. "That's weird. Hope they're not telling us our dinner's cancelled..."

"Maybe they've run out'a candles..." I've levered myself up with a hand on Steven's knee, and I wink at him as I go over and pick up the telephone. "Brendan Brady."

"Sorry to disturb you," says the receptionist or whoever it is. "I've got a call for you – a gentleman called Fergus. Would you like me to put him through?"

"Okay, yeah."

"One moment," she says.

Cheryl is chatting away to Steven. He's looking at me, wanting to know what this call is about.

I get a few bars of classical music in my ear, then the line clicks. "Brendan Brady," I say again.

"Brendan, it's Fergus."

"So I've been told," I say. "Checking up on me, presumably."

Steven's expression changes from curiosity to concern. I mouth to him, Fergus, only it makes him appear the opposite of reassured.

"Afraid so, son," Fergus says.

I indicate Steven to leave the room: I just don't fancy my sister overhearing; plus I'm stuck where I am, because this phone is plugged into the wall in the old fashioned way. Fortunately Steven understands, and takes his phone – and his conversation with Cheryl – into the bedroom.

"Any reason in particular?" I ask Fergus. "For the checking up, I mean."

"It's nothing personal. You know how it is – when a client tells us they're going away from their address, we have to check sometimes if they're where they've told us they'd be. I haven't generally checked with you, Brendan, but it's only fair I do so once in a while. Do you see that?"

I can feel lines on my forehead where I'm pressing my fingertips.

I nod, which is no good on the phone, obviously, so I say, "Yeah."

"I hope your weekend went as planned?"

"It did, yeah."

"Good. And it's tomorrow you're back home and back to work, is it?"

"As I informed you."

"Indeed you did. Well, I won't keep you any longer. I'll call you in the next few days to fix up our next meeting. Enjoy your evening."

"What did you tell them, Fergus? When you called the hotel, who did you say you were?"

"I told them it was a business matter, son. I said I'd mislaid your mobile phone number."

"Okay." Okay. "I apologise if I was... brusque."

"Not at all – I should've told you up front what I'd said to the telephonist, so you wouldn't have worried."

"It's okay. Thank you. I'll wait for your call."

"So long, then, Brendan."

"So long."

Steven must have been listening behind the door: he comes in as soon as my call ends.

"Everything alright?" he asks.

"Yep."

"What did he want? Why didn't he ring your mobile?"

"He just wanted to verify where I am. Could be anywhere if he called my mobile, couldn't I, so he called the hotel instead. Hey, it's nothing for you to worry about, okay? Come here." I hold the back of his head when he comes to me, and kiss his forehead. "It was just routine."

"It stressed you out, though, didn't it."

"No. Yeah, I guess. Just... the intrusion, is all. So, my sister finished talking your ears off, did she?"

"Yeah. She said that everyone's gonna send her and Mitzeee all the photos they took at the party, and they're gonna sort them out and send them to us. She said she took some nice ones herself, of the kids and that. Here, we could print some of them off when we get them, couldn't we, and keep them in that box, then we'll have everything all together if we want to look through it sometimes." He pauses, and changes. "And also, she asked me if you've read that letter, cos she said her mum's been asking. So I told her you have. I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind – what else were you supposed to say?"

"That's what I thought. But I told Cheryl, there's no point in her mum sitting waiting for you to phone her or write to her or nothing like that, because that's up to you if you do or don't."

I nod: Thank you.

:::::::

I've changed into my suit – my new black one – and as I'm putting my jeans away on a hanger in the wardrobe, I see a piece of paper poking out of the back pocket. It's the page I found yesterday among the post-party rubbish in the orangery: Steven's notes for the speech he gave.

I leave him getting dressed in the bedroom. Shut the door behind me. Open that box and slide the sheet of paper in underneath the bundle of cards.

:::::::

"That's the barman from last year, look," Steven says when we arrive in the bar downstairs. "I thought he must've left, cos we've not seen him."

"You want champagne I suppose, same as last year?" I say, and we walk up to get served.

"Evening, gentlemen," says the barman.

"Hiya. We was just saying, you was here a year ago when we came here after our wedding. It's our anniversary today – actually it's in, like, five minutes."

"Congratulations," the barman says. "What would you like to drink?"

"Bottle of the house champagne," I say.

He gets busy.

"You won't remember us," Steven says. "Or, you might – Brendan didn't have a beard back then, he had a moustache." He draws a moustache on his face with his fingers by way of illustration.

