I force a coffee into me, I won’t make the walk to the village without it. I down a pint of water, don’t bother making my lunch, leave without it, unable to bear the sight and smell of food.
I’m passing the McGoverns’ kitchen, the ground moving unevenly beneath me as if I’m on a boat, when the clever glass door slides open. I keep walking. As soon as I near the bins I remember falling into the bins, wonder if that’s got something to do with the bruise on my hip.
Allegra, Becky calls. She’s wearing a navy blue pant suit, a navy blue silk shirt buttoned down enough to reveal a little of her black lace bra. She’s fresh faced and glowing after her holiday. She looks amazing. I’ve never felt like such shit. I’m wearing the darkest shades I could find.
Good night Allegra, she asks.
Maybe I didn’t fall into their bins, set their house alarm off at 4 a.m. and have to be pulled to my feet by her husband. It may or may not have happened and I don’t ask and don’t apologise. I mutter a response, not really a yes or no.
She wonders if I can babysit tonight, something about friends, Hong Kong, dinner, and I can’t concentrate. I never care about the detail, I just want to know what time I’m needed. Why do so many people bother with the detail. I interrupt her halfway through. I have to. I feel like retching again, my throat is completely dry and, despite the coffee, toothpaste and water, I can still taste the putrid vomit in my mouth. She’s a little put out by my interruption but I don’t know why today of all days is the day she decides to talk, maybe because she feels like bonding over the stupid thing I caught her doing and the revelation that I’m a human too.
Seven p.m. please, she says, and she takes steps closer to me, looking back to the kitchen to make sure the coast is clear. She lowers her voice: Allegra, about what happened a few weeks ago … but I can’t allow her to finish, I can’t. I really think I’m going to vomit. I feel hot and sweaty, as though my entire body has broken out in a hot flush. I shouldn’t have worn my hat until my shift began but I needed to hide behind my sunglasses too. I must look like Robocop. Her voice is low, not the assertive one, it’s gentler, soft, another version of her I’m not familiar with, which on any other day would be intriguing. But unless she wants vomit on her navy blue Prada suit she needs to withdraw immediately.
It’s fine, I tell her, trying to breathe but feeling sweat prickle on my forehead, beneath the heat of my hat and hair. It’s none of my business what you did or what you do, I say, I won’t say anything to anyone. You have my word.
She studies me. Probably difficult to read me under the Robocop disguise. Then she nods, relieved.
But just maybe not in my bed again, I add. That was manky.
She holds her hands up in surrender, suddenly mortified at the details and not wanting me to continue. Of course not, she says, never again.
I wonder if she did it before, but maybe it’s best I don’t know.
A toilet flushes, loudly, and we get a fright. I look up, to the room above the sliding glass wall. The window is wide open, the bathroom window of the master en-suite. I briefly look inside the kitchen to see if Donnacha is there, maybe it was one of the boys in the toilet, but he’s not in the kitchen and the three boys are. Becky is frozen. I feel sick for her. And me.
You didn’t say anything specific, I say quietly. Though to myself I think, I was the one that mentioned my bed.
I can see her running the conversation through her head. I can tell she doesn’t want to go back inside, face the music.
See you at seven, I say, backing away, leaving her there.
As soon as I can, I down water from a glass bottle. No plastic. I pass the enthusiastic man in a suit with the headphones, a backpack on, bouncing as he takes long strides to the music. I’d like to know what he’s listening to. He never even looks at me. I wonder if he ever notices that he passes me every single morning or if he notices when I’m not there, or if he wonders why we pass at different points some morning. Maybe not. Maybe not everybody’s made like me. I feel a little better, the shaded tunnel through the trees is cooling, I can breathe. I remove my hat. I pass the leaning jogging woman. She’s so tilted I don’t know how she’s staying up. Sweat drips from her brow, glistens on her chest, she’s not moving very fast, I could walk beside her faster. The top of her head is soaked, her hair slicked to her scalp and her boobs bounce and swing as she jogs. Not the right boob though, it’s held in place by her arm that’s rigidly up by her side, the tilted side, the other one moves like she’s doing a choo-choo train. It looks so painful it makes me want to cup my own breasts in place.