What Happened That Night

by Sheila O'Flanagan, Sheila O''Flanagan

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Can we ever put right the mistakes we made in the past? Nothing stays a secret for ever ... An unputdownable, twisting read from Sheila O'Flanagan, author of the No. 1 bestsellers THE MISSING WIFE and MY MOTHER'S SECRET.

'A fabulous tale with refreshingly inspiring heroines' ***** Heat

Sheila O'Flanagan is the bestselling author of THE MISSING WIFE and MY MOTHER'S SECRET, and her new bestseller WHAT HAPPENED THAT NIGHT, with its enticing story of mothers, daughters and lovers, will enchant readers who love the novels of Marian Keyes and Lisa Jewell.

Lola has a plan. She's going to escape the village she grew up in and make it in the big city. She's smart enough - but she's also headstrong. When, one evening, she has to make a life-changing choice, she decides quickly, and without the full facts. But there's no way back.

Bey is every bit her mother's daughter. An impulsive decision puts her in the path of great danger. She's left wary of trusting her own judgement ever again. Then, one night, she's standing in front of the man she loves, with her own choice to make.

For both women, everything changes in a moment. But their biggest mistakes might also turn out to be their greatest opportunities...

Release date: June 1, 2017

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 432

Sample

There are lots of stages in turning the germ of an idea in to a published book and I’m lucky that so many people had my back for this one.

A big thank you to my editor, Marion Donaldson, without whose long conversations and batches of editorial notes I certainly would have finished writing Lola and Bey’s story a lot more quickly, but a lot less effectively.

Thanks also to Jane Selley whose thoughtful copyediting saved me from myself on more than one occasion.

Thank you to the entire team at Headline for their continued friendship, support and professional expertise. I’m proud to work with all of you.

Big thanks too, to everyone in the Hachette family around the world. It’s good to know that my books are in your very capable hands.

Researching the world of jewellery was one of the nicest jobs I’ve ever had to do. It was made all the more rewarding thanks to the generous help of Madeline Hanlon and her staff at Boodles in Dublin, along with equally generous advice from Rebecca Hawkins, their talented head designer in Liverpool. I was also given a wealth of information on looking for the perfect gemstone from Jody Wainwright, the original Stone Man. Any mistakes I’ve made are, of course, entirely my own!

Advice and expertise on design and silversmithing were given to me by the fabulous Jill O’Malley in Dublin, who answered my stupid questions with a sunny smile and a large amount of patience.

As always my extended family are the best supporters I have, and a million thanks to them for being there no matter what. Special love to Colm who has to put up with me in my demented author mode, and Hugh who rescued me from demented author mode after I seemed to have lost the entire book and the backup when I accidentally hit ‘New’ on my laptop.

I’ve dedicated this book to my late and very wonderful agent Carole Blake, who died just before I got to finish it. Carole was a unique, generous person and the world is a duller place without her in it. A big thank you must go to all of the staff at Blake Friedmann who, in the middle of their own grief, were so lovely and supportive at a very difficult time.

From her position behind the stage of the reception room, Bey Fitzpatrick could see but not be seen. She was hidden from view by the silk banners that had been erected earlier that day, while the careful placing of the lights around the room meant that she was standing in a pool of shadow. As the hum of conversation increased, her attention was fixed on the women in their colourful dresses and sparkling jewellery. Like vibrant birds of paradise, they laughed and chattered as they accepted canapés and glasses of champagne from silver trays borne by expert servers. Bey had a sudden recollection that it was the male birds of paradise who possessed the colourful plumage, not the females. But tonight the women shone and glittered while the men played second fiddle in their tuxedos and white shirts.

The background music was lost in the hubbub of voices and bursts of excited laughter. The guests were eagerly anticipating the launch of the exclusive Ice Dragon jewellery collection, which would be unveiled later in the evening. It included three unique necklaces made from white gold and set with diamonds as well as either rubies, sapphires or emeralds. Each necklace cost a six-figure sum. And each one, Bey knew, was truly exceptional, a piece that anyone would treasure.

She felt a flutter of anxiety as she scanned the crowd. She recognised some faces from the gossip pages of magazines or newspapers. There were a number of TV personalities. A famous singer. A prominent politician. And lots of business people. Every person in the room had been invited because they had already bought top-of-the-range jewellery from Warren’s, the jewellery store. Not all of them could afford an Ice Dragon necklace, but each guest was flattered to have received an invitation to the launch. The atmosphere was filled with happy anticipation.

