The beauty of everything-the triumphant yellow morning light, the flashes of intense color from the exotic flowers, the luminous blue water, twinkling silver in the sun. She and Matt had passed their days lying on indecently comfortable sun loungers and having massages and ringing for room service and sleeping and swimming and, above all, having sex. Every afternoon, while Maeve had rocked gently in a hammock in the shade of their own personal trees, eating sliced mango and humming happily to herself, Matt had read aloud to her from his new James Bond book, the kind of thing Maeve would normally have no interest in, but, with Matt doing accents and voices and music, she'd been enthralled.

Every night after dinner, they'd tumble back into their adorable little house, where some invisible, lovely person would have lit dozens of candles and created a heart-shape with rose petals on their enormous bed.

It had been wonderful.

Day 33 . . .

"You mean you were there all the time?" Rosie asked. "In your flat? While I stood outside knocking for hours?"

"But you did not ring buzzer. Buzzer is loud. Knocking with your little hands is not loud. I did not hear."

Andrei was distraught. He had completely forgotten about his darling Rosie; all thoughts of anything had been annihilated by the force that was Lydia.

When he'd found that fragrant yellow note in the hall . . .! The shame had cut him like knives, flaying him bare, right down to the bone.

It was days before Rosie would speak to him and even then it was a humble whisper. "Obviously, I mean nothing to you, Andrei. I just wish you could have told me. But I want you to be happy. I hope you meet a really nice girl, who cares for you as much as I did."

He'd had to launch a full-on apology offensive, involving countless texts and phone calls. He'd had two or three Rosie-style girlfriends in Poland and he knew the precise price you paid for this sort of misstep. Flowers, obviously. But they could only be roses and they could only be red and they had to number twelve. No more, no less. A dozen red roses-any variation in the formula could actually make the situation worse. Then a piece of jewelry. But this was not the time for an engagement ring, because the girl would cry and say, "Whenever I'll think of us getting engaged, it'll bring back unhappy memories of me standing outside that door like a . . . like a . . ." Words would become incoherent, then cease as the storm of weeping disabled her entirely.

A charm for her charm bracelet, a little gold and ruby heart, would be just the thing. Finally, a promise of a weekend away, when no one would be left waiting outside any doors.

Andrei knew Rosie was milking it somewhat, but he wanted to go along with it. Rules were rules and restoration was necessary.

But Jesus Christ and all the angels! If Rosie only knew what he'd been up to while she'd been standing a few short meters away. He kept having moments when his head reeled and his skin became drenched as he remembered his act-acts-of betrayal. He'd be driving the van, or taking the back off a PC, and the next thing the horror would sweep over him and he would want to fall to his knees and pray for forgiveness.

He cared for Rosie. He thought he might actually love her. So what was he doing with Lydia?

Day 32 (very early in the morning) They all looked the same, those tall, posh Georgian houses. Lydia parked outside number eleven and reached for her mobile. She refused to get out of the car and ring the doorbell because it was drizzling and she had her hair to think of. "Taxi for Eilish Hessard." Lydia left a message on the mobile contact. "I'm waiting outside."

Over the years she'd discovered that there was no pattern to where she could be taken by the forces that governed taxis. She might never have visited a road and then she could find herself driving there five times in the one week . . .

... so to find herself picking up on Wellington Road could be a meaningless coincidence.

But she didn't really believe it. Not after those bloody flowers. And it wasn't much of a surprise when the passenger door was wrenched open and the rich old guy, whatever his name was, jumped in beside her. "Morning, Lydia!"

"Out," she said. "This is Eilish Hessard's car."

"She's my assistant. Subterfuge. I booked you. Did you get the flowers?"

"How did you track me down?"

"I thought at the very least I'd get a call thanking me for the flowers."

"I didn't ask for them. There should be a law against sending things to people that they don't want. So how did you book me?"

"Very easy. Luckily, there aren't many girls who drive taxis. Eilish rang all the taxi companies."

"You got your assistant to ring?"

