‘Erm…no thanks, I’m fine.’

‘Or something to eat? Seriously, our chef can make you anything. She’s just itching for the chance.’

When I shook my head, she laughed. God, she was a doll.

‘Loving your willpower,’ she told me. ‘Mr Quinlivan should be with you shortly.’

I sat on a beautiful low armchair. Lovely. Then I swapped to the couch. Even lovelier. A bowl of fresh fruit—perfectly ripe bananas, lustrous grapes and giant, shiny apples—sat on the coffee table. It would be okay to eat whatever I wanted but I’d feel bad about disrupting the perfect proportions.

Even more tempting were the boxes of handmade chocolates stacked on a shelf. But if I started on that lark, who knew where it would end? With me trying to break into the Cadbury factory in Coolock, probably. (I could do nothing in moderation. Nothing.)

I eyed the fridge, wondering what was inside. Milk, maybe. And butter. Boring basics. All the same, it continued to exert a draw. I love other people’s fridges—they’re often exciting places, much more so than, say, store cupboards (chickpeas and their dull ilk).

The thing was, I was very nervous. Sometime yesterday, I’d gone hot-cold at the realization that there was a chance of bumping into Luke today. A small chance, admittedly, because only rich people or their lucky employees used this private terminal.

Also, I’d no idea when he was flying home. But they got so little time off work in the US, even for bereavements, that I couldn’t imagine him sticking around for much longer than today. Tomorrow at the very latest.

Which meant that by tomorrow night, I could exhale—even though I knew I’d also feel disappointment and a devastating sense of anticlimax. That’s feelings for you. Irritatingly contradictory.

To calm myself, I listed out the good parts of my life, things that I knew to be facts. I was drug-free and well, had a job I loved, good friends, a peculiar but loving family and I was in a healthy relationship with a good man.

Quin and I were quite different people but we had such fun. Even when we disagreed, it was always good-humoured.

He was interested in me—my opinions, my thoughts, everything. He was in my corner, in a major way.

And I fancied him. Unlike Brigit, Claire and Brianna at work, the suggestion of sex didn’t make me exclaim, ‘Jesus Christ, isn’t my life shitty enough! I collapse into bed after an absolute arse of a day and then he shows up, jabbing his lad at me! He’s nearly fifty! Can somebody please tell me, when does it stop?’