It’s a make-believe world. The memory of his words echoed in her ears. We only ever see people when they’re rich and happy.

He’d laughed, and so had she.

It had been a lifetime ago.

When things were different.

When she hadn’t known half the things she knew now.

She shivered even though the room was warm. She was standing near the mullioned window and she could suddenly feel the chill of the night air through the clear glass. She glanced outside and caught her breath. Huge snowflakes were falling lazily from the heavy sky, turning the garden outside the ancient listed building into a carpet of white. The flakes landed on the window in a lattice of interlocking crystals that glittered as brightly as the diamonds inside the room.

There was a spider’s web at the corner of the window pane, silvery white beneath the feather-light snow. She felt her mind shift into another time and place as she remembered a different night of snow and ice twenty years earlier, and a different spider’s web. She remembered how she’d stared at it, willing it to stay unbroken, telling herself that she wouldn’t be caught if it remained intact. She was suddenly there again, terrified to move, hoping that the mist of her breath wouldn’t give her away, or that the beating of her heart couldn’t be heard in the stillness of the night.

She felt the hand on her shoulder and she almost screamed out loud.

Then the lights went out.

What inspired you to write a mother-daughter dual narrative?

I think the relationship between mothers and their daughters is a very interesting one. Some mothers and daughters are very close and others are much more distant. In What Happened That Night I wanted to explore the impact the decisions a mother makes have on her daughter’s life, and how withholding information, even for the best of reasons, can backfire. I thought it was important that readers know both women so that they could understand their relationship and the choices they made and that’s why both of their stories are told in the novel.

What aspects of the jewellery industry did you find most fascinating as you did your research for the novel? Were there many surprises?

Everything was fascinating – on a personal level, trying on lots of jewellery was great! I loved talking to jewellery designers about how they approached their work and what influenced their designs. I was particularly fascinated by the relationship between the designer and the person who sourced the gems. Sometimes the design was influenced by the stones, sometimes the designer needed specific stones for a particular piece. But I guess the most interesting thing is that all jewellery is handmade. It makes it much more personal.

Do you have a favourite jewellery store in Dublin or elsewhere?

There are lots of lovely jewellery shops in Dublin at all price ranges. I spent a lot of time walking up and down Grafton Street looking in their windows. But at the high end of the market, Boodles is lovely – the store is very open and accessible. Madeline and her staff also helped me with some of my research.

Lola wants to have a career and be able to buy beautiful jewellery for herself. Do you have a favourite piece of jewellery that you’ve bought yourself?

I bought the Boodles Waterfall ring a number of years ago to celebrate reaching No. 1 in the Irish bestseller charts. It’s probably my favourite piece.

Each chapter of the novel is named after a different precious stone. What is your favourite stone, and why?

There are four main gemstones: ruby, sapphire, emerald and diamond. I love the deep colours of the first three, but for sheer sparkle there’s nothing like a diamond!

The scene where Bey narrowly escapes a terrifying attack is harrowing and takes the novel to a much darker place than is usual for your books. Why did you decide to include this thread in the narrative?

The attack happens when Bey is very young and when she’s emotionally vulnerable. I wanted that emotional vulnerability to be echoed in her physical vulnerability too. But I also wanted her to grow and develop and recover from something that had terrified her so much. It was important to actually show what happened to her and how she felt so that readers could understand how it affected her.

Like Lola and Bey, have you ever made a decision that you regretted at the time, but the outcome of which turned out for the best?

Oh no. All of my bad decisions have been bad decisions!

In the novel Bey struggles with confidence in her career as a designer and it takes her a while to trust her own creative talent. Do you think it can be equally challenging for new writers to develop their confidence when first starting out?

Every writer, no matter where they are in their career, struggles with confidence. I think if you’re utterly convinced that every word you’ve written is perfect then your book probably isn’t as good as it can be. The one thing I’ve learned in writing so many books is that it’s OK to go back and change things, even quite major parts of the novel. Just because you’ve written it down doesn’t mean you can’t delete it, or edit it. Probably the biggest difference between an established author and a new writer is being confident about what you take out.

