Or possibly he had found me attractive, but in a slimy, sleazy I’m-happy-to-cheat-on-my-girlfriend-if-you’re-up-for-it way. He was probably the sort of man who smiled at every woman like that, just in case he was in with a chance.

And then I thought: Where the f**k am I going to go now?

The fortieth birthday party in the house by the harbor had begun to seem so real I’d almost been looking forward to it.

I had nowhere to go. Once upon a time there were people I could have called. It’s amazing how friends can slip through your fingers, how your social network can vanish like it never existed. If you don’t have a family, if you live in a city designed so that you don’t need to connect with anyone, and you drive everywhere, so there is nowhere to walk and nod hello, so you can do all your shopping in soulless supermarkets with blank-faced teenagers scanning your groceries while they look right through you as if you don’t exist, because you don’t, not really.

If I lived in a town like the ones I once wanted to design, there would be somewhere I could go where I wouldn’t feel alone, somewhere open and light where I could drink a cup of coffee and read a book in a place that encouraged conversation.

Which is all such self-delusional crap, because I could not bear to live somewhere lovely, where I would be forced to talk to people every day, a whole town of horrendously nice people, smiling their sunny smiles at me when I just want to buy a small carton of milk without anybody asking about my weekend.

I’m not lonely. I’m just alone. I choose to be alone.

I know exactly what I need to do if I want to step back into society. I could watch The Wire and talk to Lance about it, and then I could offer to lend him a DVD series, and then one day I could say, “Do you and your wife want to come over for dinner sometime?” Didn’t I meet his wife once? I could say, “Do you want to have a drink one night after work?” to any number of people in the office. I could have said yes to that work party a few months back. I could have said yes to the people next door. I could even get on the Internet and meet men who want a relationship, or at least sex.

I am not socially disabled. I am reserved, sometimes shy—but not in a debilitating way. I could do it. I did it when I moved to Sydney and didn’t know a soul. I participated. I said yes to invitations. I smiled and asked questions and made the first move.

But now I can’t be bothered to do it again. I’m too old, and this is the crux of it—it’s not fair. I shouldn’t have to be in this position again.

I can’t bear the pretense, the fraudulent cheeriness, like when I spoke to the people next door. I would be pretending all the time, because you have to fake it in the beginning—that’s the way it works.

But once I had a real relationship with real friends. Once I was a mother and a wife and a friend and a daughter, and now I am nothing.

And if I moved on, if I lived a regular life, it would be like Patrick had got away with it, and he was right: We weren’t meant to be together.

I drove to Ellen’s house, and my regular feeling, that permanent sense of pain and loss and fury, felt even worse than usual because it had disappeared for a few seconds.

I was just going to leave the plastic bag with the ingredients at the front door—no need for a note, they would know they were from me—but as I was about to go back down the footpath, I saw she had a little miniature stone owl, with glasses, sitting up on the cornice above her door, and I thought, I bet she keeps her spare key under the owl.

And I was right.

Chapter 17

DON’T THINK OF A DOG!

You thought of a dog, didn’t you? That’s why it’s so important to be careful with your language when you’re structuring your suggestions. It’s what’s known as the law of reversed effect. The imagination ignores the word “Don’t” and just hears “Dog.”

—Excerpt from Ellen O’Farrell’s Introduction

to Hypnotherapy two-day course

Colleen’s parents came out onto their front porch as soon as Patrick drove the car into the driveway.

“That’s them. Frank and Millie.” Patrick spoke in an odd, strained voice and waved, smiling with his teeth clenched.

Jack threw open the car door and ran to his grandparents. Ellen and Patrick watched as he hugged them. It seemed like he was going to be the only one acting naturally today.

“Right,” said Patrick, and they got out of the car.

“Quick!” called out Millie from the doorway, beckoning to him, as Jack disappeared inside with his grandfather. “Come inside, you two, where it’s nice and warm!”

“Hi, Millie! Yes! Good idea!” called back Patrick in a jolly tone Ellen had never heard him use before.

Good Lord, she thought.

“Hel-looo!” she cried out, in a desperate rush to demonstrate to Colleen’s parents she was a friendly, nice person and so very sorry for their loss.

(Oh, God, why had she called out “hello” in that echo-ey voice? Like she was shouting to them across a mountaintop? She sounded deranged.)

Millie was right. The house seemed especially cozy and warm after the chilly visit to the graveyard. There was soft music playing, and Millie led Ellen to a comfortable seat right next to a log fire.

“What can I get you to drink?” she asked. She was a tiny birdlike woman, wearing a younger person’s outfit of jeans and a white jumper that hung on her thin frame. You could see that once she’d been beautiful, and there was something about her, a look of resigned acceptance, that said, I know I’m no longer beautiful and I couldn’t care less.