The Year I Met You

The seasons between spring and autumn, comprising in the Northern Hemisphere the warmest months of the year: June, July and August.

The period of finest development, perfection, or beauty previous to any decline: the summer of life.

20

I love June, and June in a garden showered with love is the greatest reward a gardener could receive for their hard work. Every month and season has its beauty, but summer is when it is at its most vigorous, its brightest, its proudest, its most dramatic. If spring is hopeful, summer is proud, autumn is humble and winter is resilient. When I think of spring I see big and youthful bambi-like eyes looking up at me through long lashes, when I think of summer I see shoulders back, a chest heaved up and puffed out. When I think of autumn I think of a dipped head with a small smile lost in nostalgia, and for winter I imagine bruised knobbly knees and fists, growling, ready for the fight.

June brings constant watering, mulch renewal, weekly mowing, a half-dozen hanging baskets, pink peonies, cream roses, perennials of all different colours and an ample herb garden, which I have growing in a pot outside my kitchen. June brings frequent visits of you and your children to your garden where you have also begun to take a keen interest by beginning a kitchen garden at the side of your house to rival my garden, sowing runner beans and French beans, carrots, Brussels sprouts and courgettes. We race to see who can get outside the earliest each morning to tend to our gardens and when it is us first we smugly give the morning wave to the late arrivals. Now it is a competition to see whose bedroom curtains open first. There we both work, you in your garden, me in mine, while the Malones sit outside their front door, Mrs Malone in her chair, the stroke rendering her immobile and unable to speak and read, while Mr Malone reads to her, Patrick Kavanagh’s poems in Mr Malone’s soft Donegal lilt, drifting over the honeysuckle to me. You and I can go hours without speaking, without calling random thoughts or gardening questions across the road, but it feels as if we are working together. Maybe that is just me. And there is something nice about that. When I see you take a sip of refrigerated bottled water, it reminds me to take mine. When I straighten my back and announce I’m going to eat lunch, you agree that you will too. We don’t eat together, but we stick to the same schedule. Sometimes I’ll sit on my garden bench and eat my salad, and you’ll sit at your table that you still haven’t moved from the front lawn, and we’ll be in each other’s company but not really. We both wave good morning and good evening to the corporate man who is renting number six, who drives past us in his BMW but who has failed to notice us so far and drives on unaware of our neighbourly salutes. At first his nonchalance annoyed me. Now it both annoys me and makes me pity him, because I know exactly what is on his mind. He has no time for us, for our mundane neighbourly intrusion in his life. He is too busy. He has things on his mind. Real things. Distractions.

And I am coming closer to possibly becoming that person again as June brings my job interview. As soon as Monday informed me of the date I started willing it to come quickly, but now it’s almost here and I want the week to slow down. June ninth, June ninth, I’m so nervous about it, I try not to think about it, though Monday won’t let me off the hook, calling over to run through questions with me over a dinner I’ve cooked. I’m not nervous about it because I don’t feel competent, I’m nervous because I feel I am competent and as the weeks have gone by I have grown to realise I want this job more than ever and I worry I won’t get it. If I don’t get this job, it’s the beginning of unemployment becoming an issue, because it is out of my control while I’m on gardening leave. I don’t want to officially feel bored, worthless, uncertain and panicking about my future. In a way, this is the calm before the storm, and if this is calm…

‘Okay, so tell me again from the start, Ms Butler.’

‘Monday,’ I groan, as we sit at the kitchen table and he goes through the interview for the tenth time. ‘Do you do this with all your headhuntees?’

‘No.’ He looks away, feathers ruffled.

‘So why am I getting special treatment?’

Say it, say it, I will him to say the something I want to hear so badly.

‘I want you to get the job.’

‘Why?’ I leave a long silence.

‘All the other candidates have jobs,’ he finally says. ‘You deserve it.’

I sigh. Not the answer I was hoping for. ‘Thanks. Who are they, anyway? Are they better than me?’

‘You know I can’t tell you that,’ he says, smiling. ‘Besides, you knowing wouldn’t make a difference.’

‘It might. I could sabotage their chances on the day of the interview. Slash their tyres, put pink hair dye in their shampoo, that kind of thing.’

He laughs, looks at me in the way that makes my insides melt, as though I both interest and baffle him at the same time.

‘By the way,’ he says, while I clear away the dishes. ‘There’s been a change of plan. The interview has been moved to the tenth.’

I stop scraping leftover food into the bin and look at him. My throat tightens, my stomach clenches. He notices the silence, looks up at me. ‘And you just thought you’d mention that now.’

‘It’s only a day later, Jasmine – don’t look so scared,’ he says, smiling, rubbing his hand along his jaw as he studies me.

‘I’m not scared, I’m…’ I debate whether to tell him or not. I don’t know why I wouldn’t tell him, but not telling him reveals to me that I’m not – in this moment – fully committing to this interview and that scares me. I need this interview. I need this job. I need to get back on track.

June tenth is the day Heather goes on her four-day holiday to Fota Island with Jonathan. All that I intend doing while she’s gone is to sit around at home waiting, waiting for the phone to ring, waiting for a neighbour to bang on my door and tell me something has happened, the way they do it in the movies, waiting for a guard to take his hat off and dip his head respectfully. If I go to the job interview that day I won’t be able to fully concentrate on wondering what Heather is doing. Some would say the distraction would be good for me, but no, it will mean switching my phone off for at least an hour, it will mean not being able to listen to my senses, the possible sudden strike of fear that could alert me to the fact that something is wrong, leaving me unable to jump in my car and drive to Cork at a moment’s notice. I want to get a job, but Heather should be my main priority. This debacle won’t do.

‘Jasmine,’ Monday says, joining me in the kitchen. ‘Is there something wrong?’

‘No,’ I lie, and he knows I’m lying.

After he leaves, I stay at the kitchen table and bite all of my nails down to the quick.

Monday calls me on Thursday ninth when I am in Heather’s apartment packing with her, to make sure everything is okay for her trip the following day. He is suspicious and he is right to be, I am vague, and though I am committed to going to the interview in my head, when I say the words aloud even I don’t believe them. I need the job. I need to get my life back on track. But Heather. My heart is completely torn and I am overwhelmed with worry.

‘See you tomorrow, Jasmine,’ Monday says.

‘See you tomorrow,’ I finally say and I almost choke on the final word.

The following day I am seeing Heather off at Heuston train station as if she’s a soldier going off to war, and at eleven a.m. when I should be sitting in a boardroom selling myself and getting my life back on track, I am instead sitting in the carriage connected to Heather and Jonathan’s, watching them play Snap, as we travel to Cork. Monday calls me four times and I ignore each one. He couldn’t understand right now, but I know I am doing the right thing.

A man sits in the seat diagonally to me and blocks my view of Heather. I always thought that the garden, that nature, was honest, truthful, open. You work hard on it and you receive the rewards, but even in a garden there is deception and trickery. It seems to be natural, we do it to survive. The Stapelia asterias plant knows how to attract beneficial insects by looking and smelling like rotting flesh. It emits a putrid stench to go with its less than pretty appearance. I take its lead. I clear my nose of mucus and try to clear my throat, noisily. The young man is rightly grossed out by me and moves to another seat. I can see Heather again. It’s natural to deceive.

Monday calls my phone for the fifth time. The passion flower vine developed little yellow spots that resemble Heliconious butterfly eggs, which convinces female butterflies to look elsewhere so their offspring won’t have to compete with other caterpillars when they hatch. I think of my friend who, when in a nightclub and asked to dance by a man she’s not interested in, mentions the baby she doesn’t have and watches him turn on his heel quickly. I ignore Monday’s call. It’s natural to deceive.

There is a car to greet Heather and Jonathan at the train station; we organised this with the hotel and I see the driver standing with a sign with their names on it before they see it. Heather and Jonathan walk by him, searching in the wrong direction, and I want to call out to them but bite my tongue at the last minute. It’s just as well because they turn around, as if hearing my thoughts, and see him as they make their way back.

The male orchid dupe wasp is so attracted to the tongue orchid that it ejaculates right on to the flower’s petals. Flowers that can trick insects into ejaculating have the highest rates of pollination. I think of my friend who got pregnant so that her boyfriend would marry her, and then got pregnant again to keep them together when they were falling apart, and I remember that it is natural to deceive. I get into a taxi and follow their car to the hotel.

Heather and Jonathan check in and they take two single rooms, as discussed. I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath until the air suddenly whooshes out of my mouth and I feel my body release tension. I check into the room I booked while on the train. I have asked to be on the same floor as Heather and Jonathan. All I have is my work briefcase and it seems strange not to have luggage when checking in, but I have survived a spontaneous dirty weekend on disposable spa thongs and I know I can do the same here.

I don’t spend any time in my room. I go straight back down to the lobby to wait and hope I haven’t missed them. They hold hands as they explore the grounds outside, I try to keep as much of a distance as possible, but it’s not enough for me to see Heather from afar, I need to see her face. I need to be able to read her to make sure she is really okay. I get a bit braver and hide behind nearby trees. They find a playground beside a group of holiday homes that is alive and swarming with children. Heather sits on a swing and Jonathan pushes her. I sit on the grass and lift my face to the sun and close my eyes, and listen and smile at the sound of her laughter. I’m glad that I’m here, I’ve done the right thing.

They spend ninety minutes in the playground and then they go swimming. I watch her yellow swim hat bobbing up and down in the water, as Jonathan pretends to be a shark, as they play volleyball, badly, as she shrieks as he splashes her. He is caring and thoughtful and takes care of her every step of the way, almost treating her as though she is fragile, or perhaps precious, as though it is his honour to assist her. He opens doors, he pulls out chairs, he is a little clumsy but he accomplishes everything. Heather is so independent and yet she allows him to do this, seems happy for him to do this. She has spent so many years not wanting to be a person that needs unnecessary assistance, seeing her like this surprises me.

They change for dinner, Heather wearing a new dress we shopped for together, and lipstick. She doesn’t usually wear make-up, and lipstick is a big deal. It is red and it doesn’t match her pink dress, but she’d insisted on it. She looks mature as they walk together and I notice her hair is flecked with grey at the roots and wonder when that happened. When they are safely in the lift I follow the path they took and breathe in the perfume she is wearing. Faced with the impossible decision of which one to wear, she’d asked me which one Mum wore, and bought that. Mum’s scent fills my lungs as I follow Heather’s trail.

They eat downstairs in the main dining room. I choose to sit in the bar where I can still have a view of them. Heather orders the goat’s cheese starter and I’m confused because I know she doesn’t like it. I think she has misread it. I order the same to see what it’s like, if she ever talks about it in the future, I’ll know exactly what she’s talking about. They order a glass of wine each, which concerns me as Heather doesn’t drink. She takes a sip and makes a face. They both laugh and she pushes the glass far away from her. I order the same and drink it all. I’m contented, sitting here and watching her, feeling a part of it despite not completely being a part of it.

She eats the apple and beetroot from her starter but leaves the goat’s cheese. I hear her explain to the waiter that she misread it and thought it was normal cheese, she doesn’t want him to think it was the chef’s fault. She’s nervous; I can tell by the way she keeps fixing her hair behind her ear, even though it never comes loose. I want to tell her that it’s okay, I’m here, and for a moment I consider letting her in on my secret, but then quickly decide against it. She needs to think she is doing all this alone. They eat three courses, Jonathan finishes off his entire steak and sides, Heather eats battered fish and chips. They taste each other’s desserts. Jonathan spoons his chocolate fondue into her mouth, only he must be nervous too because his hand jerks and she ends up with chocolate on her nose. He turns puce and looks as though he wants to cry, but Heather starts laughing and he relaxes. He dips his napkin into his glass of water and leans over to tenderly clean the chocolate from her face. Heather does not take her eyes off him for one moment and it occurs to me that I could have sat right beside them and they would never have noticed me at all.

The Lithops plant is commonly called the Living Stone. These plants thrive in deserts, hidden away in rocky beds so that when their yellow flowers burst into bloom it’s as if they’ve sprung out of nowhere. Surprise! I want to do that now, but no. I’ll stay right here where they can’t see me. It’s natural to deceive.

That night when I turn on my phone there are four more missed calls from Monday and the text messages range from angry to concerned.

Caladium steudneriifolium pretends to be ill; the pattern of its leaves mimics the damage done by moth larvae when they hatch and eat through the plant, and this prevents moths from laying their eggs there. I tell Monday I have been terribly ill. It’s natural to deceive.

Heather calls me when she and I are back in our rooms and tells me everything that has happened to her today. It is everything that I have seen already and I feel happy that she has shared it all with me, not leaving anything out.

I drink a bottle of wine from the minibar and I listen out for the opening and closing of bedroom doors in the corridor. Each time I hear a door I think is in their direction, I peep out and duck back in again. They stay in their rooms all night.

The following day they take a trip to Fota Island. They spend a long time looking at and photographing the Lar gibbons, who sing loudly and swing wildly, much to Heather’s delight. They take photographs of each other and then Jonathan asks a teenage boy to take a photograph of the both of them. I don’t like the look of the teenager, he is not someone I would have personally trusted with my phone, and Jonathan doing this annoys me. I move closer, just in case. The teenager’s gang of friends are already sniggering at Jonathan and Heather’s happy faces pushed together for the photo. I move closer and closer, ready to pounce on him when he runs off with Jonathan’s phone. The boy takes the photo and hands it back to them. I freeze, then step in behind a tree so I’m not seen. Jonathan and Heather examine the photos and then surprise me by heading back in my direction, and as they do my phone beeps. It is a message from Heather; the photograph of her and Jonathan. This makes me feel sad inside, disappointed at myself for being here. It is as though somebody has taken a pin and popped my balloon. Why didn’t I trust that Heather would keep me informed and therefore involved every step of the way? I had wanted to share this place with her, had been put out by my own suggestion that they come here and yet, she is sharing it with me. Feeling unnerved, I hang back a little further.

