I ran out of the shop and drank in the poisonous air in the street.

'What's wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong.'

'There's something. Tell me what it is.'

'There's nothing. Can we go home?'

'Tell me tell me what it is.'

I couldn't articulate it. I couldn't say that, somehow, by putting a price tag on our relationship, it had disintegrated. I couldn't say I felt a fraud, that I, and not the ring, was the interloper. The ring belonged it belonged to somebody who deserved it.

I told Keith I was feeling a bit woozy and asked him to take me home. So he did.

He brought me back to my apartment and put the kettle on. Surprisingly, a cup of tea was very welcome. I've always envied the way some people can find endless comfort and relief in a cup of tea. I suppose when you've gone looking further afield for your comfort, the humble mix of caffeine and tannin loses its power. Keith pottered about in the kitchenette, putting things away, wiping up, noting I was out of milk and fresh bread. It dawned on me that Keith wasn't going to be my husband: he was going to be my wife. They say everyone needs a good wife; if women had wives instead of husbands the world would be a very different place. He said he was going to run down to the shop to pick up a few things. Before he went he kissed my forehead.

I lay down on the couch and wished life was simpler.

I began to think about my mother's life and her reasons for getting married. Mum has never been one for sitting down with her girls and telling us how it was that she met Daddy and fell in love and got married and lived happily ever after, but from time to time she would intimate that she had no real choice in the matter (I don't mean she couldn't choose whom she married, rather that she couldn't choose not to get married) and that our problem was we had endless choice. Which course to study in college, whether or not to pursue post-graduate studies. To travel abroad or start work immediately? To fall in love with this man or that other man? To marry him or live with him? To have children now, later or never? To handle your life with reasonable reasonableness or to make mess after mess without ever thinking about what you were doing or learning from any of your mistakes? Oh, yes, so many choices.

But it was easier then. You married the nicest man you could find and had babies with him and cleaned the house and n.o.body expected you to have a career, much less be good at it. If you were lucky you had a nice house and good neighbours and and... Oh, who am I kidding? Most of them were miserable because they didn't have what I have.

And then I thought about Daniel O'Hanlon's wife. They'd got married having just left college after going out together since the middle of First Year. Daniel said that neither of them had had a serious relationship before and both were virgins. He said it was inevitable they would get married. He said they got on really well together, they still did, but there weren't any sparks. He said there never had been. Naturally I believed everything he said.

She became pregnant almost immediately. It wasn't exactly planned, Daniel said, but they were both delighted. She didn't go back to work after the first child, a boy, and they had a second straight away. Another boy. Meanwhile, Daniel was kicking a.s.s at Webster and Jones making tons of lucre for the missus and the sprogs. Somewhere along the line they had two more kids, a third boy and a girl. Four kids! And now she was pregnant again.

When Daniel went back to her he said it was for the family. I hadn't realized there was to be more family on the way. It's practically obscene to have five children in this day and age. Five young O'Hanlons running about the place!

He said he would have liked to have a baby with me...

There was no point even thinking about it.

I had already had my cry with Lucy and Marion and I wasn't going to start again.

And then there was Marion's marriage. She had been going out with this guy from Dundalk for ever when he broke it off. He never explained why. He just said he didn't want to marry my lovely Marion. To be honest, the little I knew of him I didn't like. I think Marion was dying to get married because Jean was married. She's always looked up to Jean, though I cannot fathom why. She says I don't understand Jean because I was only a child when she did her growing up. Whatever!

Anyway, as soon as Marion was dumped she started going out with this old boyfriend from school, Nick. They'd never actually broken up, just drifted apart. Within a year they were getting married. Everybody said it was a rebound thing and that Marion was far too eager to walk up that aisle (my mother). But the funny thing is that of all my sisters' marriages, I think theirs is the happiest.

Suddenly I was roused by Keith charging back into the flat.

'I'm going to cook you a little something,' he said, laying a bag of provisions on the table. 'I think you might be hypoglycaemic you never eat properly.'

I was tired of telling him that someone the size of me eating properly and someone the size of him eating properly were not the same thing. But he insisted on whipping out his shiitake mushrooms and sauteing them in the pan while mixing in creamy scrambled eggs seasoned with nutmeg. (He had walked an extra block to our new organic deli.) He served me the meal (including a gla.s.s of chilled chablis) on a tray so I wouldn't have to move from the couch. Then he took a small box from his inside pocket and placed it on the tray. 'It was my grandmother's. I know why you freaked in the jeweller's. I was being foolish. This ring is much more you. It's unique and amazing, like you are.'