Like many of the female characters in your books, Lola and Bey are strong and independent. Is having strong female protagonists a very important part of your writing, and why?

Women are strong. They have to be, because they are the glue that holds society together. But we’re constantly told that we’re not good enough; that we should be thinner, or sexier, or cleverer or – well, you get the drift. My protagonists don’t always realise that they have an inner strength but over the course of the book I hope they always find it. Just like women in real life.

Your next novel, The Hideaway, is publishing in summer 2018. Can you tell us anything about the new book and the central character?

Juno is a radiologist whose world is completely shattered when she sees a news report on the TV. She needs to escape her job, her family and her friends for a while, so she goes to an old house on the Spanish coast to try to come to terms with what has happened to her. She makes new friends in the small town of Beniflor, and her healing starts to happen as she starts to renovate the house. But getting better herself isn’t as quick or as simple as varnishing shutters! I loved writing about Juno. She’s the practical person in a family of artists and she’s constantly questioning herself. Like all my heroines she’s trying to find her inner strength but – luckily for her and I hope for my readers – she’s doing it in a beautiful part of Spain, surrounded by orange groves, vineyards and bougainvillea. I hope my readers will enjoy spending time on the Mediterranean coast with her.

There was a long queue at the car rental desk and I was at the back of it.

I’d congratulated myself on being first off the plane and thought I’d be first in line at the rental desk too, but I’d forgotten there would be other flights into Alicante airport and that those passengers might also be hiring cars. Now it seemed that everyone who’d landed that evening was in the queue ahead of me. And it was moving at a snail’s pace.

I was standing immediately behind a family of four whose flight had arrived nearly three hours late and who were feeling very cranky about it. The little girl, aged about two, was holding on to her mother’s leg, whimpering pettishly, while her slightly older brother was aiming his bright-green plastic laser gun at the waiting adults and whooping ‘gotcha’ every couple of seconds. The parents were venting their annoyance in equal measure at the airline and the car rental agency, asking each other why it was taking so bloody long to hand over a set of keys. The last comment was pitched loudly enough for everyone in the line to hear, and there were plenty of approving nods as well as a few mutters of ‘bloody disgrace’ from the waiting hordes.

The two people currently at the desk had been there for at least twenty minutes. If everyone ahead of me took that long, I’d be waiting for nearly two hours. Which would mean that it would be after midnight before I got my car, and at least another hour before I reached the Villa Naranja. So my time on the ground would be practically as long as the flight itself – longer if, as I feared, I got lost.

‘You won’t get lost, Juno,’ Pilar had assured me as she’d highlighted the route on Google Maps. ‘Once you’re on the road to the house, you’ll be fine. The hardest part is the turn just before the town because it is quite sharp and easy to miss in the dark. But you’ll know you’ve passed it if you end up in Beniflor.’

‘Is there a hotel nearby if I do lose my way?’

‘Not in Beniflor itself,’ she replied. ‘But there’s a lovely one about fifteen minutes past it. La Higuera. Small, but very chic. Even though it’s expensive it’s always booked up. Honestly, Juno, you’ll find the Villa Naranja, no problem. Don’t worry.’

I wasn’t exactly worried, but despite my limited budget I wished I’d opted for the chic and expensive option, at least for tonight. I supposed that if things took too long, I could always drive into Alicante city, check in to the first hotel I saw, and leave looking for the Villa Naranja until the morning when it would be bright and everything would seem better and easier. Even as I considered it, I told myself not to be stupid. The drive was straightforward enough and I was perfectly capable of finding a country house, even in the dark. I was a strong, competent woman, wasn’t I? It might be true that both my strength and competence had been called into question of late but I shouldn’t be such a . . . a . . . the disparaging word I was about to call myself was lost as, out of nowhere, the pain and the grief enveloped me like a tidal wave, literally knocking me sideways. I gasped an apology as I bumped into the mother in front of me.

‘That’s OK,’ she said. ‘It takes it out of you, doesn’t it? Travelling. And all this hanging around is ridiculous. Sometimes I wonder if going away on holiday is worth the hassle.’

