lay in bed for a week – at least it felt like a week but it was probably no more than four days, which was still good going. The morning after my birthday I had eventually waited until I’d heard sounds in Claire’s apartment to knock on her door for help with my dress. It was answered by her husband in his boxers and with tousled hair, which told me enough; that she’d had to finally let go of something too and now Conor’s memory was free to be celebrated.

There were no disruptions from Life arriving unannounced at inappropriate times, no envelopes landing on my newly cleaned carpet. I had plenty of messages from my friends asking me to go out, arranging to meet, apologising, trying to make up for lost time, trying to take advantage of my new-found truthfulness, and I didn’t ignore them but I didn’t go out to meet them either and I certainly didn’t lie. I told them that I wanted and needed to be alone, I wanted to enjoy living in my little bubble for a little longer, and for the first time in my life it wasn’t a lie. Mum had taken Mr Pan to Glendalough and while I missed him I knew he was in a far better place; it wasn’t fair to him to be cooped up in here and it was either live with Mum or live with me in a cardboard box under a bridge, and I doubted I’d fit the brown suede couch in a shopping trolley with the rest of our possessions. The choice wasn’t that difficult in the end. I likened it to a spring clean; as soon as I’d started decluttering, the rest of the baggage was falling away easily.

Sometime in the four-day hibernation retreat I’d actually gone shopping for real food that had to be prepared and cooked. As out of practice as I was, I had to remember that real food took organisation and had to be prepared before hunger hit. On top of cleaning the three-year-old muck from my summer festival Wellington boots, if I collected enough stamps at the supermarket I would get a free rug; it would take me a year of real food shopping but it was an incentive to keep going back. I’d bought lemons and limes and filled a small vase in a nod to my friend in the magazine. I’d rather I never had to work again, I still hadn’t found a passion for anything, that nauseating word I kept hearing people say to me, and even though I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life – an unrealistic cupcake shop dream aside – I was starting to get on the right way of thinking. I would try and find something that marginally interested me and which paid the bills. Progress. However, my birthday money wouldn’t last for ever, in fact it was paying next month’s rent so I needed a job quickly. I showered and dressed and made sure I was perfectly prepared with a fresh cup of coffee as I sat at the breakfast counter to read the newspaper Life had flung at me on my birthday. I hadn’t actually looked at it when or since he’d thrown it down on the counter – I was too distracted by the blob of cream the corner page had lifted from my sponge cake – but as soon as I began to read, I was lost. Circled in red in what I assumed must be a suggested responsible job in the middle of the jobs page was in fact an advertisement for a flatmate in the property section. I was annoyed that Life was suggesting I leave the flat that he knew I loved more than most things in my life and I was about to crumple up the page and throw it away when a thought occurred to me. He wouldn’t ask me to leave the apartment. I read it again. And again. And then when I realised what it was, a smile formed on my lips and I wanted to give Life a big kiss. I ripped out the page and jumped off the stool.

I hopped off the bus with a spring in my step but quickly it went flat. Momentarily lost, I finally found my bearings when I spotted Don’s beacon, a bright red magic carpet atop the Magic Carpet Cleaner van. It made me smile; the superhero’s car. I took out my pocket mirror and got to work, then I buzzed the intercom.

‘Yes?’ Don answered, out of breath.

‘Hello,’ I said, disguising my accent. ‘I’m here for the interview.’

‘What interview?’

‘The flatmate interview.’

‘Uh. Hold on … I don’t … who is this?’

‘We spoke on the phone.’

‘When was this?’

I could hear paper rustling.

‘Last week.’

‘Maybe that was Tom. Did you speak to someone called Tom?’ I tried not to laugh as I heard him mentally cursing Tom.

‘Is he the fella moving in with his girlfriend?’

‘Yes,’ he said, annoyed. ‘What did you say your name is?’

I smiled. ‘Gertrude.’

There was a long pause.

‘Gertrude what?’

‘Guinness.’

‘Gertrude Guinness,’ he replied. ‘I can’t quite see you on the screen.’

‘Can’t you? I’m looking right in it,’ I said, holding the palm of my hand flat over the camera at the intercom.

He paused again. ‘Okay take the lift to the third floor.’ There was a buzz and the main door unlatched.

In the elevator mirror I fixed my eye patch and made sure all my teeth apart from the front ones on the top and bottom were blacked out. Then I took a deep breath, thinking, here goes everything. The elevator doors slid open and there he was standing at the open door, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. When he saw me I knew that he wanted to be mad but he couldn’t help it, and he smiled, then he threw his head back and laughed.

‘Hello, Gertrude,’ he said.

‘Hello, Don.’

‘You must be the hideous toothless woman with an eye patch with ten kids that I spoke with on the phone.’

‘Your wrong number. That’s me.’

‘You’re crazy,’ he said softly.

‘About you,’ I said cheesily, and he smiled again, but then it faded.

‘I was led to believe you and Blake were back together. Is that true?’

I shook my head. ‘Didn’t you get my message about dinner last week? I wanted to talk to you.’

‘I did. But …’ He swallowed. ‘I told you I don’t want to be second choice, Lucy. If he didn’t want you back then—’

‘He did want me back,’ I interrupted. ‘But I realised it’s not what I wanted. He wasn’t what I wanted.’

‘Is that true?’

‘I don’t lie. Not any more. To quote one of the most beautiful sentences that was ever said to me, “I don’t love you.”’ He smiled, and feeling encouraged, I continued. ‘But I think that I easily could and that I probably very quickly will. Though I can’t promise anything. It could all very possibly end in tears.’

‘That’s so romantic.’

We laughed.

‘I’m sorry I messed you around, Don. It will be the first and probably the last time I ever do that.’

‘Probably?’

‘Life is messy,’ I shrugged, and he laughed.

‘So are you really here for a flatmate interview?’ He looked uncomfortable.

‘Yes,’ I said sombrely. ‘We’ve met three times now and slept together once, I think it’s time we both took the plunge and moved in together.’

He paled slightly.

‘Hell no, Don, I love my little hovel and I’m staying put and I’m nowhere near being emotionally secure enough to live with another human being.’

He looked relieved.

‘I am here for you.’

He pretended to think about it, at least I hoped he pretended.

‘Come here, you.’ He reached for my hands and pulled me close. He gave me a lingering kiss, which left his mouth covered in the eyeliner I’d used to blacken my teeth. I decided not to tell him, it was more fun that way. ‘You know, we’ve actually slept together twice,’ he corrected me. ‘Which is a horrible number,’ he rolled up his nose with disdain. ‘Two.’

‘Yuck,’ I played along.

‘But three,’ he brightened. ‘Three, is a number I like. And four? Four is a great number.’

I laughed as he tried to pull off my eye patch.

‘No, I like this, I’m keeping it on.’

‘You’re nuts,’ he said warmly, kissing me again. ‘Fine. On one condition.’

‘Which is?’

‘Everything comes off except for the eye patch.’

‘Agreed.’

We kissed again. Then he pulled me inside and kicked the door closed.