"Of course," says the barman as he pops the cork. "I put my Dusty playlist on for you, I remember."

"You did, yeah," says Steven

I doubt the barman remembers us from among the hundreds of hotel guests passing through his bar – I seem to recall him saying he always played Dusty Springfield when they had two men in for an evening together – but Steven looks happy, so I don't say anything.

"I'll keep the bottle on ice for you," says the barman, and Steven and I take our glasses and find ourselves a couple of comfortable chairs out of the way.

Steven nods towards the clock on the wall: it's a minute or two after six.

"It's time," he says.

"Give or take..."

"Happy anniversary, Bren."

We clink glasses.

"Happy anniversary, Steven."

The look of love
Is in your eyes
The look your smile can't disguise

We smile at each other, and then look across at the barman, and raise our glasses to him: nice work.

"A whole year," Steven says. "Can you believe it?"

"Three hundred and sixty-five days of wedded bliss..."

"Three hundred and sixty-six, actually. It was a leap year."

"Dear god. No wonder it feels so long."

He doesn't rise to that: knows the truth, I guess, that there could never be too many days.

How long I have waited
Waited just to love you?

"Do you ever think," he says to me, "What if the registry office had said no, sorry, you're too late, we can't do it?"

"I wasn't late..."

"You're never gonna let me forget that, are you?"

"Nope."

"What do you reckon, though?"

"If they'd said it was too late? We would'a just booked the next date we could get, wouldn't we? It's not as if we had a bunch of guests and a reception to cancel."

He nods. "You're right. It would've been too late to cancel our honeymoon, though, wouldn't it? I mean, we still would've come here that night, only we most likely would've had an even bigger row, if the wedding never happened."

"We would'a made up, though. This place, champagne, good music..."

"And a massive bed."

"Never mind the size of it, it was the fact it didn't have broken springs..."

Steven laughs. Then he says, "I wouldn't change our wedding for anything. And, if we'd had a reception back then, what would it've even been like, compared to what we had this weekend? Like, I don't even know if Amy would've come, or let the kids come, because of how things were between you and her."

"She would'a let them come, for you."

"See, that's what I mean, Brendan – you're defending her, which goes to show, right, how far you and Amy have come. You can't say I'm wrong, can you."

"Wouldn't dare..."

"I'm serious. And also, yeah, what about the lads? We hardly knew them, did we? I mean, we'd had that one trip to Belfast after Christmas, just to tell them we was getting married, and that went okay, didn't it. But can you imagine if we'd had a wedding reception and they'd come to it, what would that've been like? They never would've enjoyed it, not like they did on Saturday."

"Their mother wouldn'a let them come in the first place."

"No, I bet she wouldn't."

"Tony would'a still flown over from Spain if you'd asked him."

"That's true. And Mitzeee would've come from America if you'd asked her. And me sisters would've come, wouldn't they, and Danny and Sam, but that would've been weird for you, cos you didn't hardly know them – not till they helped when I was ill."

"Want a top-up? I'll go get the bottle, just – "

"No, not yet." He catches my wrist to make me sit back down; keeps hold of it for a moment, to show me he's here, now, and his illness isn't.

We sip our drinks.

Something occurs to me, and I say, "It wouldn'a been Danny and Sam, would it, a year ago. It would'a been Danny and John Paul McQueen."

"Bloody hell. I forgot they were still together then. Right, well, Danny would've had to come on his own."

:::::::

They've opened the door to the restaurant now.

"Go in now, will we?" I ask Steven.

"Let's wait for some other people to go in first, eh?"

"Why? You want an audience for when you make your entrance?"

"Shut up, no. I just don't want to be first, that's all."

So we wait a few minutes, and a couple of couples go in. And then the woman who's greeting the diners at the door comes over to where we're sitting.

"Good evening," she says. "Just to let you know, your table is ready for you."

"Thank you," says Steven. "We'll come, then."

By the time we've stood up, the barman has darted out from behind his bar to take our bottle of champagne into the restaurant for us.

"Suit looks good," I say to Steven; it's his new one he's wearing. "You look good in it, I mean."

"Likewise," he says with a smile.

:::::::

There are candles, as requested. Their light plays across Steven's face as he studies the menu, animating his stillness.

"I'm gonna have the consommé," I say to him. "Seeing as there's no soup on the menu..."

Steven deems my joke worthy of a smile (pained) and a shake of his head.

"I think I'll have the same," he says. "What you gonna have for your main?"

"I was gonna go for the ragout, only it's got couscous with it."

