"Oh really?" Katie was quite excited. Over the course of her career, she'd been in the paper disappointingly few times. Considering the number of launches she went to and the high-caliber celebrity of people she worked with, you'd think it would happen more often. "Was it nice?"

"No, it was not nice. You looked boss-eyed. And you're late. We're already sitting down."

Katie swung into the dining room. They were all there: Naomi and Ralph and the kids, Dad at the head of the table. Even Charlie had turned up.

"God!" Katie recoiled dramatically. "Haven't seen you since-?" Since her birthday. Ages ago.

"Happy birthday, Dad." She slung him his present. "Right! Show us this photo."

"There are only two times in her life when a lady should appear in the press," Penny said. "On her marriage and on her death."

"Is that a real rule?" Katie asked. "Or did you just make it up?" Yet another way to make them all feel shit? "So come on. Where is it?"

"We threw it out," Penny said.

"You didn't?" Suddenly, she was quite riled. She'd be able to get a copy of it at work, but she wanted to see it now. "What did you do that for?" Mean old cow.

Penny looked speculatively at Katie. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Never better," Katie said, breezily. It was Fionn, he was her painkiller. She was scooting through life, too fast to touch the sides, and nothing could burst her bubble, not work, not a bitterly angry mother, nothing.

"And why, seeing as the entire country now knows about this romance, haven't we met this man?"

"It's just a fun, temporary thing."

"Fun?" Penny's brows furrowed in alarm. "Temporary?" She couldn't decide which was worse. "Katie, please remember that a woman's good reputation is all she has."

"I don't mean to be picky but I also have a flat, a car, a television-"

"Too small to matter," Charlie interrupted.

"-thirty-eight pairs of shoes, a Lucy Doyle painting and two hundred euros in the bank." And credit card debts that ran to thousands but no need, no need at all, to get into that now.

"None of them count for anything if you've got a name for yourself. And he's a gardener? A manual worker? A lot younger than you?"

They must have given Fionn's age in the paper-some age, anyway, it could have been anything.

"Katie, you're a professional woman! How much does he earn?"

"Feck all," Robert said, thinking of how much he and Penny paid their own gardener. "At least Conall Hathaway had a proper job. Instead of being a young wastrel who's only with you for your money."

"Fionn's making a television show." Although he was getting paid buttons (Grainne Butcher was shameless).

"A media whore." Penny had obviously come across the phrase only recently. "And Naomi says he lives with that old woman in your building? But he's not her son? Her grandson?"

"No. He's her foster-"

"Well, there it is, then," Robert declared. Fionn clearly made a habit of attaching himself to wealthy older women.

"And he's living there rent-free?" Charlie asked.

"We don't actually know that-"

"Just pokes the oul' wan from time to time to keep her sweet," Charlie said.

"Careful that he doesn't get you to change your will in his favor," Ralph said, his first contribution to the conversation. "And watch out for any cups of tea that taste of bitter almonds." He winked. "Arsenic poisoning."

"This is no laughing matter," Penny said. "Katie could be taken advantage of."

"Basically, you all think that Fionn seduced me for my money and I'm so old and loveless and vulnerable that I think he really loves me?"

"Seduced?" Penny said anxiously.

"Seduced."

The word hung in the air and Ralph muttered, "Christ, you've done it now."

"Mum." Katie smiled. "I have sex. I have done for many, many years. And Naomi smokes twenty cigarettes a day. And . . ." This was it, the moment she'd been waiting for, to reveal the secret that had come to her courtesy of Conall some months ago, to drop the bomb that would blow the whole respectable, rancorous family setup wide open. Could she do it? ". . . and Charlie has a little boy that none of us are supposed to know about."

Day 7 Lydia tumbled into her room and came to an abrupt stop. It was all different. Her short, stumpy bed was draped with the Polish flag, and on her wall was a Blu-tacked poster of that Polish pope, which normally lived on the wall beside Jan's bed. Unfamiliar clothes-men's jeans and T-shirts-were hanging on her clothes rail.

"Where's my stuff?" she called.

She dashed into the other bedroom. The two single beds had been shoved together, to make a double bed with mismatched duvets. A wilted, decomposing gerbera, left over from a bouquet Conall had sent, had been flung on to it. It looked like an accusation. A place of filth.

"What's going on?" she yelped.

Jan appeared.

"So you find my movings?" He sounded bitter, most unlike Jan.

"You did this?"

"I am not so stupid. You are making the sex with Andrei."

"I am not making the sex with Andrei."

"I know it. Do not lie."

