"I was just thinking."

"Well?"

"Would you like to come back to the B&B for a cup of coffee?"

"Well...it's nice of you to ask..."

"It's not very exciting, I know."

"It's not that. I just..."

"Oh, do come round, Julianne!" she urges, sensing weakness. "We could even go for a walk on Killiney beach nearby, it's lovely in the evenings now. A lot of people go there."

She's like an old college friend, full of naive gaiety.

"What about Ronan?" I ask her doubtfully.

"We won't be meeting tonight. Besides, he'd always call first."

She knows him better than I do.

I feel all grotty again, real squashed like a heap of dung. "I'd better go, Nicole."

"It's okayyou've probably got other things on."

"That's the whole point: I haven't."

"Well then, if..."

"Look," I say, "maybe I'll drop round later..."

She nods to herself. "Whatever," she says, unable to hide her disappointment. It's so obvious she'd like me to come with her and keep her company.

I pull myself out of the car, slam the door and bend down to peer through the window of the Fiat and try to smile at her, but I can't.

I walk away then.

42 42.

When I get back to my new apartment I turn on my phone and check it for messages to see who cares about me.

Not one single message. No one cares.

I call Mother.

No reply. Probably out with her bridge toyboys.

I turn it off again.

A fog of silence encloses me as I stand in the middle of my new hall. I can hear nothing except the distant rumble of cars. I walk over to the balcony and peer through the window at the beautiful park below.

Turning again, I notice something new and colourful on the dinner table. From Sylvana's royal-blue glass vase sprouts a bunch of red, pink and white carnations. She must have been in here this afternoon (she insisted on having a key). She came specially and filled the vase with flowers. She didn't have to do that.

She bought the two beautiful thick sheepskin rugs for me as well. She spotted them in the shop, and she insisted. She could have got a cheap rug. But no. She had to get the best for me. The potted plants. She organized it all herself. She has turned my roof garden into a botanic paradise. She's been fantastic. She's been here for me, she's listened to me, she's given me constructive advice. I don't know how I can ever repay her.

She wants me to make this my home.

But how can I make this my home?

I don't even know what I'm doing here. Trying to hurt Ronan's feelings? His response was: 'congratulations'. The bastard congratulated me.

Bright mid-evening sunset rays are bouncing off the small lake, projecting a shaking tremolo of colour on to the ceiling. Through my hand-shaded eyes I glimpse a darkening panoply of rich green. I open the french windows and you can hear the soft, dense hiss of nature, the occasional lonesome chirp of a bird or quack of a duck.

I take out my phone and input Sylvana's number. I wait. It starts ringing. Then suddenly for no reason I press 'off. I collapse on to the sofa, gripped by a panic of emptiness, a tight knot of longing for Ronan.

How can I stay here, a foreign body amid all these pieces of bare, dead furniture? I can't make them come alive. Not even Sylvana can help to make them come alive. Even her beautiful flowers, the most alive thing here, look artificial. I can't make anything come alive without Ronan. I can't make myself myself come alive without Ronan. come alive without Ronan.

It's dead in here. Empty. Lifeless. Like a museum. I'm looking at articles of furniture once sat in, eaten on, used by former owners or tenants, waiting for me to pour life back into them once again. But what life have I got without Ronan?

How can I sit here in this couch in this room, in those armchairs, at that table and feel that this is me me, that this is my is my life? That's what Sylvana wants me to do, but I just can't. I should be with Ronan this very minute. life? That's what Sylvana wants me to do, but I just can't. I should be with Ronan this very minute.

He told her our marriage is dead.

A lever snaps inside me and suddenly I find myself lying curled up on the couch with my head in my arms, and the dam has burst now and I can't stop crying. Ronan is the most important person in the world to me. My eyes are clenched closed but I can't get him out of my head. We're dancing, yes, we're dancing, but close together and he's holding me tight and I'm leaning on his shoulder kissing his neck, adoring his masculine scent and we're dancing, dancing away and there's music and it's just the two of us, and another bout of tears erupts inside because I'm scared that everything between Ronan and me rests on one thing and one thing alone.

Delusion.

He congratulated me.

I can't stay here. Why am I here? Moving in here to make a point? To frighten him? It won't work. It's ridiculous. It's a bad joke. It will only push him further away.

I must call him. I don't know what I'm going to say to him but I must call him. I pick up the mobile off the sofa and switch it on. I input his number. It's ringing. I am suddenly and strangely filled with hope. People make mistakes. People can forgive. Why be so hard-hearted? His real voice answers.

"Ronan. It's me. Julie."

I'm wiping my face, trying desperately not to sob.

"Ronan, do you remember I was telling you about that apartment which I said I was staying in...?"

"Where's my bloody Porsche?"

It's the way he just spoke to me.

I was paralysed, unable to answer. I held the phone away from my ear. He ground out my name several times, unsure if I was still on the line, his voice thin and harsh, scraping like a chisel against rock. He demanded his Porsche back. I could have responded, but I was unable, I was afraid. He hung up.

I'm sitting in my MG, parked on the kerb outside the front entrance of Nicole's B&B, staring down the sloping driveway to the front door.