Heather and Jonathan spend four hours in the park. It is hot and humid and busy with school tours and families. Wishing I had a change of clothes more suited to this weather than the black suit I’d put on for my interview, I stay in the shade, but I never lose them. They stop for ice cream and talk for an hour, then they return to the hotel. They sit in the bar, both drinking 7UP and they continue their conversation. I don’t think I have ever spoken to anybody for so long at one sitting, but the words flow from each of them and their attention is completely focused on one another. It is beautiful, but again I feel a tinge of sadness, which makes me feel ridiculous. I am not here to feel sorry for myself. They eat in the bar and go to bed early, tired from their long day outside.

I have one message from Monday. Call me. Please.

My finger hovers over the call button but instead my phone rings and I talk to Heather for forty-five minutes about the day she had. She tells me absolutely everything that I have already witnessed and the jubilation I felt yesterday at being here and knowing she is sharing everything with me has disappeared. I feel like a traitor. I should have trusted that she would be capable. I shouldn’t be here.

It is day three. They will be leaving tomorrow and they are sitting outside the hotel talking. What began as a beautiful day has quickly turned. While everyone moves inside to shelter from the cool breeze, Heather and Jonathan, oblivious to the cold, continue to talk. Sometimes they don’t talk and sit comfortable in each other’s company, and I can’t stop watching them, absolutely fascinated by what is going on with them.

Something inside me shifts. Although it has already dawned on me that I shouldn’t be here, I realise that I should leave now. Because if Heather ever finds out, I know it would jeopardise my relationship with her. This trip is important to her and my being here is disrespectful to her. I know this and yet it only hits me now. I have betrayed her by coming here, and I feel ill and upset with myself for that. I betrayed Monday for this – another betrayal. I have to leave.

I hurry to my room to collect the few belongings I brought with me. I check out. As I scurry through the lobby, suddenly eager to flee the scene, I run smack-bang into Heather and Jonathan.

‘Jasmine!’ she says, shock written all over her face. At first she is happy to see me and then I watch how she processes it, joy turning to confusion. Bafflement, then wonder. She is too polite to be angry with me, even if she has figured it out.

I’m so stunned by the sight of them, and feel so caught out, that I don’t know what to say. Guilt is written all over my face. They both know it and look to each other, seeming as appalled as I feel.

‘I wanted to make sure that you’re okay,’ my voice wobbles. ‘I was… so worried.’ My voice cracks and I whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’

Heather looks at me in shock. ‘Did you follow me, Jasmine?’

‘I’m going now, I promise. I’m sorry.’ My lips brush her forehead quickly as I leave, clumsily bumping into people in the halls as I make my way to the door.

The look that Heather gives me, and the way that I feel, is not natural.

For the next few hours I sit on the train, face in my hands, repeating the mantra. I have let Monday down, I have let Heather down, I have let myself down.

The taxi pulls up outside my house and I climb out, exhausted and desperately in need of a change of clothes. I look at my garden, hoping to feel the familiar sense of relief or rejuvenation that I’ve come to expect from it. But I don’t. Something isn’t right. It has lost its vibrancy.

Reality has taught me a lesson, the universe has gotten me back. I have neglected my garden in a heatwave for three days without any instruction to anyone to help. The flowers are thirsty. Worse, slugs have eaten their way through my garden. My cream roses are drooping, my pink peonies are ravaged. I have managed to keep it in all day, but the sight of my precious garden brings me to tears.

I have let Monday down, I have let Heather down, I have let myself down.

I missed an important opportunity in my life, in order to be there for Heather. But Heather didn’t need me. I repeat this to myself. Heather didn’t need me. Perhaps it is me that clings to her, looking for help, for escape from my own world. Instead of living my own life for myself, I have taken on the role of guiding her and in a way mothering her. Whether this was a result of caring for her, or the reason I chose to do it, I’m not sure. I don’t think it matters either way, but I know now that it’s a fact.

Feeling out of control this year, I have turned to my garden to maintain control, thinking it would bend to my will. It has shown me that it will not. Nothing can bend to our will. I neglected my garden and I allowed the slugs to take over.

That is exactly what I have done with myself.

21

Apart from betrayal, June also brings a christening, godmother duties and a one-night-stand with my ex-boyfriend Laurence, the boyfriend who lasted longest, the one everybody thought I’d marry, including me, but the one who left me in the end. Sleeping with him again after two years of Laurence-celibacy was a mistake, it was an enjoyable mistake, but it won’t be happening again. I don’t know what I was thinking, but after a day spent drinking in the sun, the old familiar feelings came back, or the memory of them did, their echo, and so I confused them as easily as I had the male from the female toilets and the glass of water from the straight vodka. Just another oopsie on that long summer’s day. And maybe I was longing for a moment of security, to go back to the feeling of being loved, of feeling in love. Only it didn’t work out that way, of course it didn’t. Recreations never work. The ‘here’s one I made earlier’ can rarely be replicated. Don’t try this at home, kids.

And so I end up outside your house at two in the morning, drunk, throwing pebbles at your window, with a bottle of rosé and two glasses in my hands.

You open the curtains and look out, your face sleepy and confused, your hair standing high on your head. You see me, then disappear from view and I sit at the table and wait for you. Moments later you open the door, tracksuit on, and sleepily make your way to me. When you register my state, the groggy inquisitive look on your face quickly changes to amusement, the expression that makes your blue eyes sparkle mischievously, though smaller and surrounded by the crinkles that squeeze them when you smile.

‘Well, well, well, what have we got here?’ you say, coming towards me with an enormous grin. You give my hair an annoying big-brother ruffle before joining me at the garden table. ‘You look fancy tonight.’

‘Just thought I’d call an urgent neighbourhood meeting,’ I slur, then push a glass towards you and lean over to fill it. I almost fall off my chair as I do so.

‘Not for me.’ You place your hand over the top of the glass.

‘Still not drinking?’ I ask, disappointed.

‘Have I made you get out of bed in the middle of the night lately to get me into my house?’

I think about it. ‘No.’

‘Not for four weeks.’

I top my own glass up some more. ‘Party pooper.’

‘Alcoholic.’

‘Potato, potato,’ I say. I slug back some wine.

‘That’s supportive,’ you say good-naturedly.

‘You’re not an alcoholic. You’re a pisshead – there’s a difference.’

‘Wow. That’s controversial. Explain that please.’

‘You’re an eejit, that’s all. Selfish. Choose late nights over early nights. You’re not addicted, you don’t actually have a drink problem, you have a life problem. I mean, do you go to meetings?’

‘No. Well, kind of. I sit with Dr J.’

‘A retired GP doesn’t count.’

‘Dr J is an alcoholic. Hasn’t had a drink in over twenty years. There’s a lot about him that you don’t know,’ he says, seeing my shocked expression. ‘His wife said she wouldn’t have children until he cleaned himself up. He didn’t stop until he was over fifty. Too late. She stayed with him though.’

‘Well, she’s dead now.’ I drain my glass.

You frown. ‘Yes, Sherlock. She’s dead now.’

‘So she got away in the end.’ I have no idea why I’m saying the things I’m saying. Probably for the sake of being annoying, which I clearly am. It’s fun to be you, I can see why you do it.

You get up and leave the table and disappear into the house. I think you’ve gone for good, but you return with a bag of cheese nachos.

‘Are the kids in there?’

‘Kris and Kylie asked if they could stay another night. They’re enjoying the plot.’

‘Kris and Kylie. So that’s their names. They even sound like twins.’

‘They are.’

‘Oh.’

You have quite an impressive plot of vegetables growing at the side of the house. Though it’s dark, I eye the area. You laugh.

‘You’re jealous.’

‘Why would I be? When I have that.’ We look at my garden. It’s the best on the street, if I do say so myself. ‘Don’t try to compete with me, Marshall,’ I warn.

‘I wouldn’t dare,’ you say, mock-serious. ‘Fionn still isn’t getting into the spirit of things.’

‘He might not ever,’ I say thoughtfully, my finger running around the rim of the glass. ‘No matter what you do.’

‘Well, that’s positive, thanks.’

‘I’m not here to be positive. I’m here to be realistic. If you want cheery tips, talk to okey-dokey Dr J.’

‘I do.’

‘I’m surprised about him, you know. He’s lucky he didn’t kill someone at the practice.’

‘He was a functioning alcoholic. The worst kind.’

‘Lucky for you, you weren’t.’

You take both insults: that you’re an alcoholic and that you couldn’t function.

‘I know. He’s made me see that.’

We go quiet and you munch on the nachos. I slug my wine. I realise I’ve been doing the usual thing of attacking you.

‘Every boyfriend I’ve ever been with has left me. Did you know that?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ You have that amused expression again. ‘But I can’t say I’m surprised,’ you add, sarcastically, but gently.

‘Because I’m very difficult to live with,’ I say, to your surprise.

‘Why are you difficult to live with?’

‘Because I want everything done my way. I don’t like mistakes.’

‘Jesus, you wouldn’t want to live with me.’

‘You’re quite right. I don’t.’

Silence.

‘Where’s this coming from tonight?’

‘I slept with my ex.’

You look at your watch. It’s two a.m.

‘I left when he was asleep.’

‘He was probably pretending to be asleep.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘I used to pull that trick all the time.’

‘Well, it worked. She left.’

You don’t like that joke so much, probably because it didn’t come out as a joke.

‘So is that what he told you? That you’re difficult to live with?’

‘Not in so many words. I came up with it all by myself. It’s something I’ve realised since…’ I look over at my garden, beautiful and blooming, drawing the magical source of knowledge into myself. The more I dig into the soil, the more I dig into myself.

‘Then how do you know it’s true? Maybe you’re not difficult to live with at all, maybe you’re just a busy, successful, beautiful woman who won’t settle for anything but the best – and why should you?’

That moves me, almost to tears.

‘Maybe,’ he says.

My tears instantly dry.

‘Or maybe you’re crap in bed and impossible to live with.’

You start laughing and I throw a nacho at you.

‘He told me tonight that he was lonely in my company. That’s why he left me.’

Silence.

‘Lonely in your company,’ you say slowly, thoughtfully.

‘Lonely in my company,’ I repeat, refilling my glass.

Imagine how I felt – imagine how he’d felt, being with somebody who made him feel lonely. It’s quite an awful thing to feel lonely in the company of someone you love. It is quite something to say it, it is unbearable to be the one to hear it, to be the one to have it said of you.

‘He said this before or after you slept with him?’ you ask, leaning forward, elbows on the table, interested, studying me.

‘Before. But I know what you’re thinking. It wasn’t a line.’

‘It was a line,’ you say, annoyed. ‘Come on, Jasmine, it was a line. I bet you two were on your own somewhere, bet it was the end of the night, he takes you aside, talks to Jasmine, still single and jobless, bound to be in a vulnerable state, her friends popping sprogs all around her. Even though she says she doesn’t want them, it’s still going to get her thinking. And then he pulls the line out of his pocket. He looks at you, all red hair and big tits…’

I snort, trying not to smile.

‘Smudged eyeliner…’

I wipe under my eyes.

‘It’s a line. It’s bound to go one of two ways: either you get angry and throw your drink on him, or you feel guilty and he gets laid. Nine times out of ten, it works.’

‘To quote Dr J: “Codswallop!” You did not try that ten times,’ I say, dubious.

‘Twice. Got a drink in my face once, got my happy ending once. And the drink in question was a Sambuca, which really stung my skin, with the coffee bean still on fire.’

I laugh.

‘Finally. She smiles,’ you say softly.

I light up a cigarette.

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘Only when I drink.’

‘Wild thing.’

I roll my eyes.

‘So what about your boyfriend? You going to tell him about what you did tonight?’

‘What boyfriend?’

‘The good-looking guy who calls around all the time. The one who’s not your cousin.’ You hold your hands up and laugh. ‘Sorry, I couldn’t help it.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend. That’s Monday. He’s a headhunter. He was trying to get me to go for a job.’

‘Monday?’

‘He was born on a Monday.’

‘Right. And Monday is headhunting you.’

I don’t like the amused look on your face.

‘Was. Or do you think that was a line too?’ I’m being sarcastic, I don’t expect you to give it serious consideration.

‘What was the job?’

‘Working with the DavidGordonWhite Foundation.’

‘The tax consultants?’

‘They have a new foundation dedicated to climate justice.’

You look at me pointedly. ‘You do start-ups.’

‘It’s new. I’d have to start it up.’

‘And you’re telling me he’s not trying to get you into bed?’

‘I wish he would,’ I reply, and you laugh. I drop the cigarette on the ground and pivot on it with my strappy heel. For a moment I’d contemplated extinguishing it on the varnished table, but the thought of the children’s hard work stopped me. ‘Anyway it’s too late. I missed the interview.’

‘Why? Get scared?’ You’re not teasing this time.

‘No.’ But I was scared, though it wasn’t over the job.

I think about telling you the truth. It would mean having to explain my fears about Heather going away on her own, and I don’t want to reinforce your stereotypical view of Down syndrome, even if my own thinking was wrong. She has been home for one week and while we have spoken on the phone – of course she’s talking to me, Heather couldn’t be any other way – things are not the same. She is distant. I’ve lost a piece of her, the invisible piece that held her and me together.