The ring was beautiful a delicate sparkling ruby cl.u.s.ter. He placed it ceremoniously on my finger and I felt a surge of love for him.

'Oh, Keith...' I said.

And, even though it was probably far more valuable than some ring from a shop, I accepted his grandmother's ring, and kissed him.

4.

I knew it would only be a short time before Mum told me about the engagement party she was planning. I knew that by the time she told me her guests would be invited and it would be on a night that definitely didn't suit me. I knew there was no point in arguing, but I did.

'We've already had a party, Mum.'

'That neither your father nor I was invited to!'

'It was informal, impromptu. We're informal people.'

'An engagement isn't informal. What would the family think if there was no proper marking of the event?'

'I really don't want a party, Mum. And neither does Keith.'

'Oh yes he does! I was only talking to him about it last weekend when you disappeared for half the afternoon. He thought it would be a nice surprise for you.'

'Oh, he's only thinking of you. He doesn't really want a party.'

'Kate, thanks to your habit of running away every time a member of the family pays a visit, Keith has hardly met a single one of your cousins, not to mind my sisters. I was on the phone to Mary last night and I got the distinct impression she doesn't believe Keith exists.'

'Oh, G.o.d, Mum, Keith exists! Who cares what Auntie Mary thinks?'

'I care and your father cares. And your sisters care. Jean was on to me as well, wondering when she was going to meet your mystery man.'

'Mum, Keith is no mystery.'

'I'll need you over here on Sat.u.r.day at four o'clock. There's a lot to be done, and seeing as the party is for you, I'll need your help.'

'Sat.u.r.day? This Sat.u.r.day?'

'Of course this Sat.u.r.day. We couldn't wait any longer.'

'But we're going to Dublin to see a play. It was a present from Keith's parents.'

'Well, you'll have to cancel.'

'But they'll be insulted.'

'They won't. They'll understand. They're sensible people.'

'How many have you invited?'

'Not many. Just the family. About seventy.'

'Seventy!'

'The house can easily take seventy. If we open up the doors between the sitting and dining rooms you wouldn't even see seventy.'

'So, all the aunts, then? And all the uncles? And most of the cousins?'

'And a few of our neighbours. Just some good friends of mine. You'll know everybody. I don't know why you're not delighted.'

'No, Mum, you misunderstand me. I am am delighted. This is me being delighted.' delighted. This is me being delighted.'

'Look, madam, I don't misunderstand you at all. Sat.u.r.day at four. And wear something nice.'

Something nice, according to my mother, would have been a version of her own expensive blouses and skirts. She didn't like trousers on women, although now that her sisters were getting into them she was beginning to understand it didn't mean the end of civilization as she knew it. (Unlike Mum, some of the sisters were gaining a little weight and found the trousers very comfortable.) She didn't like anything short, long, see-through or low-cut. She didn't like anything bright (garish), patterned (cheap), or flimsy (suggestive). Since my mother stopped buying clothes for me I have never worn anything she liked.

So, on Sat.u.r.day afternoon, after spending the morning in bed, I opened my wardrobe and laid my party clothes on the bed. Until recently the pile hadn't been added to much. Since Keith and I started going out there had been more occasions for the glitzy stuff. Before that my wardrobe had remained low-key. Except for my lingerie drawer.

There were a couple of fancy Karen Millen dresses, but one I had worn to death and the other was so fancy that n.o.body would dry-clean it for me. There was a red formal Monsoon two-piece I'd bought for last year's Christmas party, but I didn't like it any more. Then there were some miscellaneous pieces trousers, skirts and tops that I liked to mix and match but none was right for that afternoon. There was nothing for it I'd have to go shopping.

Keith had tried to persuade me that the perfect way to begin our special day would be to meet in town for lunch, shop around for a thank-you gift for my mother for such a thoughtful gesture, then head out to the party together. I a.s.sured him that if I was to have any chance of surviving the evening I would have to be left alone until the last possible moment. Eventually he agreed.

