But I need to show that I’m fun.
I find a photograph of a couple getting married on a beach. It’s from a hotel website advertising weddings. I have no idea who the people are, they’re probably models, I post it. Caption: Making memories with friends. Amazing day. Hands pressed together in prayer emoji.
For observational animal humour, I find a photo of a baby beaver looking like it has collapsed on the floor with the caption Dam it and post my comment, Happy Monday folks. I hate puns. They’re my least favourite kind of funny, but she seems to like them. It’ll do.
I look at my collection in my saved drafts. I’m missing something fun. Something that tells you that I’m the girl you want to go on a night out with. Something that doesn’t say I sleep with strangers who paint me naked. I find a lightly naughty photo of a group of friends jumping into a swimming pool at night; all the guys are pulling moonies, bare bottoms out in the air. Caption: These guys! Emoji, that one with the zany eyes and tongue sticking out.
Instagram name: Freckles. Bio: You are the average of the five people you spend the most time with.
Looking at the photos, I seem the kind of girl that a girl like Daisy would want to spend time with. I post them all. I follow Daisy, and go through her posts, liking some photos, commenting on others, using praise the lord heavenly hand emojis for photos that I think she’s particularly proud of, all those scenic views and the likes.
Then, just as I did when I posted the letters, I wait.
When Donnacha and Becky return I’m asleep on the couch. I jump up when I hear the key in the front door and try to gather myself. I look a mess, I’ve had drunken dreams reliving the night before with the mystery fella and I feel parched, sweaty and disoriented.
Everything okay, Becky asks.
Yeah, I’m fine thanks, I mumble sleepily, just wrecked.
I meant the kids.
Oh yeah. Yes, all fine. I try to fold the cashmere blanket and attempt to display it in the way it used to be, stylishly slung over the corner of the couch, but I don’t have the knack for that stylish touch. As soon as I’ve placed it, Becky picks it up and restyles it. I don’t think she even notices what she’s doing.
They went to bed at nine, I say. I read them a book. We couldn’t find Banana the monkey, so I stayed with Cillín until he fell asleep.
She smells of alcohol and a light odour of cigarette smoke. They both seem jarred. Donnacha retrieves a pint of water and then pings from the bannister to the wall as he goes upstairs, like he’s on a boat. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it feels like there’s an atmosphere between them. A tension. Maybe he heard our conversation this morning when he was in the bathroom. Maybe he’s not an idiot and can tell when his wife is sleeping with another man in her own home. Nothing like too much drink to sort out a domestic.
She keeps her voice low. Has he said anything to you about—
No, I reply, getting my bag. And I wish she’d stop bringing it up and making me feel like I’m her co-conspirator. A goodnight and I’m gone. As I walk on the sandstone stepping-stone slabs to the gym, I feel like I’m being followed, I turn around and see the fox dart into the shadows.
Hi Trimble, I whisper, and reach for a packet of peanuts in my bag. I sprinkle them in the secret garden. It’s just for us two now. For the privacy of this family. I stand back and it slowly ventures into the secret garden. When it sees me, it pauses. I don’t move. I’m not a threat. It sniffs the peanuts. It makes a choice. It slinks forward, keeping an eye on me the whole time and it eats while I watch. My phone rings suddenly and the fox darts away.
I grunt with annoyance and answer the phone.
You don’t sound very happy, Pops says.
The ringtone chased away the fox.
What fox.
I’ve been feeding a fox in the garden.
You shouldn’t encourage it, Allegra.
Just like you shouldn’t encourage the lamb.
A lamb is not a fox. One of the greatest lessons I thought I could teach you, Allegra, is when to recognise the difference.
I know the difference between a lamb and a fox, thank you.
But do you, he says and leaves a pause. Anyway, I’m calling you to tell you I spoke with Pauline and she wanted me to tell you that the politician, eh …
Ruth Brasil, I say quickly, excited.
Yes, Ruth Brasil, was in the Mussel House over Easter and Pauline passed on your letter. What’s that about, Allegra.
I dance around the room listening to Pops waffle on about me befriending foxes and writing to politicians and he really wishes Pauline would have told me herself and maybe I’m right, maybe she is avoiding me, and on and on.