‘Did you miss the interview because you were drunk?’ you ask, concerned.

‘No,’ I snap.

‘Okay, okay. It just seems to be a recurring theme these days, so I thought I should mention it, seeing as you so kindly brought my drinking to my attention.’ You hold your hands up, defensively.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, more calmly. ‘I’m just… so…’ I make a fart noise with my mouth and then sigh, unable to sum up my feelings any more than that.

‘Yeah. I understand.’

And despite my inability to explain, I think that you do understand exactly. We sit in a comfortable silence which makes me think of how Jonathan and Heather were together, the jealousy I felt, not realising I have that comfort right here with you.

‘That man who comes over to your house with the little girl. Is that your dad?’

I nod.

‘He seems like a good dad.’

I think you’re going to start picking at me again, but as you run your hand down the smooth varnished wood I know that you’re thinking about yourself and your current predicament.

‘He is now,’ I say. I want to add to someone else, but I don’t.

You look up at me. Study me in that way that you do, which I hate, because it’s as though you’re seeing, or trying to see right through to my soul.

‘Interesting.’

‘Interesting,’ I sigh. ‘What’s interesting about that?’

‘It explains the things you said to me, that’s all.’

‘I told you you were a terrible dad because you were a terrible dad.’

‘But you noticed it. It bothered you.’

I don’t respond. I drink instead.

‘Is he trying to make up for it now?’

‘No, he’s interfering in my life – different thing altogether.’ On your questioning look, I explain: ‘He’s trying to get me a job. At his old company. Pull in a few favours, that kind of thing.’

‘That sounds helpful.’

‘It’s not helpful. It’s nepotism.’

‘Is it a good job?’

‘Actually, yes, it is. Account director, manage a team of eight. Forty thousand,’ I repeat dad’s mantra in a bad impression of him.

‘It’s a good job.’

‘Yes, it’s a great job. That’s what I said.’

‘Not something that he’d give to anyone.’

‘Of course not.’

‘You’d have to do an interview.’

‘Of course. It’s not his company any more. He’s only putting my name forward.’

‘So he believes in you. Thinks you’re capable. I’m sure he’s a proud man. He wouldn’t want to be embarrassed by an underperforming daughter.’

I prickle at that and wonder if you’re referring to Heather. I ready myself, but realise you’re not. I don’t know what to say to you.

‘I’d take it as a compliment.’

‘Whatever.’

‘You and Fionn have a lot in common,’ you say, and I know you’re criticising my childish response, but I go for the jugular.

‘Because we’ve both got crap dads?’

You sigh. ‘If I told you I knew someone with a great idea for a start-up, and they were looking for someone to work with, would you be interested?’

‘Is her name Caroline?’ I say, and hear the dread in my voice.

‘I mean hypothetically.’

‘Yes. I would meet them.’

‘But your dad knows someone who’s looking for someone and you won’t entertain it.’

I don’t know how to answer, so in the spirit of Fionn, I shrug.

‘I wouldn’t rule it out if I were you.’

‘I don’t need his help.’

‘Yes, you do.’

I’m silent.

‘You’ve a headhunter hunting you for a job you would have taken by now if you were in any way interested, and a friend who wants you to help her set up a website about dresses. I was in your house, I heard,’ you explain, seeing my reaction. ‘Of course you need help.’

I’m silent.

‘I know you don’t like other people’s opinions. You think they’re wrong. That they’re not open-minded. Don’t look at me like that, you’ve told me this. Sometimes – just sometimes – I think you look at things entirely the wrong way. I don’t know what you think you’re defending yourself against, but it’s all the wrong things.’

You let that hang for a while. I preferred it when I hated you and we didn’t speak. But seeing as you’ve picked through me and my issues, I feel we’ve reached the point where I can tackle yours. ‘What’s with the Guns N’ Roses song?’

You look at me blankly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘“Paradise City”?’ I smile. ‘It’s blaring out most nights when you come home.’

You stare at me blankly. ‘Nothing. The CD player in the jeep is jammed. It’s the only song that plays.’

I’m disappointed. Where I thought I found meaning in you, it turns out I am wrong. Where I thought I had a glimpse of something, I am mistaken.

‘I better get back to bed, the kids will be up early in the morning. We’re picking our peas tomorrow and planting tomatoes.’

I make a faux impressed face. I’m actually jealous. My peas failed.

‘You okay here?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just for the record, Jasmine: I would have said the opposite about you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If it wasn’t for you, I would have been alone too many times. I’ve never felt lonely in your company, not for a second.’

My breath catches in my throat. I watch you disappear inside the house. I suddenly feel stone-cold sober. Although I’m dizzy, I have clarity of thought. I’m sitting at the head of the table, at the seat you usually sit in. Your drinking table. How the tables turn in life.

22

The following morning I’m woken by the sun streaming in on my face and the doorbell is ringing. My head is hot, as though I’ve been lying on the tarmac with a magnifying glass held over my face, God’s childish joke on me. I didn’t bother closing the curtains when I fell into bed. Everything comes back to me in an instant, as though I’m being hit over the head with a stone-filled sock. The christening, Laurence. I don’t even care that I dragged you out of bed last night, it is Laurence that beats everything, hands down. The doorbell continues to ring.

‘She’s not here, Dad!’ I hear a little girl’s voice shout beneath my window. Kylie. Or maybe Kris, whose voice hasn’t broken yet.

‘She’s there. Keep trying,’ I hear you shout across the road.

I grunt as I open my eyes and try to adjust to the white light. My mouth is like sandpaper and I look to my bedside locker for water and instead see an empty bottle of vodka. My stomach heaves. This is becoming all too familiar and I know, I just know, that this is the last time this will happen. I can’t take any more. Wanting to be out of my system is now all out of my system. I want to come back now. My alarm clock tells me it is noon and I believe it, the midday sun on my hot cheeks.

I trip going down the stairs and catch myself on the banister. My heart is pounding from the shock, but it gives me the wake-up call I need. I pull open the door and two blondes and Monday stare at me, two looking my dishevelled state up and down with distaste, the other with an amused expression. I immediately close the door in their faces and I hear him laugh.

‘Come on, kids, why don’t we give her a second to get ready.’

I open the door a little for him to enter and then run upstairs to take a shower and humanise myself. I come back downstairs feeling refreshed but tender. Everything is achey – my head, my body…

‘Rough night?’ Monday asks, mildly entertained by my state. ‘Or are you still ill?’ The last sentence comes out angry, and it makes me wince.

I can barely look at him, I feel so guilty about not showing up for the interview, but mostly for not having the nerve to inform him I wouldn’t be. He has made coffee, he’s dressed casually, and somehow he seems more vulnerable out of his business suit. This doesn’t feel like a business call, he can’t hide behind the work persona that he usually disappears behind. Suddenly I feel guilty in the pit of my stomach about Laurence, as though I’ve betrayed Monday, even though there was never anything between us. He is a headhunter and I am unemployed and there was never anything more, or even a hint, but the deception I feel tells me that there was something. It was silent and hidden but it was there. And of course it took sleeping with someone else to realise that.

‘Monday,’ I take his hand, which takes him by surprise. ‘I am so sorry about last week. Please don’t think that it was a decision that I took lightly, because it wasn’t. I want to explain everything to you now and I hope you’ll understand.’

‘So you weren’t sick then,’ he says flatly.

‘No.’ I bite my lip.

‘I don’t think we’ll have much time to talk,’ he says, looking at his watch and my heart falls.

‘If you can, please stay, I’ll explain everything-’

‘No, I’m not leaving,’ he says, leaning against the kitchen counter, folding his arms and looking at me.

I’m confused but I can barely hold his look without smiling. He softens me so much, turns me to mush. He finally smiles and shakes his head, as though doing so is against his better judgement.

‘You’re a mess, you know that?’ he says it gently, as though it’s a compliment and I take it as such.

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

He watches my lips and swallows hard and I wonder when on earth it’s going to happen, I mean, I think it’s really going to happen, maybe I should say something, make the first move to kiss him, but the doorbell rings and he jumps, startled, as though we’ve been caught.

I sigh and open the door and in you walk with your blonde children, my dad, Zara, Leilah, who is looking very apologetic, and behind her is Kevin, closely followed by Heather and her assistant Jamie. Heather is looking very proud of herself. You look like you’re finding this hilarious. Monday is suddenly looking at me with concern. He steps away from the counter and drops his folded arms.

‘Are you okay?’

My body has started to tremble from head to toe. I’m not sure if alcohol withdrawal has something to do with it, but the sense of terror that has engulfed me over what is to come is certainly playing a part. The earlier heart-pound of passion is gone, now it is dread, anxiety, nerves. My brain is telling my body to run. Now! Fight or flight, and flight has well and truly kicked in. I know what this is, I know what they’ve done. I can tell from the proud look on Heather’s face that she feels she is doing this for my own benefit, that I will be happy about this.

Kevin gives me a warm hug, which makes me freeze with my hands elevated in the air, away from his body, unable to touch him.

You chuckle, my life your Saturday entertainment on this match-free summer weekend.

Finally Kevin pulls away. ‘Heather asked me to invite Jennifer, but she wasn’t home so I thought I’d come along myself.’

I open my mouth but no words come out.

‘You’re the gardener?’ Kevin says to you, remembering you from the day he called by.

You look at me, amused by the entire situation.

‘Matt is my neighbour. His son was helping me out with some work around the garden a while back.’

Kevin fixes you with a steely stare.

‘Come on, don’t tell me it’s the first time you’ve been cock-blocked,’ you say, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

Everybody moves to the living room and sits, some taking the kitchen chairs with them as there isn’t enough seating. You’re looking around with a big smile on your face, all eager beaver. The kids sit together at the kitchen table, with their colouring books and Play-Doh. I pace the kitchen pretending I’m making tea and coffee, but I’m making escape plans, excuses, get-out clauses. Monday has hung back, though I am so much in my head I am not present any more.

‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

I stop pacing. ‘I want to die,’ I say firmly. ‘I want to fucking die now.’

He drops his hand and looks over at the gathering, biting his lip with his front chipped tooth. He looks as though he’s trying to figure out a way to get me out of here. I cling to hope.

Jamie makes her way over to the kitchen. I can hear the soles of her feet sticking and unsticking to her sandals as she walks. I think I prefer it when she wears her sport socks.

‘I brought some biscuits,’ she says putting a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the counter. I hate Jaffa Cakes.

‘Jamie, what the hell is going on? What is this?’

‘Heather wanted to do this for you,’ she says. ‘It’s her circle of support for you.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ I snap, a bit too loudly, and I hear you chuckle in the living room.

‘I’ll have coffee, two sugars, splash of milk, dear,’ you call.

Caroline walks in, wearing black sunglasses large enough to cover half her face. ‘Oh my God, I’m so hungover. These christenings are killing me. Oh my God!’ She slaps me playfully on the arm and hisses, ‘I heard you slept with Laurence last night!’

I cringe. I know Monday is right over my shoulder and he has heard. I feel his eyes searing into my back. I feel sick. I look at him and he looks away, busying himself. He brings a tray of cups into the living room and sits down.

‘Oh,’ she says sensing the atmosphere. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you two were-’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ I rub my face tiredly. ‘You knew about this meeting though?’

She nods, takes a pack of headache pills from her bag and knocks two back with a bottle of water. ‘Wasn’t allowed to tell you. Heather wanted to surprise you.’

I am panicking inside. I want to run, I really do, but one look at Heather – who is sitting at the head of the circle wearing her best blouse and trousers, looking so proud, beaming, confident and bright-eyed about what she has pulled together – and I know I can’t back out on her now. I must endure.

I sit down in the single armchair that has been left free for me, all eyes on me. Yours are twinkling with merriment, so happy to see me looking uncomfortable and vulnerable, vulture that you are. Monday’s eyes are hard and cold and he stares at the leg of the coffee table, whatever previous concern he had for me now dead and buried. Caroline’s eyes are bloodshot and she refuses the passing plate of Jaffa Cakes as though it’s a ticking bomb.

Kevin is staring at me intently, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, trying to channel his good happy positive pervy thoughts in my direction. This is unsettling. His hairy toes in his flip-flops poking out from beneath his skin-tight brown cords are unsettling. He is unsettling, period. Leilah is afraid to look at me, I know it; she’s chewing on her lip and looking around the room and wondering why she didn’t marry a man with a less complicated family. Dad is on one side of her, texting slowly with big thick fingers. Monday is squeezed on the other side of her.

‘Have you two met?’ I ask, and they both nod simultaneously, Monday still not looking me in the eye.

Jamie begins. ‘Thank you all for coming here today. Heather has taken the time to contact you all individually, she has put a great deal of planning and thought into this, and you’re all welcome. Over to you, Heather.’

I tuck my legs up on the couch and hug them, protecting my body. I try to tell myself that I’m doing this for Heather, this is an exercise for her, she has organised this and, as patronising as it sounds, it’s true, and it helps me. But as soon as I hear her voice I want to cry, I’m so proud of her.

‘Thank you all for coming. For over fifteen years, my sister Jasmine has been coming to my circle of support and it has helped me so much, now I want to give her the same experience. You are Jasmine’s circle of support, her circle of friends.’ She looks around proudly.

I look at the people who have shown up and I feel pathetic. You wink at me and stuff a biscuit into your mouth and I want to physically harm you. I will physically harm you.

