"Any particular reason for this rare behaviour?"

Nothing.

"Which laundry?"

Pause.

"It hardly matters."

"I'd like to know. I've got a bagful of washing myself."

"I'll take it for you."

"This is very impressive."

"I feel like a drink," he says.

Resting his cigar on the ashtray, he gets up and walks to the drinks cabinet. He pours himself a gin from the measure, uncaps the tonic with the bottle opener and empties it into the glass.

I wander in his direction, over to the aquarium. Our fish always look like they could do with being cheered up, although I doubt us humans have what it takes to make them roll around in the aisles. I bend down and try to attract their attention, tapping my fingernail against the glass. This causes some renewed aquatic flickering. I do so adore causing a sensation with my purple nail varnish.

I turn round again. "Ronan..."

"I've had an unpleasant week, Julie. Could you give it a rest?"

He's had an unpleasant week.

I want to scream.

Why can't he be honest with me? I could put up with nearly anything provided he were honest with me. Oh please, God, make him stop lying over something we can work out.

I stalk over to the french windows and fling them open, stamp out on to the balcony and slam them behind me. I lean against the railing, staring out at the night, punctured by the solitary white lamp lights posted along the dark pier and seafront, wondering what I am going to do.

Why can't I I be honest with be honest with him? him?

No. I must remain silent. I must. Mother was honest, to her detriment. What if he lies? Continues to lie to me?

I must calm down.

I must bide my time.

I will find out the truth.

Myself.

Friday, 17 June, morning13

It's ten a.m. and I'm still at home.

I should be in the Law Library beating away briefs or schmoozing with creeps. Drafting statements of claim, even.

But I'm not.

Why?

I've been having a few thoughts over cornflakes, tea, toast and marmalade. While Ronan is safely out of the flat treating someone's root canal, I have been thinking: okay, we know that this was probably no more than a three-day fling. An aberration. A limited fornication edition. He was just playing around, at the mercy, poor thing, of his hormones.

But.

That doesn't exactly debar me from checking her out, does it?

This is why I have just lifted up the receiver and dialled Nicole's home number, having first double-checked that her name appeared in the phone directory.

As I'm crunching the last corner of marmalade-infested toast betwixt my canines, a man's deep voice answers: "Yes."

"Hello, could I speak to Nicole Summers, please?"

"Who are you?"

Everybody seems to be in a foul mood these days. At a guess, his spare parts are being poorly serviced at the moment.

"Excuse me," I daringly reply, "but who are you?"

"Harry. She's at work."

"I don't actually have her work number."

"Who's this?" he inquires less gruffly.

"It's just a friend."

"And you don't know where she works?"

"We haven't met in a long time. Not since college."

"She didn't go to college."

Pause.

"I meant, not since I I went to college." went to college."

"Actually, she was at college."

Further pause.

"Piano school," he says with an edge.

So she is is cultured. cultured.

"She was always interested in music," I offer outrageously. "Does she still play?"

"I sold her piano last week. She was always banging away at it. Never any peace. I do a lot of DIY. I couldn't hear myself hammering."

He sold the piano. Lucky for the piano. How I'd love to have hacked away at the piano keys and the soundboard with my icepick, chopping through wood and wire.

"I suppose painting is a lot less noisy," I remark.

"Except she sings sings while painting." while painting."

I pay him the compliment of finding this comment funny and he seems to warm to me. Another innocent just like the rest.

"Does she still work for..." says I, fishing in an empty barrel.

"She's still in the travel business. She's in town these days. Recent transfer. Clearway Travel in Marlborough Street."

I underscore this mentally. "She was always interested in travel," I say, hopelessly out of my depth.

"Still is. She was in Portugal this week."

"Really? I saw her yesterday afternoon."

"No, she flew back yesterday evening."

"But I'm certain it was her. The long golden hair...everything about her. That's why I'm calling."

"What was she wearing?"

"A cream-coloured suit and shoes, a white blouse, a lemon...er...shades."

There's a long pause in the conversation at this point.

"Where did you see her?"

"By the canal."

"What was she doing?"

"She was sitting on a bench."

"So why didn't you go over and say hello?"

"She was with some guy."

"Oh, she was."

"Yes, she was sitting on top of him. They were moving around like a chainsaw. He looked like he was in serious pain. Are you her brother?"

No reply.

"I felt it would be wrong of me," I add, "to disturb her simply for old times' sake."

There's still this pained silence.

"Bitch!" bursts out through the receiver.

I can't tell you how much this moral support means to me.

"I hope I haven't..."

"Describe the man to me."

"I'm very sorry for being the bearer of such...sad tidings..."

"I want to meet you."

"Oops! My hot chocolate is boiling over. I have to go. Goodbye."

I press the red button.

I get showered, faced and dressed.

And drop into my car like speed.

On my way to Clearway Travel, I phone my mother.

She picks up. "I'm busy," she says at once.

Immediately I regret phoning her. She can be so moody. I make a daily habit of forgetting this, due to what she calls my 'generous forgiving nature'. The label has stuck. I really believe my mother endowed me with it years ago with a purpose: she knew she could devote her life to the unfettered pursuit of her greatest pleasuregrumpinessand get away with it. Knowing I'd still love her.

I do my best to disguise the wobble in my voice. "It's me."

"It's me. It's me It's me. Great introduction. You know, the world is full of people called me. And I'm lucky enough to know just about half of them..."

I let her rant on in that articulate voice of hers, roughened and deepened by her sixty-five years, so much so that with each passing year she sounds more and more like my late grandfather.

The problem is she thinks I view her as a hollow wooden charity box into which you dump your weekly dues and promptly forget for another week. Actually, I love her to bits.

"So, which me is it this time? If it's Bridie, you and John owe me five pounds for beating you at bridge. Or is it a different me? Is it the me who failed to clean behind the taps when I pay her handsomely at least to pretend she's a cleaner? Or the me who gave me a tea cosy for my birthday last March when she knew I wanted that bracelet? Or the me who conveniently forgot about me last Mother's Day? Would it be that me, perhaps?"

Let me point out at once that Mother was not always like this. I think that her separation from Father left a permanent imprint on her personality.

So I just keep my trap shut.