Back at the hotel, she flung herself on the bed. Maybe this journey to Achill Island wasn't such a good idea, after all. She couldn't contribute anything to Brian O'Donnell's whereabouts, anyway. Years ago, Marc, a painter friend of hers, had taken her to one of Brian's exhibitions and Alexandra had fallen in love with one of his paintings. Though far too expensive for her, she had bought it spontaneously. Now the surreal picture of a blue lighthouse on a beach was the eye catcher of her living room. Brian had asked for her name and address - he always wanted to be able to trace back his pictures, he said - but she had never heard of him again.
Until that letter arrived in October. She had briefly discussed going to Achill with her partner, but they were both far too busy with their high flying careers. Far too busy even to realize that their relationship had long ceased to exist - Alexandra as a freelance conference manager being away for weeks on end, her partner working long hours even on the weekends she spent at home. Home… She kept forgetting that she wouldn't go back to that "home" after Achill. They had decided to split up and she had moved into a small apartment in Bonn. The rest of her furniture and Brian's picture were safely packed away at her parents' house. Very well organized, as always. When her friends asked, she kept telling them that it wasn't such a big deal. But Marc seemed to have sensed that she was only pretending. A week ago, he had sent a letter with a flight ticket and a note reading:

"Alex, Wanted to go to Ireland to find out about Brian but have to go to New York on short notice. Ticket, hotel etc. already booked. Why don't you…? I think you need a break. Skip your next conference job, your holiday's long overdue. Love, Marc".

Well, and here she was, in her hotel room, realizing that she wasn't used to having that much spare time. Still, she was glad she had come back alone, not spending the night with that drunken cynic Vincent. Yes, he was quite attractive, but in her job she met men like that all the time: cool, slippery, more surface than substance. Briefly, she thought about Andreas. Poor guy. A bit boring, and a bit too slow for her liking. But not that bad. She was just far too tensed at the moment. She would throw away the postcard she had written about him to Ms Nagelschmidt. Slow down girl, she thought, try to be nice to people, it's not their fault.