‘We want to show you that we love you and support you and we are here for you,’ Heather says, and starts clapping.

The others join in, some enthusiastically, Caroline gently because the noise is hurting her ears. You wolf-whistle. Dad looks at you like he wants to punch you. It is as if Monday is not here, but I know he is, I feel his energy every time he’s in a room, my eyes are drawn to him each time I’m near him, my body is drawn to him each time, every single part of me wants me to move towards him.

‘My little sister Jasmine was always busy. Busy busy busy. When she’s not busy, she minds me. But now she is not busy and she doesn’t need to mind me any more. She needs to mind herself.’

Tears spring to my eyes. I cover myself with arms, legs, hands, everything twisted and folded and saying ‘Closed’.

They all stare at me. I. Want. To. Die. Right now.

I clear my throat, stop hiding behind my legs and instead place them on the ground. I cross them.

‘Thank you all for coming. I’m sure you all know this is a surprise so I’m not really prepared for this, but thank you, Heather, for organising it. I know you have my best interests in your heart.’ I’m going to keep it basic. Give them something but nothing, not let anybody in, but look like I’m playing along. Take all constructive criticism with a smile. Thank them. Move on. That’s the game plan. ‘Losing my job in November was really tough. I did love that job and it’s been very difficult the past six months, not being able to get up in the morning and feel… useful.’ I clear my throat. ‘But now I’m realising – or have realised – that it isn’t as bad as I thought.’

Would telling them that I’m enjoying aspects of it, in a way I never thought I could, give too much away? I look at your eager face, then at Kevin so engaged, at Monday who instantly averts his pan-faced gaze to the coffee-table leg, and decide they don’t need to know about my gardening therapy. Telling them that it’s helping me would be tantamount to admitting that I needed help, and I don’t want to go there.

‘So. The plan is,’ I direct this at Heather, seeing as it is her concerns which have led to this meeting and therefore her no longer being concerned could quickly draw this meeting to a close. ‘To carry out my gardening leave for the remaining six months and then, get a job, so thank you all for your help in the past and your support now, and for coming here today.’

I end it chirpily and perkily and positively, no cause for consternation or alarm. Jasmine is A-okay.

‘Wow.’ You break the silence. ‘That was moving, Jasmine. That was deep. I really feel like I have a sense of you now,’ you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. You pop a Pringle into your mouth. I can smell the sour cream and onion from here and my stomach churns.

‘Well, what do you plan to do after your gardening leave, Matt? Share with us.’

‘Hey, this isn’t my circle of friends,’ you reply, that smirk on your face.

‘Nor mine, evidently,’ I snap back.

‘Let’s keep this positive,’ Kevin says in his priestly voice, hands raised. He lowers them slowly, as if hypnotising us into calming, or like it’s a dance routine from a nineties boyband.

‘I’m calm,’ you say, picking up another Pringle.

You should have gained weight with all the snacking and picking you’ve been doing since quitting smoking, but you haven’t. You seem trimmer, fitter, fresher than before, which is because of the no alcohol.

‘I think it’s fair to say that, aside from Peter and Heather, I seem to have known Jasmine the longest amount of time.’ Kevin looks at me and smiles. I shudder. ‘So I feel that I understand and know her the best.’

‘Really,’ you say, turning on him. ‘So you can tell us which of the three jobs is best suited to her then.’

You have landed both Kevin and I in the shit. Neither of us have a clue, for different reasons of course.

‘Three jobs?’ Caroline says, annoyed.

Monday’s head snaps up to look at me with a frown, trying to figure me out, this great big liar who has appeared before him. Discussing the two other jobs with him was pointless as the only one I was considering was the one he was offering. But this point that you have so kindly raised makes me look like a three-timer.

It is ironic that it is you that knows me best out of all these people and that is the most loaded question to ask, because the three people who offered me those jobs are here and for the most part they know nothing about each other. They are all looking at me and waiting for an answer. You miss stirring it up on air and so you’re using my life for your own amusement.

I realise I’m staring at you in loathing in a long silence.

‘What are the three options?’ Kevin asks, looking at me with a gentle, soft, understanding smile as if he’s helping me out. ‘Hmm?’

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Suddenly I break the tension with, ‘Monday, I don’t know if you’ve met my cousin?’

Monday snaps to attention at his name being called, I can’t imagine how this must feel for everybody who has been called here but I’m awkward so they must feel worse.

‘Have you met my cousin?’

‘Well, we’re not really-’ Kevin interrupts.

‘He’s my cousin,’ I say. ‘Kevin, this is Monday.’

They shake hands across the coffee table and you smirk, knowing exactly what I’m doing.

Silence.

‘So the reason I mention Monday is because he’s with Diversified Search International and he headhunted me for a job at DavidGordonWhite.’

Dad leans forward and gets a look at Monday as if suddenly he counts now.

‘But that job is gone so, Monday, if you feel like you want to leave here now, nobody will be insulted,’ I say, smiling nervously. I want him to go, I don’t want the man I adore to hear how messed up I am in this circle of terror, and after what he heard Caroline say I can feel him seething. Let him go.

‘Why isn’t the job an option any more?’ Dad asks.

I look at Monday. It’s now his opportunity for retribution but he doesn’t say anything.

‘Um. I didn’t make it to the interview,’ I answer instead.

Dad effs and blinds.

‘Peter,’ Leilah elbows him and Heather’s eyes widen and look at me with surprise.

‘Well, why didn’t you make it to the interview?’ Dad asks, exasperated.

‘She was ill,’ Monday finally says, though I don’t feel like he’s defending me. His voice is still flat and devoid of… Monday. ‘I think we should hear about the other jobs,’ he adds. ‘I wasn’t aware there were other options for you.’

The way he says other options makes me wonder if he’s not talking about the job, if he’s talking about Laurence. There is so much that I want to explain to him when this is all finished – only to him, though. I don’t care what anybody else thinks. As for you, you are the only person who knows everything already.

‘Sick, my arse,’ Dad mumbles and he gets another elbow from Leilah.

‘You were sick, Jasmine?’ Heather asks, so concerned. ‘Were you sick in Cork?’

‘Hold on, you were in Cork?’ Jamie asks, sitting forward. ‘I thought we agreed that Heather should go alone. Didn’t we say that?’ She looks at Leilah, who had also been at the meeting.

Leilah looks at me, clearly feeling conflicted, not wanting to step on anybody’s toes. I can see the battle going on in her head.

‘Well?’ Dad asks her.

‘Yes,’ she says, as if the word has been coughed up by a slap on the back. ‘But I’m sure Jasmine went for a reason.’

Jamie addresses the circle. ‘Heather had her first holiday away with her boyfriend, Jonathan. At Heather’s circle of support we all agreed that she was more than capable of going alone, and any actions contrary to this would be seen as unhelpful to Heather-’

‘Okay, Jamie, thank you,’ I snap. I rub my face tiredly.

‘So why did you go?’ Jamie asks, her voice less strident now.

‘She was worried about her,’ Kevin speaks up on my behalf. ‘Obviously.’

‘When did you go, Heather?’ Monday asks gently.

‘Friday till Monday.’ She smiles.

He nods, absorbing this. ‘Did you have a good time?’

‘The best!’ She grins.

Monday is looking at me with newfound softness. Everyone but Dad is. Dad’s shaking his head at me and concentrating on his phone in an effort to stop himself from blurting something out. This is not good. I feel a burning behind my eyes. I cannot cry.

‘I was just… she’s never been… it was the first time that she… you know, with a…’ I sigh, all eyes on me. I hear the wobble in my voice. I finally look at Heather. ‘I wasn’t ready to let you go.’ Before I can do anything to stop it, a tear falls and I wipe it away before it reaches my chin, like it never happened.

Heather’s cheeks turn pink and she speaks shyly. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Jasmine. I’m not leaving you. You missed your job interview for me?’

On that, another tear falls. And another. I wipe them all away quickly, eyes down, not wanting to see them watching me.

‘Can I please be excused?’ I say, sounding like a child.

Nobody answers. Nobody feels like they have the authority to tell me yes or no.

‘Hi, Monday. I knew about you,’ Caroline suddenly says, snapping out of her hangover, stepping in to save me. ‘I’m Caroline, I’m Jasmine’s friend.’

‘Hi.’

‘I have a website idea that she’s helping me with.’

That immediately makes me grind my teeth, but I hold my tongue.

‘What’s wrong, Jasmine?’ Kevin asks, studying me.

‘Nothing,’ I say. But it’s clipped and my nothing sounds like a something. ‘Well, it’s just that I’m not exactly “helping” with it. I am developing it with you, which is what I do, development, implement… “helping” sounds… you know…’

Her neck almost snaps in the way her head fires around to look at me.

She looks at me in that way she does when she’s offended. The single blink, the tight shiny forehead – though that is also due to the Botox – and I would usually retreat because she’s my friend, though in business I would persevere, which immediately tells me we’re doomed.

‘And then there’s Dad,’ I say, quickly moving on.

‘Hold on a minute,’ Kevin says. ‘I think we should continue here.’

‘Kevin, this is not a therapy session.’ I smile tightly. ‘It’s just a little chat. And I think we’re getting close to the end now.’

‘I think for you to get the best out of this you should-’

I interrupt Kevin. ‘This isn’t the time to-’

‘I’m happy to thrash it out.’ Caroline shrugs as if she hasn’t a care in the world, but her language, not to mention body language, says differently. I do not wish to thrash anything out with her.

Everyone is looking at me and her. You sit forward in your chair, elbows on your thighs. All you’re missing is a bowl of popcorn. You pump the air lightly with your fist and quietly chant, ‘Fight, fight, fight!’ then chuckle.

‘We’re not going to fight,’ I snap at you. ‘Okay,’ I clear my throat, smile at Heather to centre myself. ‘I feel that I could be of more use to you than you are currently allowing me to be.’

That wasn’t even bad, yet she has screwed her face up so much I think she’s going to spring back at me like a jack in the box.

‘How so?’ she squeaks in a shrill tone.

‘You’ve come to me to help bring the idea further, but you won’t actually take on any of my suggestions.’

‘You have experience in setting up companies. I wouldn’t have the first clue.’

‘Yes, but it’s not just about giving you my contact list, Caroline. In setting companies up I have a hand in developing strategies, implementing them. If I can’t develop this with you then I have no real personal interest in it. It has to represent me too,’ I say gently, but firmly.

We all sit in silence while Caroline stares at me in a delayed kind of stunned state.

‘What’s the other job option?’ Kevin asks then, and I’m grateful to him for moving things along.

‘Her dad,’ you say, and everyone looks at you first and then at Dad.

Probably already bored by the gathering, he gets straight to the point. ‘Accounts director, print company. Team of six. Forty K. If the job’s still there.’

‘It is,’ Leilah says to me, which annoys Dad.

‘She could do it in her sleep,’ he says to the room, looking at the mobile phone in his hand as though he’s reading it, but he isn’t. ‘If she shows up to the interview.’

Monday doesn’t join in with Dad on that jibe, which is what he was hoping. His smile disappears.

‘I don’t exactly want a job I can do in my sleep,’ I say, with a smile.

‘Of course you don’t, you want to be different.’

The comment surprises me. You love it, but not in the same way as the previous comments. You turn your studious gaze to him. Kevin of course is deeply offended on my behalf.

‘Now, Peter. I think that you owe Jasmine an apology for that comment.’

‘What are you talking about?’ he snaps.

Heather looks deeply uncomfortable now.

‘You’ve always been the same, ever since we were kids,’ Kevin says, the anger rising in him. ‘Any time Jasmine hasn’t wanted to do what you want, you push her away.’

This is true. I look at Dad.

‘Jasmine has never done what I’ve wanted her to do. Has never done what anyone but herself has wanted her to do. How do you think she’s found herself in this mess in the first place?’

‘Isn’t it a good thing for her to want to go her own way?’ Kevin asks. ‘Shouldn’t you want her to be independent? Her mother died when she was very young. She was sick for years before that. I don’t remember you being there all that much, apart from when you stepped in to tell her what to do and when you thought she’d got it wrong.’

And in that moment all my conversations with Kevin flood back to me. All the worries, the fears, frustrations of my teenage years come flooding back. The late-night talks with Kevin on the swing before he kissed me, at parties, walking to school. He always listened. Everything that bothered me about my life would be shared with him. I seemed to have forgotten about all that, but evidently he hadn’t.

‘With all due respect,’ Dad says without the slightest hint of respect, ‘this is nothing to do with you. Frankly, I don’t even know why you’re here.’

Kevin continues calmly, as though he’s wanted to say this for years, as if it’s himself he’s talking about. ‘Her mother brought her up to make her own decisions. Take care of herself. Find her own way. She was going to have to, because her mum wasn’t going to be there. She set up her own businesses-’

‘And sold every bloody one of them.’

‘Didn’t you sell yours?’

‘I retired. And trying to sell her last business is what got her fired.’

Dad is red in the face now. Leilah puts her hand on his arm and says something in a low voice, but he ignores her, or doesn’t hear her, because he continues the back and forth with Kevin. I zone out.

Larry treated his business like his daughter. He’d refused to let go. My mother raised me knowing she had to let go.

I come up with ideas and sell them.

I don’t want babies. Mum didn’t want to leave Heather, now I can’t let Heather go.

‘You never finish anything you start,’ I hear Larry saying to me.

I feel dizzy. Too much is circulating in my mind. Conversations I’ve had with people are coming back to me, my personal beliefs are staring at me oddly, amused, almost singing, ‘We knew this all along, didn’t you?’

