"What's brother number three like?" Conall asked Lydia, in full hearing of Ronnie and Murdy.

"Raymond? Great fun. Full of hilarious stories."

"I hate him already," Conall drawled.

Day 30 . . .

Katie didn't want to wake up. She didn't want to go to work. Everything was shit.

If it wasn't for poor Wayne Diffney's career relaunch she wouldn't bother.

When she saw the note lying just outside her front door, she deduced it was from Fionn but her heart didn't bother to lift. Her heart would never lift again. She unfolded the piece of paper and ignored the small dark-green sprig that floated from it.

I'm sorry Yeah, right.

I will call again. Depend on it.

I don't think so.

Please accept this gift Another Conall, thinking he could buy his way out of things. Anyway, what gift? Casting a glance around the landing, she could see no flowers or chocolates, no box of flimsy ridiculous underwear. It could have been stolen, of course, by someone else in the house, but that was unlikely. What was lots more likely, nay, definite, was that this Fionn was another flake. Conall all over again.

She crumpled the note into a ball and threw it over her shoulder into her apartment, then locked her front door behind her. There was a weed on the floor by the stairs. She should pick it up and throw it away but instead she flattened it to a pulp with the red sole of her Louboutin.

Why had she told everyone at work about Fionn? They'd be dying to hear how she'd got on with him. She couldn't handle the thought of their pity, so she decided she'd lie. Lie and be vague and airy. Yes, he called in, she'd say. Yes, he was very good-looking. No, he was a bit of a fool. No, she didn't sleep with him. No, she wouldn't see him again.

Day 30 . . .

No special makeup tonight. All Katie wore on her face was an expression of lemon-sucking disappointment.

Shortly after nine, frenzied knocking started up at her door. It could be a balaclavaed man with a harpoon in his hand and evil in his heart, but Katie opened it anyway. What did she care? Invade her home, violate her person . . . she no longer gave a shite. Nevertheless, she wasn't exactly surprised to discover Fionn, golden and radiant, smiling a full beam of love right into her upturned face.

"I got delayed," he said.

By twenty-four hours and twenty years, she thought.

"Can I come in?"

"No. You could have come in last night, but sadly you didn't avail of that opportunity."

"Last night," he said, "I had something to do and it took longer than I thought it would. But did you get the rue?"

"The what?"

"The rue."

Yes, that's what she thought he'd said.

"It's a herb. I left you a sprig last night."

She remembered the weed that she'd crushed with her shoe this morning.

"I don't know where it came from," he said urgently. "I don't grow it, it's poisonous. But when I was desperate last night, trying to write how sorry I was, it appeared in my pocket. You must forgive me. It's meant to be."

Tosh. "You're a flake."

"Yes! And a chancer, a messer, an immature moron and, most of all, a fucking eejit. But I'm ready to change. Because of you."

She was silenced. This was a really impressive apology. Way more anguished and convincing than anything Conall had ever rustled up.

"I'm really scared you won't forgive me," Fionn said. "I can tell you all about last night. I had to go to Greystones and I got on the wrong Dart, partly because, like you said, I'm a flake, and partly because I try to pretend Dublin doesn't exist even though I lived here until I was twelve."

He dropped to one knee.

"Get up," she said. "You've been doing well, but it's turning into a pantomime."

". . . I'd convert an entire room into shoe storage-remember the one Big made for Carrie? No? I'll describe it so . . ."

". . . Jemima bought me a jacket-remember Harrington jackets? Just an ordinary jacket, but I tried to convince myself that when I wore it, I had magical powers. That I could make my dad come home from sea . . ."

Somehow they had ended up lying on Katie's bed, fully clothed, whispering into each other's face, revealing their secrets.

". . . my own little van and I'd go to festivals and injured people would come to me and I'd wash out their wound and I'd have all the different sizes of bandages because you need a tiny one to wrap it around your finger but if you cut your knee you need a big one, four inches long . . ."

