But the waste, the awful, shameful waste. A whole extra year of Mum being eroded from within. Poor Mum.

And poor Lydia, she suddenly thought. Her mouth opened and she found herself howling, crying like a little girl, like her heart was breaking. She took one hand off the steering wheel and put it over her mouth, trying to stifle the shocking noise of her own grief. Tears poured down her face and blurred her vision and she kept on driving, because what else could you do?

Day 9 . . .

The taxi nosed aggressively across the ten-lane boulevard, navigating between vans, cars, bicycles and roaring motorbikes, and fetched up in the set-down area outside the glinty, glassy hotel doors. A liveried flunky stepped up, smartly opened the car door and Conall collapsed out into the soupy humid night. He handed the taxi driver a handful of crumpled notes and was making his way gratefully toward the cool, blandly international interior, when a shouted imprecation made him turn round again. It was the taxi driver, a tiny, skinny man sweating into a nylon shirt. His expression was mean and he'd got out-out!-of the car, something taxi drivers never did, especially if a large suitcase needed to be wrestled into the trunk. He was waving the handful of notes and addressing Conall in rapid, irate foreignness. The only words Conall understood were Vietnam, Vietnam!

His thoughts moved too slowly in the thick air. Had he underpaid him? But he was sure he'd added a hefty tip to the sum on the meter.

The flunky stepped in and explained. "He says you have paid him in Vietnamese dong."

So?

"This is not Vietnam."

It wasn't? So where was it?

Conall's mind went entirely blank. Seeking clues, he gazed around him. Behind him, there was the glass and glitz hotel tower; across the hooting, teeming boulevard, a night market thronged with short brown men; beyond that, almost out of sight, was the beginning of some wretched shanties.

God, your man was right, it wasn't Vietnam. Vietnam had been yesterday. Today it was that other place. Another hot one. He'd think of it in a second. Indonesia!

"Cambodia, sir."

"That's right, Cambodia!" He produced his wallet. He should have some Cambodian currency here. There were notes in here all right, from many different places, but . . . "What does it look like?"

"May I, sir?" Politely, the flunky took Conall's wallet. Conall noticed the look of contempt that shot between the flunky and the taxi driver: this big rich white man with too much money.

"It's been a long day," Conall said. And it had been. It had started in another country, in another time zone.

The business was transacted with the driver and Conall's wallet returned to him. "Sorry about that."

"I gave him a tip," the doorman said.

"Thanks very much and, er, give yourself one too."

"Thank you, sir. Checking in?"

They put him in a suite, a massive place with a huge sitting room, a dressing room and two bathrooms. He'd be there for five hours. He was leaving to fly to Manila at 6 a.m. The decor was generic luxury hotel- velvet-flocked wallpaper, hefty armoires and suffocatingly deep carpets. Past the elaborately swagged windows, it was blazing hot out there.

He tried to pull off his tie, but it was already long gone. Somewhere during the course of today's challenges, he'd discarded it.

The work used to begin in the car from the airport but now people met him at the gate as he emerged from the plane and briefed him as they moved along the moving walkways and waited in the queue for passport control. Before he'd even left Phnom Penh airport this morning, he had absorbed huge chunks of information on the local infrastructure, the national corporate legislation and the pros and cons of the manpower.

As usual, a team of on-site lawyers, accountants, translators, transcribers and assistants had been put at his disposal. The Phnom Penh team were well on top of things and it had looked like this was going to be a fairly tidy shut-down-until Pheakdei Thong had brought him a piece of local legislation: generous tax breaks had been given so that the Cambodian operation would stay open for ten years. It had been on the go for less than four. If Conall shut it down the directors would be subject to criminal charges.

Grappling with tricky treacherous local issues was exactly what Conall was paid for.

Hang the directors out to dry-that was the most cost-effective thing to do. But . . .

Pheakdei Thong had waited politely as Conall disappeared into his head, playing end games with myriad configurations, following the trail as every possible permutation branched, then split, then split again, until it came down to individual human beings dotted around the globe either losing their jobs or keeping them.