She kept talking without waiting for me to answer, which was just as well because I wasn’t listening to a word she was saying, and I couldn’t speak anyhow. My throat had constricted and there was only room in my head for my anguish. The problem, of course, was that I had no right to be anguished and no right to be in pain. Yet it caught hold of me when I least expected it, and wouldn’t let me go.

Without wanting to, I was replaying the moment I’d heard the news. The moment I’d seen the photograph flash up on the screen and my life had been turned upside down. I was utterly unable to stop the memories or the images filling my head. It was all I could do not to cry.

The queue moved forward again.

‘We’re staying at my sister’s.’ The woman’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘She has a place in Altea Heights. It’s beautiful. Views of the sea. Lovely terrace. And a private pool.’

‘It sounds great.’ My voice came out as a croak but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘Oh, it is,’ she told me. ‘Sadly, we won’t be able to come this time next year. Cooper will be in school then, and they fine you for taking them out in term-time now. It’s ludicrous. Everyone knows the airline companies scam you on flights during school holidays.’

‘It’s the nanny state at work,’ said her husband.

I nodded in agreement. As a single woman just past her thirtieth birthday, school holidays were irrelevant to me, but I understood her frustration.

‘Are you on your own, then?’ She looked at me, inviting conversation.

To my enormous relief a second window at the rental desk opened at that moment. The queue split and hustled forward and I didn’t need to answer. To avoid any possibility of talking, however, I took out my phone and looked at it. But I already knew the most recent message would still be the one from Pilar, sent just before I boarded the plane in Dublin.

Slight problem. Mum didn’t get to the house today so electricity is still off. No fresh food either but there is coffee and tea. Best pick up something at airport for snack and brekkie. Hope you have great time. Px

I’d bought two extra Danish pastries on the flight. They’d looked soggy and unappetising even before I put them in my bag but I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry. I wouldn’t be hungry in the morning either. I’d lost my interest in food along with almost six kilos in weight over the past couple of months. I knew that I couldn’t really afford to lose any more. I’ve always been on the slender side, and dropping almost a stone didn’t really suit me. But the last thing I cared about was how I looked.

I scrolled through my other messages, even though I told myself not to. I stopped at the last one in the conversation with Brad.

Tonight’s dinner location. Joining them shortly. Love you. Miss you. Bxx

The wave of grief hit me again. I clenched my teeth and tightened my grip on the handle of my luggage. At that moment, it was the only thing keeping me upright.

A final move forward and then it was my turn at the desk. I gave my details and was handed the keys to a Ford Fiesta, which the rental agent said was on the third floor of the car park. I thanked him, and walked towards the exit. The family of four was still at the desk. The little boy was bashing their suitcases with his plastic laser gun and the father was arguing with the agent about the insurance excess charge.

The car park was busy. I checked the bay number for the Fiesta and strode along one of the rows. The dark blue car was where it was meant to be. I gave a sigh of relief, popped the boot open and hefted my case inside. I opened the door and slid into the seat before I realised I was on the passenger’s side. I got out and walked around to the driver’s door.

I’d driven on the Continent before, so left-hand drive didn’t bother me. The first time – in France with my closest friends, Cleo and Saoirse – had been a little scary, but after the initial anxious minutes I’d been fine. I’d been the one to do most of the driving through Europe with Sean, my fiancé, a few years later. Sean became my ex-fiancé after that trip, although it hadn’t been on account of my driving. It had been on account of him deciding he wasn’t ready to marry anyone. Or at least that he wasn’t ready to marry me. Of course I’d had broken relationships in my life before Sean, but I’d never felt as devastated as I’d felt then. All the dreams and plans of the life I’d expected to lead had come crashing down around me. I’d felt battered and bruised and despairing. Humiliated, too – though I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t a reflection on me that Sean had changed his mind. And better at that point than after we were married. Still, it was a difficult few months. But I’d got over it. I’d rebuilt my life, advanced my career and moved on. Now my heart was broken all over again, and this time it was much, much worse. This time I didn’t know how to get over it, I didn’t know if I’d ever recover.

I took a deep breath, then put the Fiesta into reverse and eased out of the parking bay. It was good to have something to concentrate on, something to pull my mind away from the dark places it still wanted to go. Besides, I like driving. I’m a better driver than Sean ever was. I’m alert and confident and I don’t let myself be bullied on the road. That was why Cleo and Saoirse always made me drive on holidays. And I honestly didn’t mind, because I like being the one in control. I’m much better at giving orders than taking them.

