Right, I say, feeling sweat breaking out on my back. Prickling against my shirt.
I look at the car again.
Isn’t it dangerous to leave the keys in the ignition when the kids are in the car, I say.
It takes him a moment to adjust to the subject change, and when he does he shrugs lightly. No they won’t touch it.
I don’t mean the kids, I mean somebody could jump in and drive off.
He laughs. Whoever it is would drive them right back, believe me. Maybe you’ll keep an eye out for it.
For what.
For the fox. See if he visits again. I was trying to figure out which way he came in, he says. And around and around again he goes.
I eye the car, irritation prickling, my skin feels itchy, my nose is too.
Donnacha, I interrupt him, you know I’m a parking warden and you’re parked on double yellow lines.
I’m not parked, my hazards are on. I’m only going to be a minute.
He doesn’t know the meaning of a minute. I feel like everybody is staring at me, this warden not doing her job properly. Burn her at the stake for inefficiency. A garda car drives by, and my heartbeat quickens. I don’t want them to see me not doing my job properly. I make my expression more stern. Maybe they’ll think I’m lecturing Donnacha. I’m on the case.
Your car is illegally parked here, I say, and you’re putting me in a very difficult situation. And your wife is shagging somebody else. I don’t say the last bit aloud. But I could. And I might. If he doesn’t let me go. Release me from his snare. It’s on the tip of my tongue.
Okay, okay, he says.
I have to leave before I blurt it out. I take a left down Townyard Lane so I don’t feel his eyes on my back. I’m trembling. It’s Ferrari fella’s fault. He’s made me fall apart. At the seams. Stuffing hanging out. I started off on the wrong foot, and can’t find a natural rhythm. I feel jumpy. The heeby-jeebies. As I approach the hair salon I notice that the BMW isn’t parked outside. Confused, I look around to see if she’s parked it somewhere else but there’s no sign of it. I cross the road quickly not paying attention to the traffic and almost get run over. Where is she. What’s wrong with her. Why didn’t she go to work today. With a car horn ringing in my ear I jog up to the window of the salon and look inside. She’s right there, at the window, doing nails. This I’m glad of and I relax a little, but where’s her damn car, and what the hell is going on.
I walk up and down the street a few times, checking every single car for her parking disc. Maybe she bought a new car, maybe she drove in another car, and if that’s the case, I hope she’s transferred the new vehicle details to her disc or I’ll have to ticket her. But there’s nothing that belongs to her or her business. I stare through the window, confused. She looks up briefly and catches my eye again. She smiles, all professional, always on the lookout for new customers. I turn around and walk away quickly, heart pounding at the connection.
I stop at the head of James’s Terrace and look down the street. My heart is pumping, pounding. I don’t know if I want to see the Ferrari or not. I feel weary as I make my way down past the cars, an impending sense of doom, and somebody runs out of number eight – not him, it’s the curly-haired lad. Dressed casually, fashionably preened and polished in a T-shirt and jeans, so unbusinesslike for an office environment. I wonder what they do in there, apart from ruin people’s existences. He looks at me, grinning, as he runs down the steps. Digging for money in his pocket, he hurries to the pay-and-display machine, then to the Ferrari. He opens the door, places the ticket on the dashboard, winks at me as if he’s beaten me in a game I have no desire to play, or do I, and runs back inside.
Ah, he’s been promoted to a parking angel.
I’m glad Ferrari fella has paid, or at least sent out one of his footmen, but only paying because he sees me coming isn’t the point at all. This is not a cat-and-mouse game, this is not about me, you’re supposed to pay for all the hours. I’m agitated again.
I need a break. I haven’t had coffee or breakfast but maybe I should take an early lunch. I walk by the office, looking straight ahead, down the steps to the coast road. I head for my bench but it starts to rain and I have to divert immediately. It’s bucketing down, big thick cold raindrops. Wet rain, as we’d say. I hurry to the public toilets on the corner, beside the tennis club. Pretty flower boxes outside, and hanging baskets. Standing, I eat my cheese sandwich, making sure my back is to number eight. Look at her eating her lunch by the skanky toilets in the rain, I imagine the male models say, as they place their Prada trainers on their desks and lean back to drink cappuccinos with half almond milk half llama milk.