Thinking fast, fast, fast, Lydia started talking. "Look, Jan, you're upset." Because he hero-worshipped Andrei and thought Lydia was unworthy of him. She knew there was no way Jan wanted Lydia and Andrei sharing a room; he was just making some sort of point about his feelings-maybe he felt humiliated that he'd been kept in the dark-but never mind Jan's feelings, she hadn't time for them now.

"Jan, would you listen to me? This is important. I admit it's happened a couple of times, but they were accidents."

She couldn't share a room with Andrei. The thought filled her with a horror beyond description. Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. No, no, no.

"Rosie is nice girl. Good girl."

"Jan, help me move the things back." Quick, before Andrei gets home and decides it might actually be a good idea.

"No. I will let you two love boats be as one."

"No, you won't. And you mean love birds."

"Oh, do I?" He gave a little shrug of defiance. "You are love birds?"

"Up! Shut! Quickly! Fast, fast, fast! Get all my stuff outtttttt!"

She'd managed to scare Jan into obedience and inside fifteen minutes she was back in her own room, with her own stuff, but not feeling so good. This had got way too messy. She'd have to move out.

But no, I have plans for her. She can't move out.

Three years ago "Where's everyone?" Maeve asked, stepping into David's flat and noting the silence.

"Not home yet, I suppose. Go on in." He gestured to the sitting room. "You know where it is."

Nothing had changed-the rough woven throw on the couch, the Tibetan tapestry hanging on the wall, the Moroccan rug on the old wooden floor, the beanbags, the peasant ceramics, the lava lamp, the guitar in the corner. Stuff and dust and loose tobacco everywhere.

"Have you still the same-"

"-flatmates? No. Marta went back to Chile and Holly went traveling. Two guys from Turkey now. You might meet them later."

She wasn't planning on staying longer than an hour; but why talk about leaving when she'd only just arrived. He was so bright-eyed and happy to see her.

"Drink?" he asked.

"Okay. Tea, thanks."

"No, no. No. A drink drink. Not every day my ex-girlfriend gets married. Beer."

He produced two Dos Equis and clambered beside her onto the couch. "To old friends." He clinked bottles.

"Old friends," she repeated.

They drank in silence. "Good honeymoon?" he asked.

"Amazing!" Immediately, she wished she hadn't been so enthused.

"Malaysia, I hear. Tell me."

"Well-"

"An obvious military police presence?" David prompted.

"I didn't see any sign of it," Maeve said truthfully.

"Didn't you?" He sounded surprised. Disappointed, actually. She realized he'd have loved a story about fascisty storm troopers beating the tar out of local Hindus for some small show of faith, like letting a cow cross the road. She was sorry she couldn't oblige.

He changed his tack. "So Islam's in the driving seat?"

"God, I dunno, David. I'm not sure. Some of the women were veiled, some weren't."

"Interesting." Thoughtfully, he drummed his fingers on his chin.

"It'll come back to bite them, but for the moment Malaysia's doing a canny job of walking that line."

She knew what line he was talking about, the one between American cultural imperialism and fundamentalist Islam. She cared about world politics too, but suddenly she understood that David had no interest in positive interpretations; it was like he wanted everything to be as bad as it could possibly be.

"I've missed you, Maeve." He reached out his hand and began to twirl his fingers in the curls at her neck. She sat very still. This felt wrong, but she'd been so cruel she couldn't add to the hurt by asking him to stop.

"I hope that we can be friends, David."

"Like the old days?"

"Like the old days, exactly! And when you get to know Matt properly, you'll love him-"

With an unexpected move, David was right in front of her and, to her shock, she realized he was about to kiss her. Quickly, she turned her head so that his mouth landed on her ear. "David, sorry, you know we can't do this."

He nuzzled at her neck and she said, "Sorry, David-look, I think I'd better go."

"But you haven't seen your wedding present."

She stood up. "Don't worry about it. Give it to me some other time. Sorry, but I'm going to go."

"There's nothing to be scared of." He seemed surprised and wounded. "After what you did to me, I just want to give you a wedding present."

"I know, it's just-"

"Come on, come and see it."

"Why? Where is it?"

"In there." He pointed toward his bedroom.

"Oh . . . no, David," she said haltingly. "Just bring it out here."

"I can't, it's too big. Just come in."

"Sorry, David, I don't feel right . . ."

He sighed heavily. "Have you any idea how this is making me feel?" He looked at her with injured eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you. Come on, it's cool, you'll love it."

"Okay." This was David, David.

As he opened the bedroom door, he said, "Close your eyes."

She felt the weight and heat of his hands on her shoulders, guiding her forward.

"Such a big deal." She laughed. "This'd better be worth it."