I hadn’t been on holidays with the girls since I’d started going out with Sean. But after Brad, Cleo had asked me if I’d like to go away for a weekend with her. To a spa, she suggested. Somewhere top-notch. Somewhere I could be pampered.

‘I don’t deserve to be pampered,’ I’d told her in a voice that was tight with the effort of not crying.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Cleo protested.

‘I know. But it feels like a judgement somehow.’

‘You’ve got to give yourself a break, Juno,’ she said.

‘They didn’t get a break, did they?’ I asked.

And Cleo hadn’t said any more about pampering.

‘At the roundabout, take the second exit.’ The female satnav was a welcome distraction from my thoughts.

I concentrated on my road positioning and followed her instructions. Most of the route to Beniflor was by motorway, which made things fairly simple. I like motorway driving. I like putting my foot down and giving the car its head.

But I didn’t put my foot down too heavily in the Fiesta. I was afraid to drive too quickly. There was a chance I might burst into tears, and I didn’t want to be travelling at 120kph when that happened. Nevertheless there was a tiny, tiny part of me that thought driving off the road and into oblivion had its merits.

I fixed my eyes on the road ahead. I wasn’t going to think like that. I’d had those thoughts in the darker days but I’d told everyone that I was much better now. The thing is, I wasn’t, not really. The reason I was here was because I wasn’t at all better, and because I couldn’t do my job properly. Because I’d felt obliged to hand in my resignation before I did something really stupid. And before they fired me.

I was really good at my job before. I know women aren’t supposed to blow their own trumpet and say they’re brilliant at anything – like driving, or our jobs. We’re meant to be self-deprecating and modest and put it all down to luck rather than being super-capable. But I was one of the best radiographers at the private hospital where I worked, and I knew it. I knew it because the patients said so. The staff said so too. And I loved my job so much, I was always trying to improve my skills and to make the experience better.

The patients are the most important part of my work. They’re either nervous or in pain, or both, when they come to radiology. A big part of what I do is to make them feel relaxed. But how could I make anyone else relax when I was as tight as a coiled spring myself ? And how could I be cheerful and positive with them when I was unable to come up from the depths of my own misery?

I tried, I really did. But it was asking too much. One day, after I’d finished an ultrasound of a young woman with abdominal pain, I burst into tears right there in the room beside her. The patient, not surprisingly, thought I’d seen something terminal in her ultrasound, and she burst into tears too. She was utterly inconsolable and wouldn’t believe that she wasn’t about to die.

Afterwards, I was called in to see the head of the department. Drina O’Driscoll is in her fifties; she’s cool, professional and a role model for everyone in radiology. She looked at me without saying anything. I handed her the letter and she placed the envelope on the desk in front of her.

‘I know you’ve had some personal issues, Juno.’ Her voice was steady. ‘I realise they have affected your work.’

I was gripping the edge of the seat with my hands in an effort to keep my composure. I wondered what she knew about my personal issues, and how she knew it.

‘I’m very sorry,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have allowed a private matter to affect me professionally.’

Drina looked at me from grey eyes that were soft with kindness.

‘We don’t live in a bubble where everyone can come into work and shut out everything else,’ she said. ‘It would be nice if we could. But we can’t.’

‘I totally traumatised the patient,’ I said. ‘She could sue us.’

‘Hopefully she’ll be so relieved her ultrasound was clear that she won’t.’ Drina smiled slightly. ‘Having a health scare can change your perspective quite a bit.’

‘Even so,’ I said. ‘I was totally unprofessional.’

‘And now?’ asked Drina. ‘How are you now?’

I indicated the envelope with my resignation letter inside.

‘I’m not a safe person to be around,’ I told her. ‘You can’t afford for me to be on the team.’

‘I see that you need some time away.’ Drina shuffled some papers on her desk. ‘But I hate to lose someone as skilled as you.’

‘That’s the thing.’ I tightened my grip on the seat. ‘I’m not skilled any more. I’ve lost it. I may never get it back.’

‘You haven’t lost it, and there’s no question of not getting it back,’ Drina said. ‘I suggest that you take three months’ unpaid leave. We can use agency cover for you until then. If, after that, you still feel you can’t cope, we’ll replace you.’

