"Wouldn't change the fact that he was cheating on you."

"Yeah. I'm better off knowing." For the millionth time, fury rose in a big red wave.

"Lydia, I must go back to sleep now. Forget Gilbert. Laters."

Poppy vanished, leaving Lydia alone with her thoughts. She couldn't believe how quickly everything had changed. This time a week ago, even four days ago, her life-almost all of it-had been great. She'd had a hot man and he had friends she liked and together they'd formed a little community, almost a family, then that mad business with Andrei happened and suddenly everything was arseways. If only she'd known how good things were.

Irkutsk! She kicked an empty can, and it bounced a few times along the pavement, the noise ugly in the peaceful night air. She really didn't feel good. She and Gilbert, they'd had a connection. It had felt pretty solid but all it had taken was one short conversation to destroy it. They'd both come out of it looking bad-selfish, disloyal and shallow-and that was enough to put the brakes on any chances of dramatic jacket-burnings and getting back together. Not that she'd have him back, she thought, as her imagination kindly provided a couple of pornographic images of Gilbert riding some mystery girl and another wave of red fury rolled upward from her gut. Fuck him.

A loud rapping noise made Lydia jerk awake. Her face was slumped heavily on her steering wheel, her tongue was stuck to the roof of her mouth and her heart was racing. She lifted her head to see Jan's startled face peering in through her car window.

"What you doing?" she heard him ask.

What indeed? She was too stunned from the abrupt awakening to speak. Anyway, she didn't know what was going on. Confused, she took stock of her surroundings. She appeared to be in her car. Parked in Star Street. It was daytime. Sunny.

"I thought you have heart attack." Jan sounded hopeful.

Clumsily, she unwound the window. "What time is it?" Her tongue was thick.

"Nine-thirty."

"In the morning?" Since she'd switched to night duty, her body clock had gone haywire.

"In morning. I work now. Late shift."

It was all coming back to her. After her three coffees and doughnut, she'd got the fare of her dreams, taking her all the way to Skerries. But that was where her luck had run out. When she returned to the city center she'd spent over an hour waiting behind countless other taxis at a stand, and at about seven o'clock had given it up as a bad job. She'd driven home and parked in Star Street, then realized it was a Sunday and far too early for Andrei to have woken up and gone out, so she'd settled down to wait. At some point she must have fallen asleep.

"Do I have a mark on my face?" she asked. "From the steering wheel?"

"Yes. You are a Toyota person now and forever."

"Is . . . ah . . . who's at home?"

"No person. Andrei is out."

That was all she needed to know.

She let herself into the empty flat and though the need to go on the net came upon her suddenly and urgently, she had to have a shower first. She still didn't like washing herself, but over these last few days, for the short scalding seconds she was under the water, she scrubbed until she was red and tingling, trying to erase Andrei's besmirching touch. Aaargh!

Day 40 (early hours of) Katie was helping Keith Richards put his socks on. "That's the boy, that's it, now the other foot," when stumbling, scuffling noises at her front door woke her from the dream. She lay on her side, frozen in her sleep pose. It was twenty-nine minutes past five, according to the red devilish numbers on the alarm clock, and she was being broken into. She listened hard and, once again, heard a series of stumbling noises, like a body falling against the wood of her front door. Shouldn't she be doing something? Like ringing the police? Like darting into the kitchen and getting something to protect herself?

But she couldn't believe it was happening. And she couldn't believe a burglar would be so unstealthy. She was amazed at how unprofessional they were being.

Louder noises this time-her front door was being pushed and shoved-then came the most frightening sound of all: the metallic scratching of a key seeking the lock.

Had someone stolen her key and had it copied? Almost delirious with fear, she flicked back through her recent life, searching for a moment when her bag was unattended, when it could have happened.

There was one other explanation for this person at her door.

It could be . . . Conall.

With a click and a shove, the door opened and the person, whoever it was, was in her hallway.

"Katie," she heard Conall ask in an urgent whisper. "Katie."

Should have changed that stupid lock.

He knocked lightly on her bedroom door. "Katie. Are you asleep? Wake up."

Should have made you leave your key.

The light clicked on, nearly blinding her. Conall, looking a little disheveled, was swaying at the side of her bed. "Katie, I'm going out of my mind."

"Why?"

"Because I love you. Sorry for this," He waved his hand to encompass him standing in her bedroom at five-thirty in the morning. "I should have rung, but it's so late. Or maybe it's too early."

"So you thought it was better to come in person."

"Absolutely!"

He was, she realized, quite drunk.

"Katie, I want to marry you." He dropped to one knee and wobbled slightly but managed to maintain his balance.

She stared at him, wondering if she'd actually woken up, or if she'd simply moved sideways into one of those dreams where you dream you're awake.