"So?"

"I don't fancy eating wet sand."

"It's not like wet sand. Anyway, look, it says pearl couscous. That's like giant couscous. You like that."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do. I do it for the kids sometimes. It's not the wet sand one, it's them little roundy ones, remember?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Yeah? Remember what you called it?"

He purses his lips together to give me a clue to the word, then mouths it with me when I say it: "Bubbles."

"That's right," he says. "And d'you remember the face you made when you ate them?"

I imagine biting the wee bubbles between my front teeth: there must have been a face that went with it, because I remember Leah and Lucas laughing.

"Like that, yeah?"

Steven is smiling. "That's it, yeah."

"And that's couscous? The kind of couscous I'm getting if I order this?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

The waiter comes and asks if we're ready to order.

"Hiya," Steven says. "Yeah, so we both want the consommé, please, and then Brendan wants the ragout – "

"With couscous," I say. "Big fan."

:::::::

"I wonder," he says, "What sort of year we're gonna have this year."

I've had the lion's share of the champagne, but he's had enough to get him contemplative.

"I don't know," I say. "Wouldn't mind a quiet one, though."

He looks at me across the table. His eyes look dark, except for the flames reflected in them.

"It's been a big year, innit, with everything that's gone on," he says. "The wedding feels like yesterday, but like, everything that's happened in between feels like a lot more than a year."

"Even more than a leap year?"

He smiles, but he says, "Yes. All them things in one year. Things that are meant to be the biggest stresses in life, in't they – you started a new job, I lost the job I had, we moved house. I started a new job. I went to hospital – "

"You didn't just start a new job. You created a restaurant from scratch."

"It's not exactly a restaurant."

"As good as. You gotta be proud of it."

"I am. I'm dead proud."

"Good."

"And you've got a lot to be proud of an' all, Brendan, right? Even just, like, getting your head straight after prison. And building up the club, yeah, even after that cow from the paper tried to ruin our lives. Here, doesn't that feel like it was ages ago now?"

"Yep."

He eats his last couple of forkfuls of mashed potato, and wipes his mouth on his napkin. Then he says, "So I can see why you want a quiet year, anyway."

"Ain't just the year we've had. It's that we know next year's gonna be a big one, so we could do without too much on our plate this year. Recharge our batteries, so to speak."

"Next year?" He thinks for a moment. "I s'pose you're right. I mean, I've not really thought about it – not recently, anyway, cos of everything else – but you mean your job, yeah?"

"That's one thing, yeah. End of January next year, my contract's up and the other fella, he'll be coming to take his job back." I say this, and Steven already knows it, but his face clouds as if it's news to him; so I say, "We got twelve months before it happens, though, Steven."

"We'll have to start thinking about it before then, though."

"That's true. I'll want to have something lined up for after I've handed the club over."

"I wonder if Pearl's gonna want to work all week? Or most likely they'll get someone else in to share the job with her."

"There's no reason you can't carry on working there, Steven. The kitchen's your project, and I don't doubt Alastair will want to keep it going."

"Without you, though?"

"Might be the only wages we've got coming in, if I feel like putting my feet up – you'll be paying the bills, keeping the wolf from the door..."

"I can't tell if you're being serious."

"I'm not. Well, I'm serious about you keeping your job if you want to. But about money, no, I'm not. You know we've still got money saved from the sale of the... that holiday house. And the money Nate invested for me when I was away – I get access to it, half way through next year, remember? So we'll be okay. We got options."

"And your licence will be up next year as well, won't it, in March."

"Yes it will. Like I said, a big year. Whatever happens with work for either of us, we'll have a holiday, abroad, you and me."

I open my hand, palm up, on the table, and he takes up the invitation.

"I'll tell you how else it's a big year as well," he says. "Leah. She'll be eleven, won't she. She'll be starting big school."

"She's not ten yet. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"No, I know, but we're talking about next year, in't we. That's a big change for her. She'll be making new friends, plus they get a lot more homework, don't they, in big school, so most likely she'll be too busy to come to us at the weekends sometimes."

"That might not be a bad thing – we can't expect her to carry on sharing a bedroom with Lucas, can we. Not at that age. That's another decision we'll have to make, I guess."

"About moving house? I love our flat, though."

"So do I, I guess. But I can live anywhere, y'know, as long as..."

"Me too."

"May I take your plates, if you've finished?"

It's the waiter.

Instinctively I let go of Steven's hand. Deliberately, I avoid looking at him so I won't see his disappointment.