I tried a few of the smaller boutiques first but they had only casual summer gear. I needed something that would make a statement, of some sort, to somebody. I needed something my mother would hate. Several shops on and still nothing. I thought about going for the ripped-jeans look with a belly top but I couldn't bring myself to do it. I was nearly thirty, after all, and besides, I have more taste than that. Brown Thomas was my last stop; it should probably have been the first but my BT credit card was maxed out and, well, there was never anything going cheap in Brown Thomas.

I love stepping off the escalator on to the first-storey fashion floor, especially when I haven't been there for a while. There's always so much choice, so many possibilities, so many roles you could play. Who would I be tonight? s.e.xy and sophisticated in Diane von Furstenburg? s.e.xy and girly in Whistles? Or s.e.xy and s.e.xy in a tight little number by Karen Millen?

It would have to be all three. I ran round picking them up, then raced to my secret changing cubicle at the back of the shop that n.o.body else seemed to know about. I tried the dress from Whistles first. It was gorgeous, but not on me. It made me look too much like a girl and not in a good way. The DVF was divine but didn't say 'party' (it might have been better suited to a party for two).

I was just taking it off and reaching for the Karen Millen when I became aware of people outside the cubicle, waiting for me to leave. Two women were talking in low tones but it was just possible to make out what they were saying. Only one was trying on, the other seemed to be offering moral support, which the one trying on appeared to need she kept going on about her weight and nothing fitting her any more. Then the other said she didn't know what she'd look like after her fifth baby...

Suddenly the thing that had been niggling me about these women became clear. I knew I recognized one of the voices. I pulled off the last of the DVF dress and slumped to the floor. There I was, semi-naked and sweating, and there she was, the jolly pregnant wife of my former lover.

I had encountered her before, at another of those Law Society dinners. She hadn't been at the one where Daniel couldn't keep his eyes off me. This dinner was in aid of some charity and everybody was there. Daniel and I had been seeing each other for about six months, and I was deliriously happy. Everything about him was wonderful. It was s.e.xy and exciting and provocative. I felt like I was the only adult in the world because only I could handle such a complicated relationship. Daniel loved me and I loved him, but he also loved his wife and kids and I had no problem with that. What he had with her was quotidian, pedestrian, and what he had with me was dynamic, pa.s.sionate. I wasn't so rooted in middle-cla.s.s orthodoxy that I couldn't handle sharing my man. I didn't want what they had the family life, the tedium, the reliability. What I wanted was a man so besotted with me he would risk the happiness of his family, the regard of his friends and colleagues, for mere moments in my company. I didn't care who knew. We were in love; it was n.o.body else's business.

Daniel, however, cared. It was agreed between us that the only way for this to work was to make sure n.o.body knew. That suited me fine: it added to the excitement and my growing sense of superiority over the rest of the inhibited boyfriend-or-husband-having world. I had a secret, which made me special.

So, at that dinner, at which I was unenc.u.mbered by an escort, I carried with me an air of smug delight. I knew she would be there. I couldn't wait to meet her. What Daniel had told me about her made me confident she held nothing on me. I wasn't disappointed. She was attractive, certainly, but in a conventional way. She was about my height and build, maybe slightly shorter, slightly heavier. Her hair was expensively cut into a bob, which framed her face well, and carefully dyed to enhance her skin tone. For her age (she had to be in her early forties) her skin was bright and free of lines. But there was nothing remarkable in any of her features. Eyes that were nicely made up but not particularly expressive, a mouth that was a little too small and lips that didn't reveal anything. You would look at her and admire her, but you wouldn't look again.

I was deep in conversation with one of the senior partners when she and Daniel came up to us. They joined in the conversation and later, as an afterthought, Daniel performed the introductions. Of course, she knew everybody else so she put out her hand to shake mine. 'Very pleased to meet you,' she said. 'It's great to see women staying in the profession. I'm afraid I never practised myself.'

She gave her husband one of those highly intimate mock-frowns that tell the world they're of one mind about everything. Then, as the men continued the conversation, she marshalled me to one side to ask about conditions and present work practices, saying she could never get a straight answer from her husband. I played my part but I was eager to be away from her. I wasn't suddenly struck down with guilt but I certainly didn't want her as a confidante.