"Marry me," he urged.

"Is this a proposal?"

"Yes."

She was electrified with sudden insight. This was one of the most important moments of her life. She would marry Conall Hathaway, she would put up with his workaholism and his unreliability because there was a lot that was great about him, and every positive choice in life brings a commensurate loss. And, of course, there was the added bonus that he might change.

Yes, she thought, secure in her decision, she would be the wife of Conall Hathaway and live with all of the pleasures and unhappiness that that would guarantee if, and only if, he had brought a ring with him.

"A ring?" She prompted.

It would be a sign that their week apart had altered him, that he would be more amenable to making concessions in their future.

Conall patted one jacket pocket then another and rummaged around in his trouser pockets, then admitted the unpalatable truth. "I didn't bring a ring . . ."

Well, that was it. The decision was made for her and the vision of her life as the wife of Conall Hathaway dissolved and disappeared.

"I would have got one but I came over here in such a rush-"

"It's not a proper proposal if there's no ring," she said.

"I can get one." Already, he had his mobile out. "Trevor, Conall Hathaway here. Did I wake you? My apologies to your good lady wife." He was definitely drunk, Katie thought, he didn't normally speak as if he'd wandered out of a Dickens novel. "Listen, I need a diamond ring. Right now. High end. Open up the shop, I'll make it worth your while."

Conall put his hand over the speaker and asked Katie, "Is it diamonds you want?" Like he was ordering a takeout.

She shook her head.

"Emeralds, then? Sapphires. Anything you want, just say."

She shook her head again. He couldn't buy his way out of this.

"Trevor, I'll call you back." Conall was confused. "Katie, what do you want?"

"Nothing."

"But . . ." He was stymied. People always wanted something. "I've changed. I'm already different. I'm going to get a deputy. I'll start looking tomorrow. No more long trips away from home. No much rush jobs, no more twenty-hour days."

She shook her head again.

"But . . . why? I thought this was what you wanted?" He couldn't make sense of this. There could be only one explanation. "You've met someone else?"

". . . No . . . I . . ." Of course she hadn't met someone else, but for whatever reason, a picture of the golden-haired man from downstairs appeared in her mind's eye-and Conall, being the astute machine he was, felt it.

"You have!" he declared, appalled.

"I haven't."

But it was enough for Conall. Like a wounded animal, he had to be alone.

A taxi was approaching. A gift from the gods, he thought and stuck his hand out. It pulled up beside him and he tugged at the handle of the door and climbed into the front seat.

"Get out," the taxi driver said. "I'm off duty."

"Take me to Donnybrook. Quick as you can."

"I'm finished for the night. My light's off. Get out."

"So why did you stop for me?"

"I didn't. I was parking." With an efficient screech forward, then a perfect reverse curl, she-for the driver was a she-had maneuvered the taxi into a tiny space, in one of the neatest pieces of parking he'd ever seen. "There we are, parked," she said. "Out you get."

He reached for his wallet. He had to get away from this terrible place, the site of his shame. For the second time in five minutes he said, "I'll make it worth your while."

"I'm not for hire, I'm actually asleep with my eyes open, I shouldn't be on the road, I'm a danger . . ." Then she looked at him carefully. "What's up with you?"

"Nothing."

"There is. Your tie is crooked and your hair is a mess."

"I don't need your sympathy."

"You're not getting my sympathy. Put your fat wad away. I'll drive you metered rate if you tell me what's going on. I'm always uplifted by the misery of others. Where to?"

"Wellington Road."

She tightened her mouth and put the car into gear. "That was a good spot, the best I'll ever get, and it'll be gone when I get back. This'd better be good. Is it to do with the sexy schoolteacher?"

"Who?"

"The woman with the knockers and the shoes? Your girlfriend? Gdansk!"

"Do you mean Katie? How do you know her?"

"I live in the same house. The flat below hers."

"You do? Number sixty-six? Small world. But she's not a schoolteacher."

"Governess, then? So she's dumped you, yes? Why?"

"Because I work too much."

"Why? Short of money? Saving up for when your mother turns into a nutbar and you've to stick her in a home?"

"No."

"Demanding boss?"

"I work for myself, essentially."

"So, essentially, you work too much because you like it?"

". . . No, not like . . ."

"Because you need to keep proving yourself?"

"I guess. That's what my girlfriends keep telling me anyway. How did you know?"

She waved her arm, airily. "I'm always driving the likes of you. Emotionally crippled overachievers. Gdansk."

"But I'm going to change."

"If I had a euro for every time I heard that I'd probably live in Wellington Road, next door to you."

"Why do you keep saying 'Gdansk'?"

"I like to say 'Gdansk'."

A prolonged silence followed.

Eventually, Conall asked, "Why?"