Raise babies to let them go.

Kevin told me I was going to die.

Build companies to sell them.

Hold on to Heather because Mum couldn’t.

‘And what business is this of yours?’ Dad raises his voice and Heather’s hands go to her ears. ‘You’ve a problem with everyone in this family. Always have had. Except her, of course. Always in cahoots or whatever the hell you two were-’

‘Because neither of us felt like we belonged in this insane, controlling-’

‘Oh, shut up and go back to Australia. Save it for your therapist-’

‘Excuse me, I will not, and this is the very reason that she and I-’

‘Are you okay, Jasmine?’

It’s you. You’re looking at me and for the first time you’re not smiling. You’re not laughing any more. Your words sound very far away.

I mumble something.

‘You’re pale,’ you say, and you’re about to stand but instead I get to my feet. But I do it too quickly. I’m dehydrated from the night before and emotionally drained from this spectacle and Monday reaches out to stop me from keeling over. I steady myself on the back of his chair and keep my eye on the front door. This time I’m not asking for permission.

‘Excuse me,’ I whisper.

The floor moves beneath me as I make my way to the one target that stays in place while the walls move around me, getting narrower, coming towards me. I need to get out before they squash me completely. I make it to the door, to sunlight, fresh air, the smell of grass and my flowers and hear the trickle of my fountain. I sit on the bench and tuck my legs close to my body and I breathe deeply in and out.

I don’t know how long I’m outside but they get the point eventually. The door opens and Caroline walks out, straight past me to her car and, without a word, drives away. She’s followed by Dad, Leilah and Zara. I put my head down. I smell Monday’s aftershave and he hovers near me but eventually walks away. Then you step outside. I know it’s you; I don’t know how, but the atmosphere has the feel of you in it, and then the kids join you and I know for sure.

‘Well, that was a tough one,’ you say.

I don’t respond, just put my head back down. I feel your hand on my shoulder. It’s a gentle but firm squeeze and I appreciate it. You walk away and halfway down the drive you say, ‘Oh, and thanks for dropping Amy’s letter in to me last night. You’re right. Maybe it’s time I read it now. It’s been six months and she’s still not talking to me. Can’t do any more harm, I suppose. I hope.’

As you walk away I hear Jamie calming Heather in the house. I hurry inside to her. Kevin is hovering around, unsure what to do.

‘You go, Kevin, I’ll give you a call.’

He still doesn’t move.

‘Kevin,’ I sigh. ‘Thank you for today. I appreciate you trying to help. I’d forgotten… all of that stuff, but clearly you haven’t. You were always there for me.’

He nods, gives me a sad smile.

I put my hand to his cheek and kiss him gently on the other.

‘Stop fighting everyone,’ I whisper.

He swallows hard and thinks about that. He nods simply and leaves.

I bring Heather to the couch and wrap my arms around her, plaster a smile on my face.

‘What are these tears for?’ I laugh. ‘Silly billy, there’s no need to be sad,’ I wipe her cheeks.

‘I wanted to help, Jasmine.’

‘And you did.’ I hold her head to my chest and rock her back and forth.

In order to fly one must first clear the shit off one’s wings. First step is to identify the shit. Done.

When I was a child, maybe eight years old, I used to love messing with waiters’ heads. Since learning about the silent language in restaurants, I wanted to speak it. I liked that there was a code that I could communicate to someone, to an adult, that put us on an even playing field. In our regular haunt there was a particular waiter I tormented. I would put my knife and fork together, then when I saw him coming over to collect the plates, I would quickly separate them again. I loved to watch him suddenly dart away, a few feet from our table, like an aborted missile. I’d do this several times in one sitting, not so much that he’d realise I was doing it deliberately. I did this too with the menu. Closed meant order decision had been made, open meant it hadn’t. I would close mine, along with my family’s, and then as soon as he was heading over with pen and pad in hand I would open it again, screw my face up and pretend to be still deciding.

I don’t know what it means that I’ve thought of this now. I don’t know what insight into me it gives, other than the fact that I liked, from an early age, sending mixed signals.

23

It was as I was walking back home after seeing Heather to the bus stop, at her insistence that I didn’t drive because I was, in her opinion, ‘upset’, that what you had said registered with me. Finally, with a moment to think to myself, I hear you thanking me for dropping the letter by last night. Alarm bells start ringing and I stop midstride. There is indeed something terrifying about being told you’ve done something that you haven’t done. First I think you are mistaken, I know you are mistaken. I have tried to give you your wife’s letter on many occasions and you have given it back or asked me to read it. It is in the lemon bowl, because you are a lemon, we both agreed on this fact. But. But. You said last night. You thanked me for giving you the letter last night.

So then I think it still wasn’t me because I was in a heap last night, drinking to find the genie in the bottom of my vodka bottle. Perhaps your wife has delivered another letter to you and you think that I gave it to you, but you didn’t mention that to me when we met last night at the table in your garden, which leaves me to believe it was delivered to you after our meeting. And I would know if your wife was responsible because I was awake until six a.m., drinking, and I would have heard her, I would have seen her – hell, I would have run across the road and invited her in to bake cookies.

‘Good day, Jasmine,’ Dr Jameson says, all jolly-like. ‘Say, I was thinking of having a little soiree on Midsummer’s Day. A barbecue at my place to celebrate this fine summer we’re having. What do you say? I’ve had no response from the chap in number six, I’m about to try him again.’

He looks at me and there’s a long pause.

My mind is racing, ticking, going through events.

‘Are you okay, Jasmine?’

Suddenly I dart, break out into a run which becomes a sprint, leap across Mr Malone’s sprinklers and into my house. Once inside, chest panting, I stand still and look around for clues. The living room is still a crime scene from the earlier circle of disaster, the kitchen is a kiddy version of a crime scene with crayon marks from their colouring session and dry Play-Doh stuck to the table and on the chairs and floor. The lemon bowl. The lemon bowl is empty. Not of lemons and your house keys, but of the letter. Clue number one.

I race upstairs and take in my bedroom properly for the first time. My bed has been hastily made but appears normal. My bedside locker holds the empty bottle of vodka and… the open letter Amy wrote for you. I dive across the bed and grab it. I’d read it sometime between two a.m. and six a.m. Probably closer to six a.m. The hours that I don’t remember. I had been searching for guidance, for myself. I had been hoping for inspiration, some words of encouragement and love. Even someone else’s, and when I’d opened Amy’s penned letter for you I found:

Matt,

Get your act together.

Amy

It had enraged me. I remember that. I had cried with disappointment at Amy, at the world. And? I can’t remember what I’d done next. I thought I’d fallen asleep, but why was the letter which you say you are now in possession of here and not in your house?

I narrow my eyes, look around the room. There must be some clues. Under my dressing table I see a balled-up piece of paper. I see an entire bin of overflowing balled-up pieces of paper. And suddenly I’m afraid to look any closer. But I have to.

I get down on my hands and knees, and groaning, I uncurl the ball of paper.

Dear Matt,

I can’t talk to you face to face about leaving you. I didn’t think you would listen…

‘Oh no,’ I groan. ‘Jasmine, you idiot.’ I search through every single piece of paper, reading various versions of the same opening line, some completely different, all horrifically inappropriate drunkenly scrawled versions of what I think Amy should have said to you, what I think would motivate you, and cringingly my feelings of hatred towards you. I have absolutely no idea which version has made it across the road, but I’m glad at least that none of the ones I have frantically speed-read have made it out of this bedroom. What I want to do is throw myself down on my bed dramatically and howl. What I should do is run across the road, admit everything that I’ve done in my drunken stupidity. You will understand. But I can’t and I don’t. I thought my day could not sink any lower; it turns out it could and it has. I need to get the letter back from you, undo this silliness, get a job, stop acting like a crazy person.

The doorbell rings and it gives me such a fright I hear its shrill ring in my head and pounding in my heart long afterwards. I feel like I’ve been caught red-handed. Frozen like a deer in headlights, I stand still in my bedroom, rigid, unsure of what to do. You have read the letter. I am caught.

I look out the window and see the top of your head. I brace myself and go downstairs. I will admit everything. I will do the right thing. I pull the door open and give you a nervous smile. You have your hands on your hips with a screwed-up frown on your face. It drops for a moment.

‘Are you drunk again?’ you ask.

‘No.’

Silence.

‘Are you?’

‘No.’

Convinced, you resume your screwed-up face. ‘Have you seen the people going into Dr J’s house?’

I’m confused. What has this got to do with the letter? I’m trying to find the link.

‘If you’re drunk, just say so,’ you say.

‘I’m not.’

‘I won’t care. It will only make it easier for me to communicate with you. I can phrase things differently. Talk slower.’

‘I’m not fucking drunk,’ I snap.

‘Fine. Well? Have you seen people going in and out?’

‘Why, is he having a party and you’re not invited?’ I say, feeling more relaxed now that I’m not caught – yet.

‘He’s having something, all right. Half-hourly. Since noon.’

‘Jesus, you really need to get a job,’ I say, realising you sound like me now.

‘A woman arrived at three. Stayed for thirty minutes. Then she left and a man arrived at three thirty, then he left just before four, and a couple arrived at four thirty. Then-’

‘Yes, I believe I get the half-hourly thing.’

We both fold our arms and watch Dr Jameson’s house. Next door, Mr Malone is reading The Field by John B. Keane to Mrs Malone, who is sitting in a deckchair with a blanket across her knees. He is doing a good job of acting it out. Every day he reads for fifteen minutes, goes back to the gardening, and then returns, picks up where he left off. He has a good reading voice. Mrs Malone always stares into the distance with a faraway look, but Mr Malone carries on, talking in his good-natured tone, commenting on the weather and the garden and his own musings, as though they’re both having an animated conversation. It was Jackie Collins last week; he likes to mix it up a bit. It’s beautiful how he’s coping, but it makes me sad.

A car rounds the corner into the cul de sac and my heart hammers and my stomach flutters before I even see him. But I know that it’s him. Or I sense that it’s him. Or I hope that it is him. Every time someone comes near me or the house, I hope that it is him. Monday steps out of the car.

‘Well, if this morning didn’t put him off you, nothing will,’ you say and I smile.

Monday gets out of the car, and taking long strides with his long legs, spins the car keys around on his finger.

I hope that you get the hint as I glare at you to leave, but you don’t. Or you do, but you don’t leave. You have a point to prove.

‘Hi,’ Monday says, approaching us.

‘Forget something?’ you say smartly, but without venom, it’s playful.

Monday smiles and looks me directly in the eyes, the softness back in him, tenderness, and my stomach does somersaults. ‘Actually, yes.’

‘We’re watching Dr J’s house,’ you say and explain the half-hourly situation that has you so worried. Monday stands beside me and watches too, bare arm against mine, and I forget why on earth we’re staring at the house and instead concentrate on the electricity that is rushing through my body at this very slight touch. Monday watches the house and I fight the urge to take every part of him in but lose, stealing glances when I can, those green-flecked hazel eyes watching Dr Jameson’s house. Then, just when I think I’m safe to stare a little longer, suddenly he turns and those eyes are on mine. He gives me a cheeky look as though he knows he’s caught me, then makes a face at you, teasing your intensity in this house-watch.

‘Over there. There!’ you say, coming to life suddenly, breaking our moment, and you move away from the wall. ‘See?’

‘Hmm,’ Monday says, moving down the driveway to take a closer look at the suspicious-looking woman making her way down the road. ‘That’s not good.’

‘Told you,’ you say, relieved someone’s on your side. ‘They’ve been all different kinds of people,’ you say. ‘Odd-looking, most of them.’

‘Maybe he’s interviewing housekeepers,’ I say.

‘Would you want her to clean your house?’ you ask.

‘She’d clean out your house,’ Monday says, and I have to smile as you both team up and become the Turner and Hooch of the neighbourhood. You are Hooch, by the way.

‘She might not be here for Dr J,’ I say, watching her. She’s wearing an Adidas tracksuit, fresh-looking trainers. She’s either drunk or on drugs. I’m guessing drugs; she has a heroin look about her. ‘Could be a fan of yours,’ I say.

She studies the houses, looking at the numbers, then turns in Dr Jameson’s house. Monday takes off down the driveway, getting a closer look. You follow. I tag along because what else am I going to do? We cross the road and decide to sit at your table where we can have a better view of Dr Jameson’s house and listen out for trouble inside. At least, that’s what you both decide after a quick discussion of whether to break in or not. You both plan a story of what you’ll say if you have to call in. An extraction plan, which you both get rather excited about.

‘Have you read that letter yet?’ I ask you, casually.

‘What letter?’

‘The one I gave you.’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘I was thinking. I want to read it to you after all. You know, if that’s what you’d like.’

You look at me thoughtfully, suspiciously. So does Monday.

‘It’s probably better that you’re not alone. Who knows how you’ll react. You’re doing so well, I don’t want you to go straight to the pub, that’s all. You should have somebody there, if it’s not me, then somebody.’ I know that you wouldn’t ask anybody else, but it makes you less suspicious, which is what happens and you seem genuinely grateful.

‘Thanks, Jasmine.’

‘Why don’t you give it to me now?’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah,’ I shrug casually. ‘Get it out of the way.’ I look at Monday to explain. ‘His wife left him. She left a note. He won’t read it. Which is correct,’ I look back at you. ‘I should read it. You should give it to me.’

Monday hides a smile at me behind his fingers. He has long beautiful fingers. Pianist’s fingers.

