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Three minutes before it happens, Anya takes a deep swallow of white wine, sets the glass on the shelf, and slides further down in the bath. The water is at her chin, tepid now and cooling fast. She should have closed the bathroom door. Chris is always moaning about steam and mildew, and he 'always' leaves the door open. Now, she does so too, on autopilot. And to stop him nagging. But Chris isn't here tonight. He's thousands of miles away in LA and Anya is blissfully alone. He won't know if she closes the bathroom door. She's just not sure she has the energy to get out and do it. Three large glasses of wine and a long day at the office will do that.

That's the other nice thing about Chris being away. Nobody judging her for opening a bottle of wine on a Wednesday night. Or finishing a bottle of wine on a Wednesday night. It sits on the tiled surface at the end of the bath, coated in condensation. Just half a glass left, she notices now. She's had more than she thought.

Beside the wine, her phone buzzes to life, startling her. She leans forward to see who it is but doesn't pick up. Chris. It's nine in Dublin, so lunchtime in LA. He'll be slipping away from his colleagues, calling to say how much he misses her. That he's got a big surprise when he comes home. It's a ring. She knows this because she saw his search history. She shakes her head, wet strands grazing her shoulders. The buzzing stops and she picks up the phone to text.

"Sorry, can't talk. Up to my eyes, working late. Going to be same right the way through week so no point trying to get me on phone, see you Friday when you're back x"

Chris is going to have to go.

He is very good-looking and very nice. He's also bland and boring and far too particular about the mind-numbing minutiae of everyday life. Like bathroom condensation.

And sooner or later, he'll figure out who she's really seeing when she says she's working late. His sister, not as innocent as Chris, is definitely starting to smell a rat. Though she couldn't know who it is, Anya reckons. She smiles when she thinks about him; Chris's opposite in every way. Yeah, Chris is going to have to go. Although, technically, since it's his house, 'she' is going to have to go.

A faint rustle from above draws her attention to the ceiling. The mice are still there. 'Dammit'. So much for Chris and his humane traps. They should have got a cat. Chris said they couldn't because of the dog. 'Get rid of the dog, then', she wanted to say. Dogs are no use with mice. As though reading her thoughts, Ziggy barks downstairs. He's been barking all evening, and Anya has a sneaking suspicion the dog-walker didn't come today while she was at work. Anyway, that's Chris's problem. If he wants to pay someone fifteen euro an hour to walk his dog—or not walk his dog—so be it.

* * *

Two minutes before it happens, Anya slides up and takes another sip of her pinot grigio, then one more before slipping back down. Her eyelids droop and she decides against finishing the wine. She has an early start tomorrow, then

drinks with Eleanor on Friday night. God, why had she agreed to that? Eleanor will talk nonstop about her kids, just as she always does. There is literally no reason to stay in touch, but Eleanor is like a tenacious puppy. It's as if she sees Anya as a project. Or perhaps it's the duty of time. Thirty years of friendship isn't easy to shake. Anya knows. She's tried. Good god, she's tried.

And now Julia is back in Ireland too. Saint Julia. Although—Anya smiles to herself—she's also Divorcée Julia. That the marriage between her friend and her ex-boyfriend didn't work out has given her no end of quiet pleasure over the last decade. And now Eleanor is so excited to have the three of them reunited. As though they're some kind of friend group. As though it hasn't been five years since Anya last saw Julia in person. As though they didn't have the mother of all arguments when they last spoke by phone. As though Anya has forgiven Julia for almost destroying her business. Why did she say yes to this? Because Eleanor is like glue, really annoying glue, and doesn't take no for an answer.

Julia will be insufferable, of course. And she'll somehow drop it into conversation that she sold her business for a seven-figure sum. Anya will nod and murmur congratulations and she will not admit she already read this in the 'Sunday Independent'. Julia's never been the same since the night—Anya stops the thought before it takes off. She doesn't like to think about the night Donna died. It's not guilt, because why would it be guilt when it wasn't her fault? But Julia—though she's never said as much—thinks it's Anya's fault.

* * *

One minute before it happens, Anya takes a final sip of wine and slips further down in the bath. A moth flits around the light. Steam melts from the mirror as the room temperature cools. Through the open door, the landing is in darkness. The only sound is the whir of the inadequate fan and the rustle of mice in the attic.

Louder, she thinks, half asleep, than the kind of noise you'd expect from tiny mice.

Now a creak, one she barely registers. Another creak.