No not yet, but she should be very soon, Carmencita says. Eight thirty.
Allegra arranged it, Becky asks.
Allegra. Yes Allegra. Do you know her.
Yes I do, she says and her tone is less than flattering. Unfortunately I do, Carmencita. I would just be … careful.
Yes, yes. She’s a little strange.
I feel sick.
I’m concerned she may have misled you. The news on the way here, Becky says, is that the Taoiseach has resigned. That Minister Brasil may be next in line. There will have to be an emergency vote within the party to elect her. I just can’t imagine that she can be here tonight, with everything that’s going on, or even this week, that her office wouldn’t have had the foresight to inform you.
Do you think Allegra is lying.
Carmencita sounds angry. Very angry. I know I should jump out and defend myself but I’m shaking. I’m trembling at their tone, their accusation. They intimidate me, make me want to crawl inside my shell.
I’d hate to accuse somebody of such a thing, Becky says, but in my dealings with her I wasn’t sure if Allegra was a con artist, delusional, or a little of both. Whatever she is, she clearly can’t be trusted. She inserts herself into situations that she has no business being in. For attention, perhaps. I hope that tonight I’m wrong, but it would be remiss of me not to mention anything.
It is remiss of you to bring this up only now, Carmencita says, taking no prisoners. She lets out a slew of curse words. Excuse me, please, Becky, I must go find her.
My heart is pounding. I escape to the toilets and lock the cubicle door. I can’t believe Becky would do that to me. Forehead against the door, I close my eyes and grab my left arm, run my finger over the scars from freckle to freckle, feeling the raised scarred skin through the silk of my dress. I try to breathe and calm myself.
She’s coming of course, of course she’s coming.
I regain my composure and rejoin the guests. The community is chattering happily, glasses of wine in everybody’s hands, the journalists are looking around, nobody is showing any signs of concern. If anything there’s an atmosphere of excitement. Of people with common loves and goals together in one room, raising each other up. It’s a great thing, what my mam has done. She left me for a better life and I’ve found her and see that she found a rich life. I’m proud of her. I’m proud to be her daughter. I just hope that I can make her proud tonight.
Allegra, Garda Laura says, grabbing my attention.
You made it, I say happily, my mood lifting even more. Thank you for coming.
I’m not staying long, I’m still on my shift, she says, displaying her glass of water. I just wanted to pop in. To have a quiet word with you, actually. We looked into that van.
Yes, I ask, my heart soaring. This is it. I’m not a weirdo, in fact I’m helpful, in fact I’m the kind of person you’d like to have as a friend. Would I like to go out on Friday night with you, Laura, and the other female gardaí to Copper Face Jacks on Leeson Street. Oh thanks for asking, yes please.
It wasn’t our guys, she says, sticking a pin in my bubble of excitement, and I’m so confused. We appreciate you helping but we wouldn’t want you to deliberately hinder an investigation. The photographs and details you brought to the station are of course private, they are the property of the council, as soon as you take them and log them. I don’t believe you had permission to print them and bring them to the station.
There’s a hardness in her. I’m being told off.
But I’m so confused. It was exactly like the white van that was described in the report, I say. They must have made a mistake. I logged it. I spent the afternoon watching the van. It was parked right there. On a reconnaissance.
It was a white van, she says, nodding. You got that bit right. Allegra, I know you wanted to be a garda and we do appreciate help from the public, but we don’t appreciate being deliberately misled.
The way she’s looking at me. I can see she thinks I’d do this on purpose.
I don’t even have time to drum up a response because I feel a pinch on my upper arm.
Excuse me to interrupt, Carmencita says. It’s eight forty-five, where is the minister, she asks rudely.
Garda Laura steps aside.
I’ll check now, I say, feeling the panic rising again.
No, I will. Give me your contact – now. I should have done it myself weeks ago, she says, but her attention is taken from me as yet another person takes her away for a conversation and congratulations, allowing me to move to the fire exit door which is open a crack to allow fresh air into the hot and stuffy room.