‘Well, not now,’ you say, panicking a little that I’m pushing the moment.

‘Why not?’

‘I’m keeping an eye on Dr J.’

‘I’ll read it while you watch.’ No I won’t. I will burn it as soon as you hand it over to me. I’ll cleverly switch it with the real thing. I would rather save myself than worry about him reading her awful letter.

‘The kids. I don’t want them to hear.’

I’m about to say that the kids aren’t anywhere near to hear, but they spoil my plan. The two blondes appear from the garden of number six wearing frowns.

‘What’s wrong?’ you ask, going over to them.

‘What have you done?’ Monday asks me, amused expression on his face.

‘Nothing,’ I reply, blank-faced.

He laughs and shakes his head, tuts as though I’m a naughty girl. I like it and I can’t help but laugh back. He knows me and I like this. It’s been a while since someone has known me that way. Apart from you, of course, who kicked down my do not disturb sign when I wasn’t paying attention.

‘He wouldn’t buy any,’ Kris says.

‘He’s the only one on the street,’ Kylie says.

‘What didn’t he buy?’ I ask.

‘Our perfume. We made it from petals and water.’

‘And grass.’

‘And a dead spider.’

‘Nice,’ I say.

‘You bought two bottles,’ you say to me. ‘You owe me a fiver.’

It’s then that I realise they have set up a stall in the driveway, consisting of a fold-up table and chair covered by a red checked paper tablecloth. There are bottles of a brown substance with things floating in it and a sign advertises one bottle for fifty cent. Why I owe you a fiver is a mystery, but seeing as I have forged a letter to you from your wife who has left you, I let you off.

‘What did he say?’ you ask them, angrily.

‘Who?’ Monday mouths to me.

‘Number six. Corporate man. Renter,’ I reply, then turn back to the kids, fully engaged.

‘Nothing really. He was on the phone. Then he said no thanks and closed the door.’

‘The cheeky little shit,’ you say, and the kids giggle.

‘That man is starting to wind me up now,’ you vent, and I can see your hands close into tight fists.

‘Me too. I’ve waved at him every single morning since he’s moved in and he hasn’t even bothered to look at me,’ I say.

Monday laughs. ‘You two seriously need to get jobs. You’re letting everything mess with you too much.’

‘Then get her a job, Monday,’ you say, that mischievous glint in your eye.

‘That’s the idea, Matt,’ he replies, meeting your gaze.

‘Maybe you should bring her out for dinner. For the job,’ you say, and I know what you’re implying, as does Monday, but he remains cool.

‘If that will work,’ he says, but a little less confidently.

I don’t want you to make him leave by continuing with this. I turn to you to continue my case. ‘And all he had to do was fork out some money for the kids who’ve been working so hard on their perfume. Did he even ask to smell it?’

‘No,’ Kris huffs.

‘Well, that’s just mean,’ I say.

This incenses you even more, which I knew it would, because that was my intention.

‘I’m going over there,’ you say.

‘Good for you,’ I say.

‘What are you going to say?’ Monday asks, face full of a smile, as he crosses one leg over the other, ends of his jeans frayed, and a hole in one thigh revealing bare skin.

‘Just that he should consider being more neighbourly if he’s going to live in a neighbourhood. They’re only seven,’ you say.

‘I think you mind more than they do,’ Monday says.

‘And he won’t get back to Dr J about the Midsummer’s Day barbecue,’ I add. ‘And Dr J only ever means well.’

Monday smiles and frowns at me at the same time, trying to figure me out.

That’s enough to convince you to go over.

I’m thrilled. You’ve left your front door open. While you’re arguing with Corporate Man I can slip inside, find the letter I wrote and destroy it. It is a perfect plan.

‘You – come with me,’ you suddenly say.

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You.’

‘Yeah, Jasmine,’ Monday adds, leaning on the table, chin on his hand, looking at me lazily, mischievously, knowing that he is ruining whatever it is I am planning. He is playing with me, which I wouldn’t mind if it was in another way. I could think of many ways Monday could toy with me, but not like this.

‘You don’t need my help,’ I tell you, ignoring Monday. ‘They’re your kids. You can speak for them without me.’

‘Go on, Jasmine,’ Monday says.

I know that my chance to destroy the letter has slipped away. I throw Monday a look of sincere disgust that makes him laugh, and even though it’s annoying it makes me like him even more because he is prepared to contest me. He will not tiptoe around me, try to please me. He will test me, he will give as good as I give. Monday wants to play.

‘I’ll keep an eye on Dr J’s house.’ He winks at me.

‘What are you going to say?’ I ask nervously, standing at number six’s door.

‘We are going to say exactly what I said we’ll say. About neighbourly behaviour.’

‘Right.’ I swallow. Neither of us are exactly the perfect candidates to be preaching such things.

We can hear him talking on the phone inside. You press the doorbell again, long and hard. It’s not a work call. He’s laughing, sounds casual. It’s not even important. He mentions rugby. Some nicknames. Liggo and Spidey, and the guys. I want to vomit in my mouth. He talks about a match. You’re getting angrier by the minute and I’m not far behind you. I see him peek out the window at us, then continue talking.

‘It’s one of the neighbours again,’ he says, his words drifting out the open window.

You storm off, toward the open window and when it looks like you’re about to climb in, Corporate Man is saved when we hear Monday call out.

‘Hey!’

We look up and see Monday taking off down the road after the woman who has left Dr Jameson’s house.

You and me run after him.

‘Get your hands off me!’ she’s yelling at Monday, who’s ducking and diving to avoid her flying hands and punches.

‘Ouch! Jesus!’ he yells as she catches him a few times. ‘Relax!’ he shouts and she calms down and stops hitting him. She takes a step away from him, eyes him warily, her jaw working overtime like she’s a cow munching on grass.

‘It looks like you’ve got something under your jumper that might belong to my friend,’ Monday says.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘I think you do.’ He’s smiling, those hazel-green eyes alight.

‘I’m pregnant.’

‘Who’s the daddy? Apple? Dell?’ Monday says and I finally get a chance to see her stomach and bite my lip to try not to laugh. There is a rectangular-shaped lump beneath her jumper.

‘Hold on a minute,’ you suddenly say, under your breath. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t look.’

‘Why not?’ I ask.

‘Because maybe’ – you turn your back on the woman, who looks like she’s considering making a run for it, and you speak from the side of your mouth – ‘maybe she got it from Dr J. Know what I mean?’

‘You think she got a laptop-shaped container of drugs from Dr J?’ I ask, and Monday coughs to hide his laugh as you glare at him.

Dr Jameson appears, cup of tea on a saucer in his hand. ‘Yoo-hooo!’

‘Ah. The drug lord himself,’ Monday says conspiratorially, and I have to laugh.

The woman starts to waddle away quickly. Monday catches her, holds on to her arm while she shouts abuse at him and accuses him of sexually harassing and abusing her. Dr Jameson makes his way over to them, the cup of tea and saucer still in his hand.

‘Mags! I just went to make you a cup of tea. You’re leaving so soon?’

There’s tugging and messing going on between Monday and Mags, and suddenly something crashes down between her legs.

‘I think her waters broke,’ I say, as we all look down and see Dr Jameson’s laptop on the ground.

You, me and Dr Jameson are sitting at the table in your front garden watching Monday fixing the laptop, which has minor damage, and listening to Dr Jameson explaining the advertisement he has placed in the local newspaper. When I hear him explain, it is heartbreaking; he has placed an advert in the paper looking for companionship for Christmas Day.

‘Carol died when she was sixty-one – too young. Too young. We never had children; as you know, I couldn’t get my act together until it was too late. I’ll never forgive myself for that.’ His eyes are watery and his jaw works hard to control the emotion. Monday stops working on the laptop and focuses on him. ‘I’m eighty-one. That’s twenty years without her. Seventeen Christmases on my own. I used to go to my sister, but she passed away, God rest her soul. I didn’t want to go another Christmas Day on my own. I heard of a lad in my golf club who put an ad in the paper for a housekeeper – she and him are practically inseparable now. Not in that way, of course, but at least he has someone. Every day. Now, I don’t want someone every day, not necessarily, but I did think that perhaps for the one day when I can’t tolerate the loneliness, perhaps I could find companionship, somebody else who feels the same way as I do. There must be people who don’t want to be alone on Christmas Day.’

It is unimaginably sad and there is not one of us at the table who has a smart remark to make, or even tries to talk him out of it. The man is lonely, he wants company: let him find it.

I can see that this strikes a chord with you. Of course it does. Your wife has left you, taken your children with her, and if you don’t manage to win her over in some way, you face your first Christmas alone. Perhaps you won’t be physically alone, not like Dr Jameson; someone, a friend, will invite you over, but even amongst the company of friends you will probably feel more lonely than ever. I can see you mulling this over. Perhaps it will be you and Dr Jameson together, sitting at opposite ends of his polished mahogany dining table, making strained conversation, or better yet, with dinner plates on your lap, watching Christmas specials on TV.

Amy’s timing couldn’t be better. She arrives to collect the kids. As usual, she doesn’t get out of the car to talk to you, she remains inside, sunglasses on, looking ahead, waiting for the children to leap into the car. Fionn is beside her; he doesn’t acknowledge you either. You try to talk to her, she won’t open the door. Your continued knocking and pleading face leads her to lower the window ever so slightly. It is sad to watch. I don’t know what you’re saying to her, but it is not fluid. It is a disjointed attempt at you making conversation. Polite conversation with a woman you love. The kids come running down the driveway excitedly with bags in their hands. They give you a quick hug and as they’re climbing into the car they announce that they caught a heroin addict. Your face looks pained. The window shoots up. Amy speeds off.

I try to coax you into getting the letter so that I can have it in my possession, but it doesn’t work. You are most certainly too raw for that now. I formulate a plan. Operation Lemon Bowl will come to fruition as soon as your lights go out tonight.

24

I watch your house all night. I watch you like a hawk, more than I ever have before, which is saying something. I see you in your sitting room, lights on full as you watch the television. Some Sunday sports event, I can tell by the way you rise in your armchair in anticipation, then collapse back with disappointment. Each time you get up to move around the house I’m afraid you’re going to get the letter, but you don’t, you honour your word and I respect that about you, even though what I have done and what I’m about to do doesn’t command that respect. But you don’t know that.

Though I’m wired from the very idea of what I’m about to do, last night’s late hour and drinking is making it hard for me to keep my eyes open, to be alert. The headache pill makes me even sleepier and the five cups of coffee make me feel wired but an exhausted kind of sick at the same time. Finally, close to midnight, the living-room lights go off and I watch you head upstairs. I’m ready for action, but then the bedroom light goes on, stays on, as does the TV and I know I’m in for another long night. I nod off. At three a.m. I wake up, dressed, and look out to check your house. The lights are all out.

Action time.

The entire street is quiet, everyone is sound asleep, including Corporate Man, especially Corporate Man with his busy, important Monday morning ahead of him. I steal across the road and go straight to your front door with the original, now vodka-and-Coke-stained, letter and your keys from the lemon bowl. I have thought about the possibility of an alarm system, but in the entire eight months of watching you come and go, I have seen no evidence of one and surely a code would have come with the set of keys. I quietly push the key into the lock and it turns easily. I’m in. I take my shoes off and stand in the hallway, my eyes adjusting to the darkness while my heart hammers in my chest. I have not just entered a house willy-nilly, I have a plan, I have had all night to make a plan. And I have a torch.

I begin at the table in the hallway. There are envelopes on the counter, opened and unopened bills, and a postcard from Aunt Nellie who is having a ball in Malta. I check the drawer, no envelope.

I move to the kitchen, which is surprisingly in a tidy state. A few cups and plates in the sink that you’ve left until morning, but nothing offensive. Your fruit bowl has three black bananas and an under-ripe avocado. No letter. I take my time searching through the kitchen drawers. Everyone has a rubbish drawer in the kitchen and I find it: place mats, takeaway menus, batteries, bills, new and old, a TV licence, old birthday cards, pictures by the kids. No letter. There is a whiteboard with nothing on it, probably unused since Amy left the house. No notes, no reminders, shopping lists, no communication needed for a busy household because you are all alone. I suddenly feel for you, living alone in this empty family house that was once so full of life. I think of the man Amy left and I have no sympathy for him, he deserved it, but you, I feel for you. It spurs me on to find the letter.

I move to the TV room. It smells of coffee and vinegar, which matches the takeaway bags I saw you carry home from the car at eight p.m. before I was about to break in the first time. That was a good lesson. It taught me to wait, to be patient. I shine the torch on the shelving unit in the alcove. Books, DVDs – you like crime thrillers. I even see Turner and Hooch. There are framed photos on the shelves, family photos, babies, holidays, fishing trips, beach trips, first days of school. I wonder why Amy hasn’t taken them with her and I see it as a sign that she’s coming back, until my torch falls upon the naked walls adorned with hooks and realise that all this is what she left behind, including you. I am surprised to see a Psychology degree in your name and a framed photo of you in your graduation robes holding the scroll, but then I think of how you look at me sometimes, the way you try to read me as if seeing my soul and how you like to analyse me, everyone, and it makes sense. Your face grins up at me from underneath your graduation cap, as if you’ve just said something rude. You had a cheeky face, even then.