If I keep the warehouses in Hanoi, but shut the factories, do a deal with the suppliers in Laos, move the transport arm from Indonesia to . . . where? Possibly the Philippines, yeah okay, the Philippines. But in that case I need a port further north. Ho Chi Minh is a port. But the U.S. trade sanctions on Vietnam . . .

Right, let's try it another way.

Keep the suppliers in Laos and-how come no one has thought of this?- manufacture in Laos, ship across the Mekong to Thailand, source warehouses there, eat the higher costs because of cheaper labor in Laos. But hold on, isn't there a cap on trade between Thailand and Laos . . .?

He had tried out several more versions, wishing he could split himself in two, three, even six and nip back to the Philippines or Vietnam or Laos to clarify the local situation. Eventually, it had become clear that the solution to moving past this sticky impasse lay in the Philippines. He'd have to go back to Manila. Bollocks.

He'd stood up. "We're done here."

Pheakdei Thong had looked surprised. "What's happening?"

"Nothing. You're staying as you are." It was a sickener: all that work wasted. "Could someone book me a flight to the Philippines?"

They had been openly delighted to get rid of him. At times, you know, he'd thought wearily, it could be a little depressing being hated and feared as much as he was. He'd left them celebrating his departure and caught a taxi to his hotel-where, due to exhaustion, he'd forgotten what country he was in.

He had to eat something; he couldn't remember when he'd last had a meal. He didn't have to look at the room-service menu to know what would be on it: Caesar salad, club sandwich, mushroom pizza.

But he was too depleted to face the chat when the food came. How was your day, Mr. Hathaway? Will I pour your coffee now, Mr. Hathaway? Will I leave it here, Mr. Hathaway?

These places always had M&Ms in their minibars, a fixed point in an uncertain world. Sure enough, there they were, his little friends. Gingerly, as if his body was stiff and bruised, Conall lowered himself until he was lying on the floor, then he tipped the entire bag of sugar-coated pearls of delight into his mouth.

When the phone rang at 6 a.m., he was still stretched out on the floor beside the minibar, a clod of half-crunched M&Ms in his open mouth.

Three years ago Two days after Maeve returned from her honeymoon she met David in the corridor at work. Guiltily, she braced herself for him to hang his head woefully and sidle past her with dramatic sadness, as he had done every time their paths had crossed in the previous months, but this time, to her great surprise, he advanced toward her, presenting a pleasant smile.

"Welcome back, Maeve, or should I say Mrs. Geary?" he said, cordially. "Nice honeymoon?"

"Um . . . yes . . ."

"Sorry I didn't show on the big day . . ."

"No! Please! Don't worry, I get it. Did you mind being invited? It was like if we don't invite you, you'll be pissed off; if we do invite you, you'll be pissed off."

"Yeah, I know, I know."

"David, I'm really sorry," she said, quietly.

"It's okay."

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"Forgiving me."

"Hey, I never said that." But he smiled and boulders of guilt tumbled away from her and she felt light and free. A new day had dawned in Maeve-David relations.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, David." Fiercely, she said, "You meant a lot to me. You're a good man. It was the last thing I ever wanted to do."

"I know that." Almost shamefaced, he said, "I got you guys a wedding present."

"Oh David . . ."

"But I don't want to show up here with it. I'd feel a bit . . ."

"I know! Of course."

"You could pick it up from my place."

"Sure, like, whatever suits you."

"Tonight?"

"Sure, why not?"

Actually, tonight suited her perfectly. Matt was going out for dinner with potential clients; only back from his honeymoon and straight back into the schmoozing he did so well. Out of nowhere, a little voice in her head piped up that it might be best if she didn't tell Matt about this. Obviously, he'd know after the event, with a brand-new wedding present sitting in the middle of their flat, but was there any need to tell him in advance? He might tell her she shouldn't bother, that David was in the past. But this was her chance to mend fences with David, to lessen her load of guilt. It was okay for Matt, Natalie was so arrogant that nothing could knock her faith in herself for long, but Maeve had done lasting damage to David and it was doing her head in.

Day 8 At first, Lydia thought the flat was empty. But Andrei was sitting very quietly in the living room.

"Hello," he said, his face a polite mask. "You have been in Boyne?"

"Yeah. I borrowed your bag."

"I notice."

She squinted. Was that a snarky remark or a statement of fact?