"Thank you," Steven says to the waiter. "That was lovely."

The waiter clears the table, and goes.

"Yeah," I say. "It's all tied in together isn't it. Work, the flat, the kids. Don't have to start worrying about it yet, though, Steven. Let's concentrate on this year first, yeah?"

"It's only three hundred and sixty-five days long, mind," he says.

We smile at each other: looks like I'm forgiven.

"He didn't bring a dessert menu," I say.

"You still hungry, you gannet?"

"Not hungry, no, but..."

"Actually, no, you're right, I wouldn't mind something sweet now, just to finish off dinner."

"Don't look now, Steven, but I think you might be in luck." I indicate the direction of the kitchen, from where the waiter has emerged, carrying a cake ablaze with candles.

Steven looks from him to me. "Did you do this?"

"I'm as surprised as you are."

The waiter brings the cake over to us and sets it down on our table.

It's got shiny chocolate-coloured icing on it. It's not a big cake, but it's got a whole lot of candles.

"Happy birthday from Cheryl," the waiter says.

"Oh, amazing," says Steven. "Is there twenty-seven candles, then?"

"I believe so, yes. Would you like me to slice the cake for you, or shall I leave it with you?"

"We'll take it from here," I say, so he leaves us with the knife and plates.

"I better make a wish, eh?" Steven says.

"Same one you wished at the fountain?"

"More or less." He shuts his eyes for a few seconds, then he opens them, takes a breath, and blows out all the candles in one go.

The flames on the half-melted candles in the jars on the table, flicker wildly, but stay lit.

"Missed my chance to sing," I say. "Maybe next year."

Steven laughs.

Then he starts taking the candles out of his cake to clear a path for the knife, their holders leaving holes across the smooth icing, ruining it.

He cuts a slice, lies it on a plate; and another, on the other.

I'm trying hard, but the back of my neck is prickling. I'm trying. Trying. But I think I'm going to have to say, I can't have that. I'm sorry, but I can't.

He's not passing me a plate, though. He's cutting through the buttercream between the layers of the cake, and what he does is, he reassembles them, putting together the bottom halves of both slices on one plate, and the top halves – where the candles were – on the other.

He hands me mine.

"I'm greedy," he says. "Keeping all the icing for myself."

"Thank you," I say.

It's good cake.

:::::::

We've both changed out of our suits and into something more comfortable: pyjamas with a hoodie over the top of them in his case; joggers and a jumper in mine. The idea of peeling him out of his suit was attractive in theory, but we've both accepted the reality that there won't be much going on for the rest of the evening, other than slumping on the couch while we digest that three course dinner.

And that's fine.

He's searched for something we both fancy watching on the TV, but in the end he's fetched the tablet computer that my sister and Nate gave him yesterday, with the playlist from the party on it.

"Listen to this, shall we?" he asks.

"If you like."

So he presses play, puts it down on the coffee table, and curls up beside me on the sofa.

Already, the songs have acquired a patina of memories and meaning. Any that had that before, have another layer now.

We talk, a little. Mostly it's Steven, when the music reminds him of something: he'll mention something someone said, or how they looked; or he'll just come out with something that doesn't seem connected with anything, in that way he does, and it'll make me laugh or make me think.

"I reckon this is me and Tony's song now," he says one time, when an ABBA song is playing; then he sings along to it, "I believe in angels, something – "

I put my hand over his mouth, but he carries on, Mm-mm-mmmmm, till I let go and he laughs.

"He had a good time, anyways," I say.

"Yeah. I'm glad." Then he twists round to look at me, like he wants to see my reaction to what he's about to say. "We pretended we was boyfriends once."

"Who did?"

"Me and Tony. It was his idea."

I frown at him. "What?"

He laughs. "Didn't I ever tell you? It was back before – y'know, when me and you was together before. Anyway, I was looking for you, right, and I went in that cafe place that used to be near Chez Chez, yeah, and Tony was in there, so I asked him if he'd seen you. And he was with this woman, and he said to her, like, this is my boyfriend Ste. Put his arm round me and everything."

"What was he? Drunk?"

"No. He told me after. It was something like, this woman was well interested in him, but he weren't interested in her, so he wanted to put her off. I don't know why he couldn't just tell her, but anyway. So I played along, didn't I, cos I knew he must've had his reasons."

"Played along how?"

"Looked at him all lovey-dovey. I even pinched his bum."

"That's... unexpected."