I think I hear a movement upstairs and I freeze, turn the torch off, hold my breath in the still dark silence and listen. The house is silent. I turn the torch back on and continue to root through the pigeonholes of the home-office desk in the corner overlooking the back patio. Old photos, car insurance, vouchers, random keys, no letter. I have been avoiding going upstairs for obvious reasons. It is my last resort, my worst-case scenario, but for a family home it is surprisingly clutter-free, no little piles of paperwork or collected mail. Perhaps upstairs is where I must go. I try to think of where you would keep such a thing. Not in a filing cabinet, that is too clinical, too impersonal. You have been keen to read it, which means you have been keeping it close at hand, somewhere you can regularly check on it, touch it, return to look at it. If it is not in your coat pocket that is hanging on the banister, then I must go upstairs.

It is not in your coat pocket.

I take a deep breath and then think I hear another noise at the back of the house, in the kitchen, and hold my breath, afraid someone will hear me exhale. I’m starting to panic, I need to exhale and my pulse in my ears is so loud it is stopping me from listening out and hearing what’s in the room next to me so I slowly exhale, a long shaky breath. This is ridiculous, I know it is. I should be at home in bed, not sneaking around your house. Watching it all these nights has somehow made me feel entitled; maybe I am a stalker, maybe this is what all stalkers feel, that their actions are entirely normal. But then I think of having to explain to you about writing the letter and I can’t and so I take a determined step on to the stairs. It creaks immediately and I freeze. I backtrack. There must be somewhere downstairs that I can find the letter instead of creeping into your bedroom while you sleep, which is an entirely new level of creepiness. And then I have a thought, an early memory, of something you said about how you’ve given up drink.

‘I have a photo of my father on the fridge. That helps me every time I go to open it to take a drink.’

‘That’s sweet.’

‘It’s not really. He was a raving alcoholic. The photo is there to remind me I don’t want to be like him.’

I redirect the torch down the hallway and move quickly and surely into the kitchen. I think the fridge is my answer. It was filled with drawings and gymnastic certificates but I didn’t check it for the letter. I lift the torch to shine it on the fridge door and I see the envelope, the real envelope with the fake letter and I grin with happiness but then BAM! Something hard whacks me across the side of the head, I feel it mostly in my ear, it slaps my face and I’m knocked to the ground, fall like a sack of potatoes, my legs dead beneath me, screaming in agony to the ground. I hear feet on the stairs and all I can think is that a burglar has attacked me. I have disturbed a burglar and now you are coming downstairs into danger and confusion and I must alert you, but first I must get the letter from the fridge and switch it with the original and that I could do if it were not for the ache I’m feeling in my head and the stickiness on my face.

‘I told you to wait!’ I hear you hiss, and I’m confused. You’re in on this too? The burglary of your own house? I think of insurance fraud and how I have stumbled into dangerous territory, and if you are in on it – which you must be, since you’re hissing at your accomplice who clubbed me, who seems to have entered the house from the back kitchen door – then I am in great danger. I should run. But first I should switch the letter on the fridge door. I lift my head up from the floor and I feel everything move beneath me. Though the room is still dark, the moonlight is casting the windowpane’s reflection on the tiled floor. It lights up the fridge and I have a surreal moment where I believe the moon, the universe is on my side, lighting the way for me, guiding me. But I can’t move.

I groan.

‘Who is it?’ you ask.

‘I don’t know, I just hit him.’

‘Let’s turn the lights on.’

‘We should call the police first.’

‘No. We can take care of this ourselves, teach this guy a thing or two.’

‘I do not condone-’

‘Come on, Dr J, what’s the point of a neighbourhood watch if we can’t-’

‘Watch, not tie up and torture.’

‘What did you hit him with? Jesus, a frying pan? I told you to grab a golf club.’

‘He came at me quicker than I planned.’

‘Hold on, he’s trying to get away. He’s sliding…’

The light suddenly goes on. I am at the foot of the fridge, mere inches away from the letter. If I stretch my arm up, which I am doing, I can almost, almost, reach it.

‘Jasmine!’ you exclaim.

‘Oh dear Lord, oh dear Lord,’ Dr Jameson says.

The light is so bright I can’t see a thing and my head, Jesus my head.

‘You hit Jasmine?’

‘Well, I didn’t know it was her, did I?! Good gracious.’

‘It’s okay, sweetheart,’ you say and you both try to lift me up and carry me away from the fridge, which makes me groan, and not just from the agony. I can see the letter get further and further away from me as you take me from the kitchen to the couch. I was so close.

‘What is she saying?’ Dr Jameson asks, moving his flopping oversized ear to my mouth.

‘She’s saying something about the fridge,’ you say, placing my head down on a pillow, concern etched all over your face.

‘The fridge, not a bad idea, Jasmine. I’ll get ice.’ Dr Jameson hurries away.

‘Will she need stitches?’

Stitches?

You examine me and I can see your strawberry-blond nose hairs. One wiry grey pokes out and I want to pull it. ‘What frying pan did you use?’ you ask Dr Jameson.

‘Non-stick, Tefal aluminium,’ he says, returning with provisions for my head. ‘I’ve got the entire set. Five SuperValu coupons and you only have to add fifteen euro. I do a mean French toast on it,’ he says, face pushed up close to mine as he concentrates. His breath smells like barley sugar.

‘Jasmine, what on earth were you doing?’ you ask incredulously.

I clear my throat. ‘I used my keys, I thought you had an intruder. Must have been Dr J,’ I say weakly, closing my eyes as he dabs at my head. ‘Ouch.’

‘Sorry, dear. It wasn’t me because I contacted Matt as soon as I saw your torch,’ Dr Jameson says.

‘Jasmine,’ you say in a low warning voice. ‘Cough it up.’

I sigh.

‘I gave you the wrong letter. From Amy. The one I gave you was one that I had written. For someone else. I got them confused. Mixed up the envelopes.’

I open one eye to see if you’re swallowing it.

Your arms are folded across your chest, you’re looking down on me, assessing me. You’re wearing a faded Barcelona ’92 Olympics T-shirt and stripy baggy boxers. You seem unconvinced by my story, but not completely. It could still work. You suddenly back out and head to the kitchen.

‘Don’t open it,’ I yell, and the shouting makes my head worse.

‘Hold on, don’t move,’ Dr Jameson says, ‘I’m almost there.’

You bring the envelope in. I don’t like the look on your face. It’s that naughty mischievous look. You’re tapping the envelope against your open palm, slowly, rhythmically, while you pace the floor before me. You are going to play with me.

‘So. Jasmine. You broke into my house-’

‘I had a key.’

‘-to retrieve a letter that you say that you wrote for someone else. Why wouldn’t you just tell me that?’

‘Because I was afraid that you would open it. It’s very personal and I don’t trust you.’

You hold a finger up. ‘Plausible. Well done. I would have read it.’

Dr Jameson instructs me to hold the bag of frozen peas to my head and as I sit up to face you, he sits down beside me.

‘That’s plausible to me too,’ he says. He has messy bed-head hair, unbrushed eyebrows and is wearing smart leather shoes with a shell suit that I’ve never seen before, obviously the first things he grabbed when getting out of bed.

‘What am I, on trial here?’

‘Yes,’ you say, narrowing your eyes at me as you pace.

You are so dramatic.

‘Are you sure my head hasn’t fallen off?’ I ask Dr Jameson.

‘Is your neck sore?’

I move it. ‘Yes.’

He moves closer and starts prodding at my neck. ‘Is it sore here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it sore here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it sore here?’

‘Yes.’

You stop pacing and look at me. ‘Who is your letter addressed to?’

I stall. Assess the situation. I know you will check it.

‘Matt,’ I say.

You laugh. ‘Matt.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s a coincidence.’

‘Hence the mix-up.’

You hold it out to me and I quickly reach out. It’s just beyond my grasp, millimetres away from my fingertips when you whip it back and tear it open.

‘No!’ I groan and cover my face with a pillow.

‘Read it out loud,’ Dr Jameson says, and I throw the pillow at him and reach for another to hide behind.

‘Dear Matt,’ you say, the mischievous cheeky face on, a reading voice that drips with sarcasm, but as you read ahead silently to yourself to see what’s coming, the sarcasm drops. You pause. You look up at me, then resume reading with your normal voice.

‘We all have stand-out moments in our lives, periods which influenced small or profound changes in us. I can think of four life-changing moments for me: the year I was born, the year I learned I would die, the year my mother died and now I have a new one – the year I met you.’

I cover my face. It’s all coming back to me now.

‘I have heard your voice every day, listened to the unsavoury words that formulate your tasteless thoughts and made a judgement on you. I did not like you. But you are proof that you can think you know someone yet never really know them at all.

‘What I have learned is that you are more, more than what you pretend to be, more than what you believe yourself to be. You are less an awful lot of the time, but being less has driven people away. I think sometimes you like doing that and I understand that too. Hurt people hurt people.’

You clear your throat and I peek at you through a gap in my hands, thinking you might cry.

‘But when you think no one is listening or when you think no one is paying you any attention, you are so much more. It’s a pity that you don’t believe that yourself, or show the people you love.’

For the next part your voice warbles and I peek at you. You are genuinely moved and I am glad, but I am horrendously embarrassed. I watch you read.

‘The year I met you, I met myself. You should do the same, because I think you’ll find a good man.’

You stop reading and there is a long hush in the room.

‘Well, well,’ Dr Jameson says, eyes twinkling.

You clear your throat. ‘Well, I’m sure whoever this Matt is, that he’ll be very appreciative of what you’ve said to him.’

‘Thanks,’ I whisper. ‘I hope so.’

I stand up to take the letter from your hand and as I do, you refuse to let go of the letter. I think you are playing with me, but when my eyes meet yours, I realise you are serious. Your hand brushes mine instead. You nod in thanks, a sincere, touched thanks.

I return it with a smile.

25

We are in the middle of our second heatwave this summer. We are also in the midst of a water shortage; the council have cancelled water for a few hours every day and if anyone is seen using a hose to clean their car, garden, dog or self they are liable to be hanged on the spot. Or something.

Sick days records are at an all-time high this week, greens are packed with half-naked bodies, the scent of suncream and barbecue are in the air and overflowing buses from the city centre to the seaside sway from side to side as they carry their merry load.

Caroline and I are staring across the garden table at each other in a long impatient silence, both clearly wanting to say something but biting our tongues. It is a beautiful Saturday and we are sitting out under the sun umbrella in her back garden, the first time I have seen her since Heather staged the intervention into my non-moving life. What has led to this staring stand-off is yet another of my propositions which she has once again batted away. I have suggested she change the name of her idea to ‘Frock Swap’, in order to give it more of an international appeal. I know that she knows it makes sense but she’s finding it hard to let go of her clever logo and the fact that this new name isn’t her idea. I understand this but what I was afraid was happening is actually happening. She has recognised my success in this area, which was why she came to me in the first place, and there is nothing wrong with that, only she is chasing success and success alone. What she has failed to take into account is the reason why my projects have worked: because I have injected my sensibilities, my passion, my ideas and my heart, and not blindly followed other people’s orders. I know that this will never work with us. I now understand how it is that I work; how I want to work and how I have to work.

And though this makes for uncomfortable conversation, it would be one I could have maturely if it were someone I have no personal ties to, but not Caroline, my friend of ten years, whose garden I’m sitting in, whose head I’ve held over the toilet bowl, whose swollen breasts I’ve held cabbage leaves to, whose tears I’ve dried when her marriage ended, and whose daughters’ home-made fairy cakes I am now eating. It has taken us this long to come together after the circle of support meeting in my house and I know it is because neither of us want conflict or confrontation, but at the same time neither of us is prepared to settle.

‘Caroline,’ I say gently, and I take her hand in mine. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. ‘I fear that we must consciously uncouple from working together on this.’

And on that she throws her head back and laughs, and I know that we’re okay.

The sun still shines and I venture out to Bloom, Ireland’s largest gardening, food and family event, that takes place in Phoenix Park over the bank holiday weekend and attracts thousands. There are cookery and craft demonstrations, free gardening advice from the experts, Irish produce, live entertainment, gardening workshops. My own little slice of heaven, and I was invited by Monday, who left the ticket in my postbox along with a dried bluebell pushed between the pages of the invitation. The only communication we’ve had since then was a phone conversation where he allowed me to stay on just long enough to accept the invitation and then tell me rather mysteriously that I’ll know where to find him. I think the bluebell is a clue. In fact it is. Worried that he would end up sleeping overnight in Phoenix Park while I wander off following the wrong clues, he texts me, ‘The bluebell is a clue,’ which is rather pathetically sweet of him.

There are kids’ zones, cooking zones, main stages and smaller stages with chefs doing cooking exhibitions, audiences crowded around, tasting, Irish dancers, DIY displays, bubble displays and fashion shows. The park is buzzing with event after event, something for everyone. Around me, award-winning garden designers have created entire new worlds in their small plots of land. There is a sharp and sleek Scandic garden, a Japanese garden, a Chinese garden, a Wizard of Oz garden, some fun, some quirky, some breathtaking, all of them taking me into another world.

Though my heart is bursting to see him, I take my time wandering around, not wanting to miss a clue, and also enjoying the atmosphere. This time last year I would not have thought about being here, I wouldn’t have considered this event to be for someone like me, unless I was there to work, unless I was pitching something to someone and with my eye on the prize. And if I had been here under those circumstances I would have missed the beauty of the place. It is almost a cliché to hear people talking about ‘slowing down’, but it is true. I have slowed down and through slowing, I see so much more.

It is when I see a recreated Irish landscape with Connemara drystone walls and a caravan – the idea being to capture the ‘staycation’, holidaying in Ireland in summertime – that I sense I’m close. There is a field of bluebells, the purple haze like a carpet, leading the eye all the way past the drystone walls, the bog marshes and the lake… and there he is. Monday stands at the door of a sixties caravan, which sits in the long grass as though it has been there, abandoned for years. The door is open, there is a floral window blind flapping in the breeze.