He gazed back at her-and it was as if they'd been launched from a catapult. Suddenly, they were clawing at each other's clothes, hair, skin. Moving as one, they backed across the landing, bumped into his bedroom door, then crashed on to his bed. He handled her with purpose and, in moments, he was sliding himself inside her. No foreplay or niceties, it was fast and furious, and she wanted it fast and furious. Whatever force overtook them, it could only be acted out in a frenzy. No talking, no technique, just straight down to business.

He was like an animal. And so was she, when she was with him. It was all about instinct and feeling.

But, as soon as it was over, sanity returned. She was . . . well, she was surprised.

She'd thought that Conall Hathaway had cured her of Andrei. But, now that she examined the facts, she realized that she had barely seen Andrei in the last two weeks, and on the couple of occasions she had seen him, Jan was in tow. It was easy to be cured of accidentally having frantic sex with someone when you didn't see him.

"That was the last time," Lydia said. "Last time ever. I've got a boyfriend."

"You want medal? I have girlfrie-" Andrei froze. Sounds were coming from beyond the bedroom. "Jan. He is home."

Andrei sprang from the bed and began pulling clothes on over his sweaty body. "Get dressed!"

"You get dressed!" It was mildly insulting how much Andrei wanted to hide things from Jan, but Lydia didn't want Jan finding out either. It's not like what they were doing was illegal or anything, but the fewer people who knew, the easier it was for her to believe that it hadn't taken place at all. Mind you, it was a miracle that Jan hadn't guessed yet even if you did factor in his monumental stupidity.

He was singing to himself out there. There was a clinky noise as he dumped stuff onto the kitchen table, then he went into the bathroom. As soon as the lock clicked, Andrei said urgently, "Go."

She rang Poppy, but she didn't pick up. "Pops, ring me. I'm not cured."

Then she rang Sissy, but she didn't pick up either.

She had no option but to ring Shoane, although as a moral arbiter, Shoane wouldn't be her first choice. "I've had sex with Andrei again."

"Riiiggghhhtt." She heard Shoane light a cigarette, settling in for a chat.

"He's going on his holidays to Poland at the end of next week, but I'll have to live with him till then. What if it happens again? Like, Hathaway's sort of my boyfriend now. I don't like being a two-timer." Having a series of boyfriends, grand. Having a new one three days after she'd dumped the previous one, fine. But two-timing, no. It just didn't feel right to her.

"Ah, I wouldn't worry," Shoane said. "I'm sure Hathaway gets prostitutes when he's in those hotels."

"You think?"

"Well, maybe. Like, he could. He has enough money and he'd be in those business places and, look, I'm only saying, don't worry about it."

"Well, okay. Thanks for your words of comfort. I suppose."

Day 8 . . .

Maeve and Dr. Shrigley were sitting in silence. Neither had spoken for over seven minutes.

". . . I don't know." Wearily, Maeve rubbed her face.

"Are you still being bothered by Fionn?"

"Um . . . no . . . he has a girlfriend now. Katie. She lives in the same house as me."

But it made no difference. The damage had been done. Fionn's letters and blatant gawking had started some kind of unraveling, and even though he'd lost interest in her, it wasn't enough to reverse the momentum.

"That's good," Dr. Shrigley said. ". . . Isn't it? Maeve? Are you with me?"

"Sorry. Yes."

"Are you still doing your daily Act of Kindness?"

"Yeah." She hadn't done any in ages.

Once again they eddied back down into quiet.

"You were late today," Dr. Shrigley said suddenly. This surprised Maeve. Dr. Shrigley rarely instigated any exchange. "You've been late for the last three sessions."

Maeve shrugged.

"All behavior is communication," Dr. Shrigley said. "Your lateness communicates that you may no longer be committed to this process."

Relief began to steal through Maeve. It sounded like Dr. Shrigley was working her way round to sacking her. She wouldn't have to come here any longer and pretend. It would be the last part of the act to go.

Day 8 . . .

Something had happened. Before Katie had even got her key out of her bag, her mum had wrenched open the front door. Penny was quivering with rage. "Your photograph was in the Herald," she hissed. "With your new boyfriend. What a thing to do to your father on his birthday."