Carmencita kept this girl. Was it the way she cried when she was born, did she do something differently than what I did. Such a silly baby I was, I should have known better, I should have known what to do, that those few seconds of our first meeting would be our last. That I had only a moment to convince her. Was my cry too loud, too piercing, not desperate enough. I didn’t succeed in changing her mind. I couldn’t win her over. But no, she kept these two little ones. These little dirty rats who drop their toys and make a mess. My forehead is against the tinted darkened glass. I peer in for more signs of who they are. Who are they. Do they look like me too. Brown-skinned, Irish-Spanish kids. Without the freckles probably. They don’t have the Bird gene. The part of me she couldn’t love.
I see Tristan round the corner from James’s Terrace, he’s running, with a scared expression, and when he sees me he slows.
Allegra, he says, in a low voice as if he sees me holding a gun to my head. He looks worried. He knows what Jazz has done, what I’ve seen. She must have told him. Pleased with herself.
I ignore him, press my face back against the window, heart thudding even more.
Is everything all right out here, a voice from behind me says.
The anger swells, swells like a storm inside me. The booster seats, the abandoned toys. The wrong vehicle for the business parking permit. Complicated. Bad English. Disturbed. Confused. Bitch. Dramatic.
Fuck her. She wanted to deal with the parking crisis in the village. Well then let’s begin.
No, I say, turning my attention to my ticket machine, my weapon, and getting to work. Unfortunately this car isn’t the vehicle registered to the parking permit, I say.
Don’t, I hear Tristan call out and I ignore him. He’s hanging back, away from us both where she can’t see him but he wants to stop me from making a scene.
Her eyes look left and right as she thinks. She understands what’s happening but she’s going to pretend. I may not read people well but I know people when they’re caught out and about to lie, I see it every day and her, I know. I know more about her than she thinks.
No no, she says, wagging a finger in the air at me as though I’ve been a naughty girl.
Wrong move, Mother.
Just a moment, she says, going inside her salon.
Allegra, don’t do this, Tristan says. I know you’re angry with me but don’t ruin this with her because of me.
Not everything is about you, I snap. Leave me alone, I say, before she reappears.
He holds his hands up in surrender at the sidelines.
She returns, car keys in her hand. Big bunch, key rings, photographs with smiling faces. She’s going to show me her permit, that it’s all paid up, that it’s all in date. She’s going to take me through this kangaroo court, Mickey Mouse show. I fucking know it all already, where’s Amal when I need her.
Now, she says, all business, not even looking me in the eye as she brushes past. She opens the door, a Minion toy falls out. Children, she puffs, blowing air out of her mouth as though I’m to understand.
How many do you have, I ask.
Two, she says.
Actually you’ve three, the third one is standing right here right now, your first one. But of course I don’t say that out loud. I scream it in my head.
Tristan puts his head in his hands at what he’s witnessing, jiggles nervously trying to get my attention. I ignore him.
Yes, I know it probably looks like more. They are so messy but they are not allowed to leave my car in this state. This is my husband’s car.
Fergal D’Arcy, I say.
She looks at me in surprise. How do you know.
It says it on my machine, which is a lie, I didn’t read it on my machine. I already knew. It was in the newspaper when I found it in the giftshop, her announcement as president of the Malahide Chamber of Commerce, mother of two married to Fergal D’Arcy. He works in a bank, high up. They do rather well. I look into the back seats again, then the boot, and see two scooters and two helmets among other things. I wonder if Fergal knows about me, and if he doesn’t, what knowing about me would do to their family.
She slides the disc from the windscreen pouch. She’s so close to me, her perfume is strong. I know I’ll spend a while in Boots walking the aisles and trying to locate which scent it is. I might even buy it. She’s wearing a colourful wrap dress, low cut, her boobs splurging out, shapely hips, wedges. She’s curvier than me. I got Pops’ slender frame, or maybe she did look like me once, before the babies. Three babies. I wonder if she has to correct herself when she tells people how many children she has. Does she almost go to say three and then say two. Does she sometimes say three to some people, strangers, people she’ll never see again, just to test how the truth feels on her tongue.