"Because she's a woman. I didn't think your controllers would be too keen to hook you up with a man."

They were nothing like as noble as that, Lydia thought.

"Eilish said you'd driven her and that she'd liked you. The guy seemed to find it hard to believe but . . . joke, Lydia."

"I'm doubled-over laughing. So where to?"

"Nowhere. I just thought we'd sit here and talk. Why don't you come in for some breakfast?"

"The neck of you! I've a living to earn. I'm not your . . . plaything."

"I'll pay you."

"I don't want you to pay me." She shuddered. "This is really creepy. You're turning my stomach. Please get out."

He stared at her, aghast. "I've handled this all wrong," he muttered. "How can I make it better?"

"By getting out of my car and never contacting me again. That way I won't press charges."

"Give me a chance."

"Please get out of my car."

"When's your next day off? What would you like to do? Say anything you want. Anything, and I'll go along with it."

"Yeah, grand, so. I'd like you to drive me to Boyne in County Meath, help me clean a really nasty kitchen, humor my not-very-well-in-the-head mum, visit an old people's home with me and threaten one of my brothers. I don't mind which one. I've got three, so you can have the pleasure of choosing."

"Wouldn't you prefer something more . . . you know? We could drive down to Powerscourt and have lunch at-"

"Don't start negotiating. It's my day off, that's what I'm doing."

"When?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? I've to go to work tomorrow."

"So go to work. I couldn't give a shite."

Dispirited, Lydia stomped up the stairs to her flat. Thanks to that madzer Conall Hathaway, her night's take was down at least thirty euro. She couldn't take his money, it felt trashy. When she'd eventually managed to oust him from her car, she hadn't got it in her to go after another fare. It was 7:30 a.m. and all she was good for was home. She'd have a shower, she decided, and wash away her night's work, and then she'd go straight to sleep. And when she woke up she'd go to the supermarket and buy proper food, fresh stuff, with vitamins and enzymes; no more living on chips and chocolate. Maybe then she wouldn't be so knackered all the time . . .

She let herself into the flat and, as she shut the door behind her, she heard a noise. It was the sound of Andrei and Jan's bedroom door opening. Andrei appeared, bare-chested, in a pair of sweats, as if he'd been waiting for her. Without thinking, she moved to him and he took her in his arms and wordlessly unzipped her hoodie and she let him. She surrendered with relief to his hard body, to his smell, to his sure, confident touch. Suddenly, all her tiredness had disappeared and she was tearing off her clothes and pushing him toward his bedroom, and when she met a wall of resistance she realized that Andrei was steering her to her own room. Jan. She'd completely forgotten about him.

"Jan? He's here?" she gasped.

"Sleeping. We must be quiet," Andrei whispered urgently.

But it was impossible. As he covered her body with kisses, she couldn't stop little whimpers escaping. When he entered her, he groaned long and hard, and when she came, he clamped his hand over her mouth and she stared at him, bug-eyed, as his blue eyes burned into hers and her body exploded in ever-increasing circles of pleasure.

"What about Poor Fucker?" Andrei asked, cradling her body in his arms. "You still . . .?"

"No. Gone."

"You tell him? About this?"

"Yeah." She felt him tense up. "You worried about a posse of Nigerians coming round to kick the crap out of you?"

"Not worried."

"What about Rosie?" Her instinct, as always, was to add some insulting description like "Rosie, the last virgin in Ireland," but it didn't feel right. I mean, I'm sleeping with her boyfriend. I couldn't insult her any more than I already am.

"Do not speak her name."

He was rolling away from her and getting out of bed and leaving the room, and she was glad because now she could go to sleep.

Day 32 . . .

Matt walked into his office and Salvatore said, "Didn't know you'd got the morning off."

"Haha."

Yes, so it was 11:15. Yes, so Matt was late. But Maeve had had another panic attack this morning, the second in less than a week, and it had taken a long time to calm her down and to persuade her that they could both go to work. It was like a return to the bad old days, and it was all Fionn Purdue's fault.

