I hang up and rub my face with my hands. Then I get dressed, go downstairs and put on a warm coat and hat, and set off for a walk hoping that some fresh air might help me get focused. I walk down past the pub which is preparing to open for another busy day when tourists and locals will avail themselves of the finest food and hospitality. Peter, the barman and co-owner, greets me as he puts out his chalkboard with today’s offers and specials: ‘Traditional roast of the day – seafood chowder – fresh cod and chunky chips’. The very thought of food makes me nauseous.

‘Jack off to Canada, then?’ says Peter in his usual smiley, cheery way. ‘You’ll be missing him, so.’

‘I sure will,’ I reply, pretending everything is as it should be. Pretending … how much of my life have I spent pretending?

‘It will go in fast, wait and see,’ says Peter. ‘And sure we’ll all keep an eye on you – if you need anything, even a chat, you know there’s always a welcome in here for you. Don’t be a stranger now, Charlotte.’

I go further but can’t resist stopping by the window of the art gallery with the little yellow door and thatched roof. I never can seem to pass this place. A rather odd-looking still life of the poet, Oscar Wilde, is Mary’s ‘painting of the week’ and just seeing him raises a smile from within me as I remember my engagement party and how my father became obsessed with him after seeing the statue in Merrion Square where we used to live. Strangely, I really like the painting and I make a mental note to tell my dad about it the next time I see him, since we are both now super fans of the man who wrote about the importance of being yourself.

Jack and I really have come so far since our time in Merrion Square. Never in my dreams did I think I’d find a place I loved more than Dublin city, but here I am, mesmerized by every little corner of the new place I now call home.

I wave solemnly through the window at Mary, the jolly owner of the art gallery, who sets down her coffee cup and comes out to say a quick hello.

‘So, have you painted me a picture yet with those lovely materials you bought last time?’ she asks me, folding her arms under her generous bosom. Her cheeks always have such a weather-beaten, rosy glow and just looking at her makes me smile. I know nothing about Mary, only that she always uplifts me and that she makes a mean cup of tea, but she always seems to be able to read my mood like a book.