"Same salary packages."

She watched him suspiciously.

"There's no catch," he said. "It's all above board. New employment contacts are being drawn up and will be with you within the hour. Now, will you go out with me?"

She lowered her eyes and said nothing. This was the moment when her self-interest clashed with her loyalty to those of her colleagues he had sacked.

"Can I take you to the ballet?" she heard him ask.

She jerked her head up. "God, no. I find it so tedious I want to cry, and when they go up on their pointes I get an excruciating pain in my big toes in sympathy."

A smile touched his face, perhaps the first ever smile she'd seen from him. "Pains in your big toes?" He gazed at her as if she was both rare and fascinating. "I see. How about the opera? Would you like that?"

"No, no, no. I can't stand it. I have to listen to too much music for my job. I hate it all."

"All of it?" He seemed astounded. "Even Leonard Cohen?"

"Even Leonard Cohen."

"Christ, that's a shame. Like, for you . . . I love music."

"Because you're a man."

That made him laugh. Silently, but it was still a laugh.

"So what sort of music do you like?" she asked.

"Opera, obviously, but anything really. Except maybe power ballads."

"Well, I like silence."

"Silence?" He shook his head with wonder. She was in the highly unusual position where every word that came out of her mouth was being received as enthralling. Savor this, she told herself. The memory will keep you company in your old age.

"You don't like the ballet, you don't like the opera, you don't like music. What do you like?"

She thought about it. "Eating. Sleeping. Drinking wine with my friends and discussing celebrity meltdowns." The days of lying to a man to make herself sound fascinating were far in the past.

"Eating . . .?" he asked. "Sleeping . . .?" Again his face was radiant with admiration.

She'd had no idea that she was so interesting.

"Especially eating," she said.

"You don't look like you love to eat."

If only he knew the battle she fought with her appetite. The bloody thing was like a Rottweiler, pulling and straining, trying to escape her hold and eat all in sight.

"I have a personal trainer," she admitted.

"So do I," he said.

"Mine's called Florence. She takes me out running in the rain and makes me do jumping jacks in Tesco's parking lot. I only see her once a week but she trusts me to do stuff on my own and I feel guilty if I don't."

"Mine's called Igor. We go to the gym."

"I never wanted to be the kind of person who had a personal trainer," she confided.

But she'd never wanted to be the kind of person who wore size 18 jeans either and, left to her own devices, that's exactly what she'd be.

"How about next Saturday?" he asked.

"Why do you want to go out with me? I can't be your usual type."

"You're not. But I'm . . ." He shook his head. "I'm, ah, you know, can't stop thinking about you."

She looked at him beseechingly. This was very difficult.

"Just one date," he said.

One date. It wasn't as if he was asking her to marry him. Not that Katie wanted to get married. Yes, once upon a time she'd wanted the ring and the dress and the babies-so shoot her. There were lots of things she had wanted once upon a time: to be size 8; to be fluent in Italian; to hear that Brad had got back with Jennifer. None of those things had come to pass but she'd survived.

Even if she wanted to get married, it was obvious it wouldn't happen with Conall. It was highly unusual for a man to reach the age of forty-two (as Conall had) without having accidentally got married. Even a commitment-dodger as nimble as George Clooney had a failed marriage lurking somewhere in his past.

"What were you doing in the stationery shop?" she asked, with sudden urgency. "Remember one day, I met you-"

"I remember. I was just . . . looking at stuff . . ."

"You mean, you didn't go in to buy something specific? You were just . . . browsing?"

"Browsing?" He tried out the word. "I suppose you could say that. I guess I . . . like . . . stationery shops."

Her heartbeat quickened: they had a common interest. "How do you feel about drugstores? Do you ever just browse in them?"

"I like them," he said cautiously.

"I love them. They're such a force for good. They can help you sleep better, take away indigestion, tan your skin . . ."

"I agree. But what I really enjoy is a good hardware shop. You?"

"Well, they're useful," she acknowledged with the same caution he had employed. She couldn't abide hardware stores, they were always so cold. But she was prepared to show willing.

"Saturday?" he said, sensing that she'd softened.

What about the people he had sacked? Then again, you only got one life and one shot at happiness . . .

"Do you have any chocolate?" she asked.

He looked surprised. "Yes."

"I mean on you, right now?"

He patted a pocket. "Yes."

"Do you always have chocolate with you?"

"Um . . . yeah."

A man who always had chocolate on him? It would mean the kiss of death for her battle with food. But how could she not be charmed-even a little-by a man who loved what she loved?

"Okay," she said. "Saturday."

He sighed. "Bless you."

It caused consternation among Katie's friends and family. Everyone had an opinion.

Her friend Sinead was ecstatic. "Hope for us all!" Sinead and Katie had soldiered together in the single-girl trenches. "Promise me, Katie, that you'll have sex all the time. Do it for me, for the rest of us deprived singletons."

Her friend MaryRose, however, was more cautious. "Ride rings around yourself, by all means, but don't think that just because you're ancient you can't get up the pole." MaryRose, aged forty and a half, had recently become a first-time-and single-mother. "Let your mantra be: Precautions, precautions, precautions!"

Katie's mum, Penny, said, "I don't know why you're wasting your time with him. If he's forty-two and never been married, he's hardly likely to get married now."

And Katie's sister Naomi had the darkest prediction. "He'll make mincemeat of you."

"He won't," Katie protested. "I'm not going to fall for him."

"So why are you bothering at all?"

"Just killing time until I die."

Day 59.

Things Lydia hates (in no particular order):.

Buskers.

Cyclists.

Cabbage.

People who say, "I know how you feel," when they don't

Her brother Murdy.

People who say "Supper" when they mean "Dinner"

Bus drivers.

Student drivers

Van drivers

Cavan accents

Valentine's Day.

Her brother Ronnie

The aging process.

Please note: this is not a complete list.