Naturally I went home alone that night but Daniel made a special effort to get over to me the following evening. He said he had been incredibly proud of me. He said I was the most stunning woman in the room and it was killing him that he couldn't run home with me there and then. He said he couldn't believe what we were doing but he wanted it never to end. He said he cared for me so much it hurt. We made love on the floor of my living room and hours later I had to prise him away from me and send him home.

There were other occasions. It was one of those instances in which as soon as you become aware of a person you see them everywhere. She was at an art-exhibition opening; she was three people ahead of me at the checkout in Dunnes; she was coming out of the beautician's as I was going in. Limerick isn't London, or even Dublin, but it's not that small. I have good friends I don't see as often. And every time I'd see her I'd feel less and less comfortable. It was one thing to parade in front of her in my best party frock buffeted by cheap company champagne, and quite another to come up against the wife of the man I was sleeping with in a multi-storey car park as she piled her kids and her shopping into the family car.

Now here I was, trapped in a s.p.a.ce so small I couldn't even stretch my legs to relieve the tremors in my body. There was absolutely no way I was going to face her. Because now she knew who I was.

So, I decided to make myself even more ridiculous by remaining in a department-store changing cubicle for as long as it took the two women to go away. Nothing that they or anybody else thought could be worse than dragging my clothes back on and walking out in front of her, party dresses in tow. So I waited. I heard them wonder to each other if there was anybody in there; I felt them tug at the flimsy curtain that divided me from them; I could smell her perfume as she leaned in to try to see what the h.e.l.l was going on. Still I didn't move.

I was hoping they'd find the whole thing too weird and go away without alerting a sales a.s.sistant. For a moment I contemplated putting a scarf over my head and making a run for it, but I couldn't get my limbs to respond. So I continued to wait. I was aware of how utterly ridiculous the situation was but there was nothing I could do. I wasn't equal to a meeting with this woman.

Suddenly I felt the curtains being tugged a little more roughly and then the other woman spoke, in a voice quite unlike the one I had heard when she was worrying about her weight: 'Look,' she said, 'we don't know what you think you're playing at but we're about to call a manager and Security.'

I was petrified. I didn't even have the wit to pull on my clothes. Was I really about to be discovered in all my shame?

'Oh, leave it, Trish,' I heard Daniel's wife say. 'It's not worth it. I need to sit down anyway.'

'No way! We have a right to use this changing room. I'm not leaving here until she comes out.'

She kept tugging at the curtain; it was only now I realized my knuckles were white with the effort of clinging to it.

'Just leave it. Obviously something's not right.'

'I'm not leaving it!'

'Fine!' And that was when Daniel's wife shoved her bulk past her friend and forced her way in. I didn't even feel the curtain leave my hands. Suddenly she was towering over me, heavily pregnant with her husband's baby, her expression moving rapidly from surprise to recognition to disdain and, finally, to disgust.

'Come on, Trish, let's go,' she said, turning round. 'I told you something wasn't quite right. There's a foul stench in here.'

Then the friend was in the cubicle, looking down on me with a sneer that told me she, too, knew everything.

'Oh, my G.o.d,' she said. 'Is this... is this... her her?'

'That's right. This is the little b.i.t.c.h who screwed my husband.'

I was still unable to speak. There was a tightness in my throat that felt like stones rubbing off each other and my mouth was so dry my cheeks seemed pasted together. The lights seemed to be flickering, and even though I was practically undressed, I was about to pa.s.s out with the heat. A pain I had only just become aware of was shooting through my head and out between my eyes. If one of those women had taken a gun to me, it would have been a relief.

'Let's go,' she said. 'I don't need this. Sc.u.m like her shouldn't be allowed in here.'

And then she was gone. Mrs O'Hanlon walked off the fashion floor of Brown Thomas with her head held high; she had forgiven her husband and taken him back for the sake of their children. She had nothing to reproach herself for. As for me, I was everything she said I was.

I don't know how long it took me to gather my wits and pull on my clothes, but by the time I left the cubicle, the shop was nearly closing. As soon as I was out in the air again I rang Lucy.

'What's wrong?' she said immediately.

'Can I come over?'

'Of course. What's wrong? What's wrong?'

I couldn't say the words.

'What's wrong, Kate?' she said again. 'Has something happened?'

'I just met her,' I said. 'I just met his wife.'

'Where are you? I'm coming to get you.'