I visit the post office on my break. It’s lunchtime and it’s busy, as if all those streets were quiet because everyone is in here, looking for stamps. I join the queue. Queuing gives me too much time to think, rethink what I’ve written, what I’m about to send. All of a sudden I’m at the top of the queue and I’m not ready. I get nervous, I leave the line, play out this little silent act like a bad mime artist, as though I’ve forgotten something and exit the shop. I take a few steps away and then join the back of the queue again, which is now longer and snaking outside.
I flick through my envelopes. Amal in Columbia, Amal in London, Amal in her London office, Amal in the UN. Katie at her fan club, Katie at the Olympic Council of Ireland, Katie at Bray Boxing Club.
Hi there.
I jump, startled and drop my envelopes on the floor. As I’m picking them up, in a jittery frenzy, I see the wanker Prada trainers.
Rooster, Tristan, I say standing up, feeling flushed. I feel a little shaky, I wasn’t expecting to see him.
Freckles, Allegra.
He’s holding enormous padded parcels under his arms. Doing your post, I say.
He smiles. Yeah. You too, he asks.
Yeah. I squeeze my envelopes tighter. I hope you’re posting your parking permit form.
Jazz did it last week.
You should have it soon, I tell him. I gave you a ticket today.
I know, he winces, sorry.
You don’t have to apologise to me.
I feel like I do.
Oh.
Did you have a good Easter.
Yeah I went home.
Where’s home.
Valentia Island.
Oh cool. I’ve never been there. I thought I detected a country accent.
Feckin Dubs.
You’ve family there, he asks.
My Pops.
That’s right, he smiles. Pops. Number one of your five.
I look at his face properly since we started talking, grateful that he’s remembered Pops. That means a lot to me. I saw the others as well, I say, but realised they’re not part of my five any more. So now I’m just down to one.
Oh. Man. Wow. Sorry to hear that, he says. What happened.
My best friend is sleeping with my ex-boyfriend and she’s pregnant. And her ex-boyfriend came on to me. And my aunt Pauline is staying away from me, I say, suddenly realising the other hole in my life. I know the reason but it’s not going to change so … she’s off the list too.
Jesus.
It’s okay, I’m going to get four more people.
He laughs and I look at him, confused. He stops laughing.
Sorry I thought you were joking … Look that’s great that you’re finding more. How do you plan on doing that.
I finally stop squeezing the envelopes so tightly to my chest. I’ve written to them, I say.
We step forward in the queue. Ten people in front of us, in a winding queue. One of those rat mazes.
He looks at the envelopes in my arms and asks, how many people have you written to.
Oh just four people but for three of them I didn’t know their exact home addresses so I’m sending copies to a few different places.
I try to read his solemn face. Why, I ask, am I doing it wrong.
Allegra, there’s not … there’s no right way to do it, he says gently but irritated. I never lose my temper, honestly, I’m kind, and patient, usually, and I don’t know why I lost it with you. You clearly didn’t deserve it. You’re a good person with a kind heart and you should continue on as you were going. I feel responsible that you’re doing this, he says, looking injured.
The staff room door opens and a worker steps out, chewing, wiping crumbs from her mouth as she sits down and organises her work station. Finally the two cubicles are open. She takes away the dúnta sign.
Two people step up. We step forward. Only eight ahead of us.
I look down at the envelopes. I’d handwritten all the letters. I figured there was no point in writing beautifully to Amal in Como and typing to her in Columbia University. How am I to know which one she’ll end up seeing. It has taken me a long time to write these letters and now he’s telling me to just drop it all.
So I’m wasting my time, I say. As I pull them away from my chest to study them I realise I’ve given him an opportunity to read who they’re addressed to.
Amal Alamuddin Clooney, he reads.
Embarrassed, I press them back against my chest.
Is she married to George Clooney, he asks.
He’s married to her.
Do you know her, he asks.
No.
Silence. We step forward. Six people left ahead of us.
But I’d like to, I say.
He nods. But no Oprahs, remember, he says, you have to … know them.