Her yellow car is in the tarmacadamed front garden. I've just turned off the ignition and opened my door, but I haven't got out yet, although my right foot is on the road. It's waiting for my left foot to join it but there's no sign yet of that eventuality. Like a moron, I stay like this for over a minute. Normally I'm a decisive person.

I pull my foot back in again. I pull the door shut.

But I don't restart the car.

I stare up the road towards Sorrento Park and the Victorian terrace overlooking Killiney Bay, where Mother said she'd love to end up. Only problem is that Dalkey is a hilly place and when you get to her age you have to consider stuff like hills and walking up them, so her idea is not entirely practicable.

I just stare through the open window at the cold purple clouds above, the sun casting a golden-pink light on the faces of passing strollers.

One couple passes by. They seem content. A black Labrador follows behind, poking his nose into the backs of the woman's knees, melancholy, craving attention. The woman has her arm tucked round her partner's back and she is smiling. The poor dog is being ignored.

I get out of the car and shut the door without bothering to lock it. I pass through the gateposts. I crunch down the gravel towards the faded white front entrance.

Nicole.

How can a person so let down by life still have such native confidence in people? Such optimism in the face of misfortune? How can she still love beauty as she does, after everything that's happened to her? I can hear her voice, singing lightly in my head, appealing as a tinkly bell.

She believes in trust.

I can see her, by the window in her room, staring out to sea, longing to leave unhappiness behind and find joy with the man she loves. Alone, surrounded by her luggage.

How can I hate her?

I am at the doorstep of the B&B, staring at the bell, unsure. Turning round again, I notice it is almost dark. I can't decide. I turn round again to face the door. I push the door and surprisingly it opens. I hesitate.

Then I walk in. I pass the small office on the right, but the lady is not there; the sliding panel is shut. Quietly I ascend the stairs. The place is in darkness. Wiry television sounds spiral from a thin yellow strip of light at the bottom of one door. From another room reverberate the bass sounds of muffled voices. I go to the top of the house where Nicole's is.

I knock.

There's no sound. Before knocking again I put my ear to the door. There's just the low murmur of the TV. Now I hear some movement inside. She's probably in her en suite.

I delay a few minutes and listen. She's all alone. Her father and stepmother resent her. Her favourite brother is in Amsterdam. She has no family. She's never spoken to me about any other friends she might have. She's just finished a four-year relationship with a man who abused her. She's putting all her hopes in a man I know won't stick with her.

After several minutes I raise my knuckles to the door once more. I am about to knock when suddenly I hear this giggling. There's a man's voice now. I stand for another minute listening, paralysed. Until I am sure there can be no doubt.

I steal away until I reach the bend in the landing where I pause to listen again. I can hear only the scraping noise of televisions and the muffled sound of voices.

I run down the stairs and out of the front door.

Thursday, 23 June, morning

It's eleven o'clock and I'm still in bed. I know this is going to be one day when I order the world to go shove it where light beacons do not fit.

I have an unexpected appearance in court scheduled for today. I'm cancelling. My Senior Counsel can go dance. I'll ring in sick. More appropriately, perhaps, I'll ring in mental.

Fact is, I'm due a break from work. It's important, sporadically, to give one's misery some good, quality time.

I knew I heard something.

I sit bolt upright in my bed.

There's a noise in the hall.

"Jesus, Sylvana! You gave me a fright."

She walks in carrying a large paper bag, her haughty face locked into fierce alliance with me against mankind.

I drop back down on the pillow like a stone.

"Keep your hair on, Julie. Herelook what I've brought you."

She opens her paper bag beneath my jaw. She's brought me some doughnuts and Danishes and coffee. She's a dear. I plump up the pillows behind me, and she hands me a paper plate and shakes a Danish on to it, followed by some stray pecan nuts, and she passes me a cup of cool coffee and I start to guzzle and slurpeven before she's made herself comfortable at the end of my bed and starts to guzzle and slurp herself.

She's a sweetie. She could have got me almond Danishes, or the chocolate or the strawberry Danishes, but she didn't. She could even have got me those disgusting raspberry muffins which remind me of the vile doughnuts they used to make (and probably still make in certain quarters) with that rasping crimson chemical ointment in the middle that smells like wart remover and tastes like varnishand you're supposed to believe it's crushed straight from the juicy strawberry.

But noshe got me pecan plaits.

Stuff like that matters.

But why has she come, I wonder?

Gossip, I bet. She wants to hear if I've been stupid, and gone and contacted members of a prohibited list.

And the Danishes? The sweetener. The tongue loosener. This is the danger of Danish pastries: they leave you open to subtle forms of abuse.

"Julie," she says at last, grimly. "We have a problem."

I look up at her, my cheeks full of Danish junk.

"Ronan called me just now. He was inquiring about his car."

"He's neurotic about that Porsche." I munch.

"He assumed you might have an idea what happened to it."

"What a ridiculous assumption."

Sylvana likes it when I'm like this.

"He told me he's calling round to my place later. If his Porsche is not there he wants you to be there instead."

"His penis substitute."

"What will I tell him?"