Edward O’Shanahan did what he always did before he went to sleep: he held a slice of extra mature cheddar cheese between his lips and he meditated. Sometimes he would spend ten minutes listening to sad country music on his headphones, having discovered relatively recently that the right sad country song can set a real fire beneath a dream. But today was Sunday and he resolved never to listen to any sad songs on a Sunday. Isla O’Shanahan was sitting at the kitchen table. She’d always worked later than her husband and he was an early riser. They’d been friends and work colleagues for four years before he kissed her for the first time, and the first time it was just below her right ear. The chemistry had been there from the start, but the romance was given voice in a small private nook of an old pub at a works Christmas party. He’d never met anyone who’d looked at him as calmly as she did. She had eyes that darted in joyful wa...