He held her face tightly and kissed her again. Good job she was lying down, she thought, because otherwise she might swoon. She'd never been kissed like this, so slowly, so endlessly, as if kissing was their reason for existing.

"What happened to your hand?" she asked. "You cut yourself ?"

"Jemima's dog bit me last night. He pretended it was an accident. He's not right in the head."

They kissed again, and some immeasurable time later, Fionn spoke. "Didn't you feel it too?" he murmured. "As soon as I saw you, I knew. That you were the most important person I would ever meet."

"Why me?"

"Because you won't die."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't really know."

"But I will die. We all will."

"But you won't for a long time. You've got through the tricky part. Your thirties. That's when women die."

"Your wife?"

"No."

"Your mum?"

He nodded. "That's what I tried for the most when I wore my Jacket of Power. To bring her back."

Katie had to let a few moments elapse, otherwise she would have seemed unsympathetic. Then she asked, "So do I look forty?" She'd thought she was doing quite well, actually. Always wearing sunblock, drinking plenty of water, the usual.

"I'm not saying that. I never have a clue how old anyone is. But you felt safe."

"What sort of safe?"

"Safe for me. Safe from harm. Every kind of safe."

Day 29 When Katie woke, her bedroom was flooded with early morning sunlight. She was still dressed, but her shoes had been removed. She felt as if she was lightly draped in cloths woven by fairies from gossamer. Who knew her trusty old duvet could feel so delightful?

"I've got to go now," Fionn said. "Work."

"Okay."

"Tonight?"

She nodded her assent.

"I have a present for you." He produced a green sprig.

"More rue?" She yawned. "Didn't I say I forgive you?"

"This is sage. I planted it months ago and didn't know why, but I can see now I was growing it for you. Sage is for wisdom."

"Thanks." She let him put it in her hand but she didn't want wisdom. Fionn was her adventure, her gift to herself; she was ready to embrace willful stupidity.

"Well! Someone's getting some!" Danno exclaimed, as Katie walked toward her desk.

"Got a glow on, girlfriend," George said.

"Are you . . . thinner?" Lila-May narrowed her eyes in assessment. "Like, since yesterday?"

"Slasher's back?" Danno asked.

Katie almost stumbled. "No."

"So who? The celebrity gardener?"

Katie nodded.

"I thought you said he was a fool!"

"Yeah, well . . ."

Day 29 . . .

Matt and Maeve were lying on their couch, miserably watching strangers fitting a new bathroom. Neither of them had spoken in twenty-six minutes, when Matt opened his mouth and said, "You'd think people would be suspicious if a man bought an ax."

"A what?"

"An ax. Wouldn't it send up signals that a person was planning to be an ax murderer if he came home with a nice shiny new ax? What else are they used for?"

"Chopping wood?"

"Who chops wood these days? We're not in Little Red Riding Hood."

"What are you talking about?"

"There was this woman at the bus stop-"

"Are you thinking of killing me?"

"Maeve!"

"Your subconscious must be trying to tell you something."

"I haven't got a subconscious! Dr. bloody Shrigley. Putting these ideas in your head. All I'm saying is there was this woman at the bus stop a few weeks ago and-"

"What would you do if I died?"

With visible effort, he calmed himself. "My life would be unbearable, as good as over."

"You'd meet another me."

"I wouldn't. How could I? There will never be another you."

"There are millions of girls like me, girls far better than me. You'd be happier with one of them."

"I wouldn't."

She laughed softly, almost contemptuously. "You used to say that you'd kill yourself if I died."

". . . I would. I would kill myself. That's what I meant."

"It's not what you said."

"It's what I meant."

A bristly silence ensued.

"Anyway," Matt said shortly. "You're not going to die."

I wouldn't be so sure about that, my cuddly amigo . . .

I've finally understood that Maeve isn't taking risks in the traffic just to counteract the tedium of her home life. I've been watching her, really watching her for the last few days. Despite the wall between us, one or two of her thoughts have been so intense and shocking that they've reached me.

If that truck skidded and plowed into me, it wouldn't matter, it wouldn't matter at all.