Vessels, I want to correct him, but I don’t.
He barely allows me to digest that humdinger before saying suddenly, It’s you.
What are you talking about.
I have a solo exhibition coming up in Monty’s Gallery.
I feel myself twitch at the mention of it.
I’m thinking of calling it Hunger, he says. All the ways in which we feel hunger. Hungry for love, hungry for power, for youth, for money, for sex, for success, for connection.
Sounds good, I say nervously. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Maybe you should call it scavenger. After our friend the fox.
I don’t think he hears me. He wants to say what he wants to say. It’s inevitable.
I was in there during the week to look at the space. I saw a few paintings in there, sketches, portraits from a live session that had just finished. They were all different of course. Each artist had a different perspective but as a collective, there was something distinctive about them.
Come on fox, come and rescue me. Appear and make him change the subject.
You’re an intriguing character, Allegra, he says, on closer inspection.
He says it gently, then leaves.
A strange creepy girl, I whisper.
Twenty-Five
I take the day off work. I can’t face anyone today. I finally build up the courage to call Paddy and ask him if we can switch zones for the next few days, which he agrees to. I can’t be near Casanova. I can’t be near Cockadoodledoo Inc.
I’m sorry about your barbecue, I say to him.
You weren’t to know.
I shouldn’t have brought them. Well, I didn’t know George would show up. But I shouldn’t have brought Daisy. Did they leave when I left, I ask, afraid to hear more. I never heard from Daisy again after that.
They stayed for a bit longer.
How long.
Around eleven.
Jesus, Paddy, I’m so sorry. Why didn’t you tell them to leave.
Well I couldn’t really. They stayed outside. In the sun. Too much sun probably, mixed with the alcohol. Not a good combination. She was sick.
I bury my head in my hands, mortified. I had no idea, Paddy. I’m sorry. I haven’t spoken to Daisy since. She and I, we’re not friends.
Funny, you said the same thing about me.
My heart pounds. I feel my cheeks blazing. I said it, I admit to Paddy, hearing the guilt in my voice. But not in the way you think I meant it. She thought that we were together, together, and I was trying to tell her that we weren’t. That we just worked together.
That we weren’t friends, he says. Good to know.
His usually happy tone has lost its warmth. He’s flat and cold. Which is what I deserve. I’m so embarrassed.
Paddy, I’m so sorry.
He’s silent for a moment and I think he’s hung up.
I think, he says finally, taking his time, that we won’t be seeing each other much going forward anyway.
Why not.
The transfer will be coming up soon.
What transfer.
We’ll be moved. It happens every now and then. Wardens are moved around periodically.
But why, what for. I’ve been with you since the start, you trained me in, you were, are my support on the road. Would they move us somewhere else together.
No. We’ll be split. It’s to prevent boredom and over-familiarisation. Maybe it’s a good thing, Allegra. For you. I don’t know what’s going on around Malahide, and frankly I don’t want to, but maybe a change of scenery is what you need.
I end the call, the tears welling in my eyes. I can’t be moved. I can’t leave Malahide. I haven’t achieved what I’ve come here to do yet. I’ve lost more people than even I knew I had and now I’ve hurt poor Paddy, the sweetest and kindest of them all.
Feeling low, I try to cancel this evening’s art session. I can’t go back there thinking at any stage Donnacha could walk in. I’m sure there’s someone else that Genevieve can ask. I’m sure there are people lining up to pose nude, waiting for their lucky break, but when I hear her disappointment I somehow manage to be drawn back in. They have a full class today and she’ll pay me more. I hear Becky, Donnacha and the kids out in the garden having a barbecue and I give in and agree to go to the gallery. It will be better to be away from here.
It’s a stunning evening, I imagine what it would be like at home, the sun over the Skelligs, the pop of yellow of the birds-foot-trefoil to the landscape, blackberry brambles lining the roads. I close my eyes and imagine breathing it all in. The screams and shouts from the kids outside bring me back. Cillín is in his full princess dress, the princess from Brave with an impressive Scottish accent, and heels. He’s climbing up ladders and jumping down fireman’s poles and neither the dress nor the shoes hinder him.