"So what's up?" Salvatore asked.

"An emergency."

"How thrilling! What kind of emergency?"

Matt looked at him carefully. Salvatore had always been a smart-arse, but this was a bit much.

"A private emergency," Matt said slowly. "And I'm here now."

And it wasn't as if he was exactly snowed under with work. He and the team were keeping a steady flow of cash coming in, by flogging upgrades to those companies who already had Edios-no mean feat in the current economic climate-but there were precious few proper prospects on the horizon. What they really needed was to land a big fish, to persuade some company, preferably a giant conglomerate, to change their software to Edios. Amazingly, there was still no movement on the Bank of British Columbia. They hadn't agreed to a sale but neither had they pulled out of negotiations and all progress had stalled, bogged down in the mud of their poker-faced inscrutability. Sign of the times, Matt knew-people were terrified of spending money-but the stalemate was chipping away at everyone's morale.

He wondered if his team was losing faith in him. Salvatore's disrespect wasn't a good sign. But, looked at another way, he was probably lucky to still have a team.

Looked at another way, a dark voice said in his head, he was probably lucky to still have a job.

Quickly, he turned away from that unthinkable thought and faced into his emails. Nothing of interest, except one from his brother, Alex, subject matter: TONIGHT!!!!

Matt, Alex and the second best man, Russ, were due to meet after work to finalize details on the Vegas stag week.

6:30 The Duke. Do not cancel again! Alex Matt fired off a breezy reply: I'll be there. Should be early. I'll have the pints waiting.

As if. Not with Maeve the way she was. Briefly, his life seemed to tighten around him-Maeve, the job, the stagnation of everything-choking off all light and hope . . . Then he had a fantastic idea! There was a way out of this!

Energized and hopeful, he was keen to get going right away. When could he nip out? When could it be called lunchtime? Noon, that would do. Less than forty minutes.

"Thanks for dropping by," Salvatore called after him, but nothing could puncture Matt's buoyant hope.

A new home, Matt had decided. That was the answer! A fresh start in a new place would fix everything. He spent a few moments in the street outside the real-estate agent's, glancing from photo to photo, wondering what form his and Maeve's new life would take, then he stepped confidently inside, all set to make it a reality.

The girl at the desk-Philippa-looked up expectantly when Matt came in, then he saw something behind her eyes die a little.

"Can I help you?" She managed a professional smile.

"Ah yes. I'd like to move home."

"Take a seat. You've been in before?"

". . . Er . . . I have."

"Matt, isn't it?"

"Matt Geary."

"That's right, I remember. So we'd have your details on file. What's your address?"

"Sixty-six Star Street. The flat on-"

"-the ground floor. It's all coming back to me." Philippa started clicking. "You were last in, in March."

That recently? It felt much longer ago to Matt.

"We did a home visit this time last year," Philippa said. "And did a valuation. But in the current market, that figure would have dropped substantially."

Matt swallowed. "By how much?"

"We recently sold a very similar flat to yours, ground floor, back garden, central location, for-" She did a bit more clicking and named a sum that was so low it scared Matt. Even lower than it had been the last time he'd been in, which, if Philippa was right, was only three months ago.

"So we'd be looking for another home in or around the same price region?" Philippa asked. "You haven't won the Euro Millions or anything?"

Matt shook his head.

"And what were you thinking of? A flat in a similar setup to your current home? A flat in a new development? There are some really good deals in a magnificent gated community in CityWest. Incredibly high-spec. The apartments are spectacular, and there's a gym, sauna, Jacuzzi, a sunken yoga garden-"

"In each apartment?"

"Oh no. Communal. Shared."

"Right. Well, I was thinking more of a house. Somewhere private. You know, where you wouldn't meet other people in the hall."

"You certainly wouldn't get a house this close to the city center. Not with the equity you have."

"Okay. Well, show me what you've got."

"Just out of curiosity," Philippa asked, "what happened the last time?"