It took a few minutes for her words to sink in, and then I felt the tears well up again. I choked them back.

‘I thought you’d be pleased to get rid of me,’ I said.

‘Get well, Juno.’ She handed me the unopened envelope. ‘Come back better.’

‘Thank you.’

I stumbled out of her office and went to the hospital café. Cleo and Pilar, two of the other radiographers, were waiting for me. We’re a tight-knit bunch in the radiology department, and they’d been there to pick up the pieces when I’d made a show of myself.

‘That’s a great outcome.’ Cleo’s words were encouraging. ‘I’m sure you’ll feel completely different by the end of the summer. What will you do?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t have any plans. Just stay home, I suppose. Think about it.’

‘For God’s sake, Juno, you know I’m totally supportive and everything, but you can’t spend three whole months with nothing to do but think about it.’ Cleo looked at me in horror. ‘You’ll go mad. You’re not the wallowing sort, and you don’t spend time thinking about stuff you can’t change.’

‘I won’t be wallowing,’ I objected. ‘I’ll be . . .’

But Cleo was right. Thinking too much had got me into my current situation. I needed to figure out how to stop thinking and start living, not continually analysing my choices and wondering how things could have been different.

‘You should do something new,’ Pilar said. ‘Something creative perhaps. Like writing a novel or learning to paint.’

For the first time since I’d left Drina’s office, I smiled.

‘The only writing I’m any good at is technical reports,’ I said. ‘As for painting – well, unless it’s a wall, I’m hopeless.’

‘It doesn’t have to be painting or writing,’ Pilar pointed out. ‘You could just as easily do rock climbing or white-water rafting.’

‘Or I could sit at home and read,’ I said. ‘To be honest, that’s all I want to do. Be on my own. Do nothing.’

‘This is an opportunity,’ said Cleo. ‘If nothing else, Juno, you should go to counselling.’

‘Oh, please.’ I snorted. ‘I don’t do counselling.’

‘There’s no need to turn your nose up at—’

‘I have an idea!’ Pilar sounded excited. ‘You could stay in my grandmother’s house. And you could read as much as you like and go for walks and explore my country.’

‘Huh?’ I looked at her.

‘My grandmother’s house,’ repeated Pilar. ‘I have told you about it before. It’s in a small inland pueblo on the Costa Blanca. Not completely remote but on its own. Nobody has lived there since she passed away last year, and I know my parents would be happy to rent it. You could sit in silence and let the sun and the sea and the orange groves heal you.’

‘D’you really think so?’ I asked, as I imagined the bliss of a warm evening on the coast with the scent of orange blossom in the air. Where I wouldn’t have to meet people I knew and could grieve by myself without pretending that my sorrow was over something else entirely.

‘Of course,’ said Pilar. ‘My mother would love to have someone stay there. She feels bad that it’s empty.’

‘Where is it exactly?’ Cleo licked her fingers as she finished her croissant.

‘It’s in the hills but not too far from Benidorm,’ said Pilar. ‘Beniflor is a rural community but there are also quite a lot of foreign homeowners in the neighbourhood. My grandmother left her house to my parents when she died, but it’s difficult to sell. Most of the foreign buyers want something on the coast or with views of the sea. And they want modern homes too. Grandmother’s house is old-fashioned. It has views of orange groves and the mountains. It’s not what they’re looking for. And for local people, well, there are some who would take the orange groves – one of the local farmers harvests the oranges – but they don’t need the house. So it is still on the market but unlived in. My mother spends occasional weekends there but it has become a little . . . a little . . .’

‘Neglected?’ suggested Cleo.

‘Yes.’ Pilar nodded. ‘And I know this distresses my mother because she would like to keep it nice for my grandmother’s sake but she lives now in Valencia, which is about an hour and a half away, and she cannot simply visit whenever she likes.’

‘All the same, she might not like a complete stranger staying there,’ I said.

‘You’re not a stranger, you’re a friend,’ said Pilar. ‘She would be happy, I promise you.’

It was appealing but it seemed like an easy way out. Why should I get to spend three months in some country idyll – even a neglected country idyll – while everyone else was working? I didn’t deserve it. It would be totally wrong.

That was what I said to Saoirse when she came home that evening. We shared an apartment which was close both to the h