"I wish I'd remembered it when he was here – see if he remembered it too."

"Don't think there's much doubt about that..."

He laughs again. Cuddles up closer, pulls my arm tighter around him, and kisses my hand.

"Don't worry," he says. "Your bum's nicer than his."

:::::::

Another song is playing now, but the one before was Total Eclipse of the Heart, and Steven must still be thinking about Lynsey.

"Bren, do you ever wonder what you would've done if Lynsey hadn't knocked you back?"

"Mm?"

"You remember. When Declan was around, and you were gonna get with her to... well, to give him another mum. Or to show me you weren't like me, or something."

"I wasn't in a good place. You know that."

"No, I know. But if Lynsey had said okay, yeah, we'll give it a go... What then?"

"I dunno. I couldn'a done it. Most likely would'a done a moonlight flit."

"To Ireland?"

"Long as it was nowhere near Lynsey's family, or Declan, because I couldn'a faced any of them after I'd pulled a stunt like that. That wee girl... Thank god she was a better friend to me than I was to her."

"You were a good friend to her."

I think for a minute. "How did you know she knocked me back? How'd you know I didn't just change my mind?"

"Declan told me. He said he asked her what it was all about, and she said you was thinking of him, wanting to give him, like, a proper family, only she didn't think it would work."

"That was kind of her, if that's what she told Deccy. That's not how it went down, at all. It was abject horror from her, when I tried it on – and an abject apology from me when I came to my senses."

"I always wondered. I thought you might've done the same as you did with Eileen, have another marriage like that. Maybe even more kids. I couldn't imagine it, cos I knew what you were like with me. But then, I knew you'd been with Eileen, and I couldn't imagine that either, so I couldn't say it couldn't happen."

"It couldn't have. Not by then. I couldn't have gone back, Steven."

"Good, I'm glad."

:::::::

We're sipping whisky now, and on the soundtrack is the song we danced to.

"We'll bring a bottle with us next time," I say, "Save on the minibar bill."

Dreams are like angels
They keep bad at bay –
Bad at bay

"Next time?"

Love is the light
Scaring darkness away

"Mm." I hold up my glass, examine it in the lamplight. "I'm sorry about before, by the way."

"What about?"

"When I pulled my hand away, or whatever. In the restaurant."

"That's okay."

"It isn't. I'm... It's still not always easy, for me."

"We danced together, Bren, to this song, in front of all them people."

"People we knew. People who already knew what we – who we are. And I know it's been long enough, that you'd think I could – "

"I don't think anything."

We're silent for a while, listening to the music, thinking our thoughts.

"Jacqueline reckons throwing a party for our wedding anniversary is like I'm waving a rainbow flag, anyways, so."

"Jacqui McQueen? Well, she's right. I've got no doubt about how much you love me, Brendan, alright?"

"Good." I kiss his hair.

"Were you out in prison, Brendan?"

"How d'you mean?"

"I mean, did people know you were gay? The other prisoners, I mean."

"I don't think so, no. There's a lot of straight fellas in there who do stuff, ain't there, so if they thought anything, they most likely thought I was like that."

"See, you was out before, and then with Seamus showing up, you had to hide again, and then once he knew, you were out again but like, he was in the way of you being yourself all the time. And then you couldn't be yourself in prison. So it's like, not back to square one when you came home, obviously, but you'd missed out on two and a half years of getting used to being you. So I'm not surprised if you still get a bit, you know, funny sometimes."

"I don't deserve you."

"Don't be stupid."

"I wouldn't have denied it. If anyone had asked." Denying it would have meant denying him.

"That Damian knew, obviously."

"Yeah. He might'a thought I was one of those straight guys, I guess, until I told him I used to have someone on the outside."

"You told him about me."

"I had to. Chez stopped talking about you after a few months, and I had to – I had to keep you real somehow. You know? Say it out loud so you weren't just inside my head. I told the shrink about you, only he wanted me to talk about other things most of the time. So, yeah, I told Damon, but not because of him. Because of you."

He's quiet, but he's okay: his hand is on my wrist, and now and then he strokes it up and down.

:::::::

"We never heard these ones, did we," he says. "They were at the end, after we left the party."

"Yeah. Left them to it."

He unfurls himself and sits forward to look at the track list. I get up to go and see if there's a whisky left.

"I like this one. The Beatles, this is."

"No more whisky." I shut the minibar.

Turn back to him, and he's in my arms.

I've seen that road before
It always leads me here, lead me to your door

We're dancing again, seems like.