"What's going on up there at the front with the teddy? I'm going to miss my bus," a man, six people back, said. "Although it might be a blessing. A weekend with my family, you know yourself . . ."

"I do, yeah," the girl in front of him said. "Low. Depressed. In the horrors. Buzz-wrecked. Head-melted."

"Glum!" he countered with, and loud laughter rippled through the queue.

"I don't want to miss my bus," another woman said. She walked to the front of the queue and suggested, "He could put the bear on his lap."

Mr. Larkin shook his head sorrowfully. "Bobo's too big."

"Is Bobo the bear? Okay, your man could sit on Bobo's lap."

"Actually, he could . . ."

As Andrei waved them off, Jan perched high on Bobo's lap, he mouthed through the window of the bus, "You're a hero." As soon as they were out of sight, Andrei went to the gym where he spent sixty-seven minutes lifting weights, then he hurried home to admire his beer. He rubbed his hands together with the glee of freedom. Andrei carried many burdens: he was the main source of income for his parents and younger sisters at home in Gdansk; he felt deeply protective of Jan, who seemed to find life in this country even harder than he himself did; and he had started to worry about Rosie getting home safely from night shifts, even though she still wouldn't sleep with him. At times Andrei felt he was responsible for keeping the world turning. But today all his liberations had come at once. He had sent a wodge of money home, which had lifted the harried feeling that perpetually dogged him; for the duration of the weekend, Jan was the responsibility of Magdalena; Rosie was in Cork on a hen weekend and therefore out of his jurisdiction; he had a fridge full of beer and a coterie of male friends coming over later; but, best of all, the evil pixie had gone on a trip. He knew this because his zippy weekend bag had disappeared. So had his deodorant.

She was usually gone at weekends, off tormenting Poor Fucker, but he hugged a small warm secret hope to himself that the missing bag might signal a longer absence.

Nothing, not even stumbling over the can of beer she had left in the middle of the kitchen floor, could dilute his happiness.

Day 57 . . .

More things Lydia hates: Magazines that are more than eight years old

Saucepans that have had the arse burned off them

Doctors' waiting rooms

The smell of rotting food

Doctors' receptionists

Homes without broadband

The smell of rubber gloves

Doctors

Her brother Murdy

Her brother Ronnie

Her brother Raymond

Dr. Buddy Scutt

Homes with no internet connection, not even dial-up

Please note: this is not a complete list.

Day 56 Matt and Maeve tried to move their cart through the gridlock of the meat aisle.

"Pizza, Sunday night. Lamb on Monday," Maeve was muttering and counting out days on her fingers. "Fish, Tuesday and Wednesday. Beef, Thursday, takeout on Friday. So what'll we have tonight?"

"Maeve . . ."

"What?"

"We're going out tonight."

"Oh."

"Mum's birthday. Her sixty-fifth. Maeve . . ." He shook his head. This was almost funny. "You couldn't have forgotten?"

"I haven't forgotten," Maeve admitted. "I've tried my best but how could I forget when you've reminded me every day for the past month. I've just been in denial. Hoping that if I pretended it wasn't happening, it wouldn't."

"It's happening."

"So we don't need to get something for our dinner tonight?"

"No. We'll be getting top-notch grub at l'Ecrivain."

"What time are we meant to be there?"

"Seven-thirty."

"Then there's probably no point going on our hike this afternoon. We'd have to cut it short to get home in time."

"You're right. Pity, though." Matt tried to pretend he wasn't relieved.

He and Maeve went hiking in the Wicklow Hills every Saturday afternoon. Except they hadn't been in weeks. And weeks. Now he could lie on the couch and watch the rugby instead.

Ireland was in the process of suffering a humiliating loss to England when Maeve sidled into the living room. "Maaa-aaaat?"

"Hmmm?" He couldn't tear himself away from the screen.

"Matt. I feel sick."

That got his attention. He twisted round to look at her. "What sort of sick?"

"My stomach. I feel really pukey. I don't think I can go tonight."

Matt gazed at her. He suddenly felt like crying. "Please, Maeve. Can't you try? They haven't seen you in ages. They'll think I've murdered you and buried you in the back garden."

She hung her head.

"It won't be so bad," Matt coaxed. "It'll only be the six of us. It could be worse; they could be having a party."

But parties were better. You could disappear into the crowds at parties and, if you played your cards carefully enough, you could talk to almost no one.

"Okay," she said. "I'll come."

"Thank you."

"How posh is this place we're going to?"

"You know Mum. She likes them posh."

"Can I wear my jeans?"

"As far as I'm concerned, you can wear whatever you want. But I suppose if you had a dress . . ."

When Matt and Maeve arrived at l'Ecrivain, Hilary and Walter Geary were in the bar, already well into their first drink. Hilary, a petite, stylish woman in a pale-pink tailored dress and a perfectly matched lipstick, was wittering away to Walter, a large, taciturn man in a yellow golfing sweater. Hilary was on the gin and Walter on the neat whiskey, Matt noted with a heavy heart.

"Happy birthday, Mum. Sorry we're late," Matt said. Maeve had had to try on everything she owned before she found a dress she felt comfortable in.

Hilary sprang up to administer fragrant hugs. "You're not late!" she scoffed. "We're early."

"They're late," Walter said, into his drink. "But not as late as his brother."

"Ignore him." Hilary enfolded Maeve in a perfumed embrace. "Lovely to see you, Maeve."

"We were beginning to think Matt had done away with you," Walter said, then threw back the last of his drink.

"Shush!" Hilary gave Walter a playful cuff with the back of her hand. "Don't mind him. We know Maeve is busy. And no one can help getting sick. We all get sick from time to time."

Walter raised his glass at the barman. "Another of these."

"Here's Alex and Jenna," Hilary said.

A good-looking pair: Alex was a taller, leaner, slightly older version of Matt, and Jenna was summery and fresh, with long, shiny blond hair and cornflower-blue eyes. Tonight she wore an eye-catching coral sun-dress and sexy slingbacks.

"You got the dress!" Hilary exclaimed, pointing at Jenna.

Jenna shook her head ruefully. "I should have listened to you, Hilary. I couldn't stop thinking about it and in the end I went back."

"I told you!" Hilary laughed. "If I know anything, I know clothes, and that dress was made for you."

"I'll know the next time."

"Where's my hug?" Walter groused.

"I'm not hugging you." Jenna laughed. "You're too cranky." Then she relented and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

"Hi, Matt." Jenna gave him a quick peck and moved on to Maeve.

Matt didn't miss the lightning-quick once-over that Jenna gave Maeve, taking in Maeve's rumpled, roomy dress, her Birkenstocks and her tangled curls. Not a bitchy look, Jenna wasn't bitchy; the expression on her face was more like . . . well . . . pity.