I stop by the rusted gate.

‘Fáilte, Jasmine,’ he says, a coy smile on his face, and I sense nervousness too.

I laugh.

‘Come on in,’ he motions, and as I push the gate open it gives the perfect creak, as though it’s not real. I make my way through the tall purple flowers which line the pathway, mixed with fluffy cream-coloured blossoms that perfume the air with their fragrance: loosestrife and meadowsweet. It’s a hot day and for the occasion I’m wearing a floral summer dress, though the poppies are more pop art than country garden. The fragrance of the meadowsweet gives way to pungent garlic as the wild garlic reaches my nose.

When I get closer, he sees the enormous lump caused by Dr Jameson’s frying pan, and he holds my face in his hands, concern, and anger all over his face.

‘What happened?’

‘An accident.’

‘Who did this?’ Dark, concerned, angry face.

‘Dr J. It’s a long story…’

‘What?’

‘An accident. To do with the letter…’ I bite my lip.

He smiles and shakes his head. ‘Honestly, I’ve never met anyone like you three…’ He kisses my bruise tenderly. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you, full stop.’ He takes my hand, his thumb rubbing against my palm, which makes me shiver, and he leads me to the caravan. I peer inside and see the table has been set for lunch.

‘Do you do this for all the people you headhunt?’

‘Depends on the commission.’

‘I can imagine what you give them when you get actual commission,’ I tease. ‘Really wish I’d got that job now.’

He fixes me with a look that makes my heart race and I try to calm my flustered innards as we sit in the tiny caravan, our knees touching under the fold-out table.

‘So instead of always going to your house, I thought I’d bring you to my home and show you a slice of where I come from.’

‘Monday, this is beautiful. And incredibly sweet.’

He blushes but forges onward, ‘And in the spirit of being home, I brought you what I grew up eating.’ He opens the containers. ‘Blackberries, wild strawberries. We used to pick them and my grandmother made jam. Apple pie.’ He reveals the delights, Tupperware box by Tupperware box. ‘Wild garlic pesto with hot brown bread.’

My mouth waters. ‘Did you cook all of this?’

He’s embarrassed again. ‘Yeah, but they’re Maimeó’s recipes. Foolproof. My mam can’t cook to save her life, so for lunch I had…’ he makes a grand gesture with a Superman lunchbox, ‘salad-cream sandwiches.’

‘Wow.’

‘I know. She was hopeless. Still is. Maimeó raised me, really. Tough woman, moved over from the Aran Islands when my mam got pregnant with me, even though she was an Aran islander at heart and being away almost killed her. She brought me there every chance she could.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He doesn’t say anything, just starts sharing out the food.

‘Your home is a lot more peaceful than mine was the last time you were there. I’m sorry about the meeting…’ I need to address it.

‘Don’t be sorry. I’m sorry it was sprung on you. That lady who works with your sister, Jamie, told me it would be a surprise for you. I thought maybe you’d like it.’

‘You didn’t think that I’d like that, surely.’

‘I don’t know you very well, Jasmine. But I want to.’ No blushing this time, just hazel emerald eyes. ‘How’s your ex?’

‘Oh God. Monday. I’m so sorry about that. Really-’

‘You don’t need to apologise. We weren’t… there was nothing…’ But I can see that it hurt him.

‘And I’m sorry about the interview.’ I cover my face in my hands. ‘I haven’t started very well at all, have I? If all I have to say to you is sorry.’

‘I understand about the interview,’ he says. ‘I can understand how you’d want to follow Heather. You should have just told me, you know? I was calling and calling. I could have tried to change the date.’

‘I know.’ I wince. ‘I couldn’t think what to say to you.’

‘The truth is always fine with me.’ He shrugs easily.

‘Okay. Yes. Sorry.’

‘Stop saying sorry.’

I nod. ‘Don’t suppose you’d want to headhunt me for anything else?’ I try weakly. ‘I can be quite reliable-’

‘I have a wonderful prospect for you,’ he says, spooning clotted cream on to strawberry-jam-covered scones.

‘Yeah?’ I light up.

He stops what he’s doing and fixes me with one of his looks. ‘How about a six foot, black-haired, green-eyed, freckle-faced black man from Connemara? One in a million. Actually, one in four point seven million.’

My heart soars. ‘I’ll take it,’ I say, and he leans in to kiss me and it is as long and luscious as I have daydreamed and imagined it would be.

‘Your elbow is in the jam,’ I whisper, mid-kiss.

‘I know,’ he whispers back.

‘And you’re not six foot.’

‘Ssh,’ he whispers again, kissing me. ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

We laugh as we pull apart.

‘So now it’s my turn to apologise,’ he says, playing with my fingers. I’m no small lady but my hands look like doll’s hands in his. ‘I’m sorry it took me so long to-’

‘Make a move?’ I offer.

‘Yes,’ he finally looks me in the eye. ‘I’m really quite shy,’ he says, and I believe him. For someone who is so confident when it comes to work, he is endearingly awkward at this kind of thing. ‘I used the job as an excuse to keep seeing you while I tried to summon up the courage, and every single time I prattled on about the job I was trying to figure out if you were going to say no, or laugh in my face. Obviously headhunting someone doesn’t usually bring me to their house for dinner.’

‘Or to help with their water fountain.’

He laughs. ‘Or that. Or help them spy on their neighbour.’

‘You weren’t too shy to organise this,’ I say.

‘I’m more of a grand gestures kind of man,’ he says, and we laugh. ‘The ex-boyfriend thing gave me the kick up the arse I needed.’

I cringe again.

‘Is he… keen to get you back?’

‘Yes,’ I say, gravely serious.

‘Oh.’

‘He called me at one a.m. a few nights ago singing All Saints’ “Bootie Call”. He sings like an altar boy.’

‘Oh,’ he says in a lighter tone, less concerned.

‘So obviously you have a lot to contend with,’ I add.

‘Maybe a sing-off,’ he suggests. ‘You know, as soon as I saw your red head covered in muck and garden leaves I knew I wanted you. I just couldn’t figure out what to do about it. The job bought me time. So none of it was a waste of my time, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

We kiss again and I could quite literally move into this little caravan and stay with him for ever, despite neither of us being able to stand up straight without bowing our heads, but we hear voices right outside the window as another group survey the garden.

‘Hey, I bought you something.’ He rubs his nose, scratches his temple, all of a sudden in a fluster and he is mumbling incoherently, and I find it so endearing I just sit at the table and watch with a great big smile on my face, doing nothing to help him out at all. ‘It’s for your garden,’ he says, embarrassed, ‘But if you think it’s stupid, I’ll take it back, no problem. It’s not expensive, I saw it and thought of you, or thought you might like it, I mean, I don’t really know anyone else who lives in their garden as much as you, apart from my mam of course who literally lives in her… anyway, I’ll take it back if you don’t like it.’

‘Monday, that’s a beautiful way to present something,’ I say sarcastically, putting my hand on my heart.

‘Get used to it,’ he says gently, then reaches under the table and presents me with a gift for the garden. He covers his face with his hands so he can’t see my reaction. ‘Do you like it?’ he asks in a muffled voice.

I kiss his hands. He lets them fall to his lap and his uncertain face breaks into a relieved smile.

‘It’s beautiful.’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s beautiful.’

‘It’s perfect. Thank you.’

We kiss in the middle of a caravan in Connemara in the Phoenix Park with a battered garden signpost that says, Miracles only grow where you plant them.

26

Monday and I are lying in my bed. It is August. It is ten p.m. and my curtains are open. The sky is still bright. I can hear children from surrounding streets still out playing. My garden is still plump with life. There are still sounds of life and activity around us, the smell of barbecue in the air. I am in a wonderful bubble of bliss, lying naked with Monday, bathing in after-sex glory and contentment. I’m looking out at the sky, marvelling at the red sky.

‘Red sky at night,’ I start to say, and then your face suddenly appears in the window. ‘Ahhhhhhhhh! Arrrrrrgggghhh!’

I almost give Monday a heart attack, jumping up and pulling the sheets around me, getting tangled in the process.

‘Jesus bloody Christ,’ Monday screams when he sees you.

You start laughing, a depraved lunatic sound, and I can see from your wired eyes that you’re drunk.

‘Nice trellising,’ you shout, knocking on the window and I’m beginning to regret constructing the climbing frame on the wall of my house that leads to my bedroom window, from which parkdirektor riggers, a hardy perennial deciduous red rose, is growing up the front of the house.

Monday groans.

‘I think he’s drunk,’ I say.

‘You think?’

I look at him.

‘Go,’ he says tiredly. ‘Go do whatever it is that you two do at ten p.m. on a Thursday night.’

I open the front door in my robe, and find you sitting at the table in your garden. You’re wearing a tuxedo.

I whistle.

You swear at me.

Seeing your front door wide open, I drop your house keys into my pocket and I sit down.

‘I see he finally gave you a job,’ you say, and then snort and laugh that disgusting filthy chesty laugh again. You’re back on the cigarettes tonight too.

‘You forgot to cut your grass today,’ I say.

‘Keep your opinions to yourself, Delia Smith.’

‘She’s a chef.’

‘Fuck off.’

You’re angry tonight, Matt, back where we started. You finish the bottle of beer then throw it across the road. It breaks on my side of the path. Monday peers out the window, sees that I’m okay and disappears again.

‘What happened tonight?’

‘I went to the radio awards. I wasn’t nominated. I was disgusted. I told them so. Said a few other things about a few other people who haven’t been there for me like they should have been. Said it on stage into the microphone so everyone could hear what I had to say nice and loud. The organisers didn’t like my behaviour. So they fucked me out of there.’

Two steps forward, one step back. It’s the same with both of us. It’s natural, I suppose. Nobody and nothing is perfect. I don’t judge, not aloud anyway. You rant about work, about not working, about all the people in the world who work. It is difficult to keep up with, you start and stop, abandon ideas before they’re fully developed. Your thought process is indicative of where you find yourself now. In a way, I agree with you. Some of what you say is how I felt at times during the past year, how I still sometimes feel as I struggle to find my place every day. Society is built around industry, you say, only children and retired people relax into not working and the percentage of retired people who die of heart attacks soon after retirement is a worry to you. You think you will die of boredom and make a note to visit Dr J about that.

You are struggling to find a job, in fact it’s proving impossible. Your gardening leave is up, you are officially unemployed. Once hot property, you are now far from a desired commodity. You have been blacklisted. Nobody seems to want to hire a loose cannon like you with the potential for such notoriety, and those who do show interest want you for the wrong reasons, want you to amp up your dark side, turn you into a cartoon version of yourself. But this will not get Amy back, and that is a side of you even you are not comfortable with. You have had endless meetings with your agent, who doesn’t return your calls as much as he once did, who is spending more time with a new TV personality rising star who has whiter teeth, and thicker hair, better skin and politically correct banter. Housewives love him, truck drivers can tolerate him. You threw a glass of water over him tonight and when no one was looking he took you outside, pretending he wanted to have a mature discussion, and instead boxed you across the chin, adjusted his Tom Ford tuxedo and went back inside with his plastic smile to present an award. Your words. You hope he’ll die of a venereal disease. You attempt to list them all.

Then you move on to the DJ who won your award, the award you’ve won every year for six years straight, a man who talks about birds and gardening on air. I also know that you’re trying to hurt me because of my new interests, but I don’t bite. I know your tricks now. When you are hurting you try to hurt other people. It won’t work with me.

Then you start on Corporate Man, who recently asked you and Amy to keep your voices down when the two of you were having a heavy-duty argument on the street one night and as a result has now become your main target of hate. You speculate that he loves to have meetings about meetings, loves the sound of his own voice and makes long-winded speeches about his love for butt-plugs and other such things that you make up on the spot.

I go into your house and come back with a roll of toilet paper.

‘I have an idea,’ I say, interrupting your Corporate Man rant.

‘I’m not crying,’ you say angrily, seeing the toilet roll. ‘And I already took a shit. On your roses.’

‘Come on, Matt.’

You follow me across the road. You finally smile when you see what I’m doing and you join in, eagerly. We spend ten minutes quietly draping toilet roll all over Corporate Man’s garden, laughing so hard we almost pee ourselves, and have to stop for breaks, clamping our hands over each other’s mouths so we don’t make too much noise and wake him. We weave it around the branches of his chestnut tree and leave pieces hanging down like it’s a weeping willow. We decorate the flower beds with it, we try to tie a great big bow around his BMW. We wrap it around the pillar on his front porch and then we break little bits up like confetti and sprinkle the grass. When we’re finished, we high-five each other and turn around to find Monday and Dr J watching us. Monday is barefoot, wearing jeans and a T-shirt, looking hot and slightly amused but trying not to. Dr Jameson is wearing his emergency go-to outfit – shell suit and shiny shoes – and looking genuinely concerned for our welfare.

‘He’s drunk, but I don’t know what your excuse is,’ Monday says, arms folded across his chest. ‘Seriously, you two really need to get jobs.’

‘I hope to start on Monday, Monday,’ you say, then chuckle at your wit. You look down at his bare feet. ‘Ah, so you’re into this too.’

‘Into what?’

‘Jasmine’s little trick. I saw her do it once. In the middle of the night. Crying. In winter, like the crazy bitch she is.’

Monday laughs.

‘I knew it!’ I exclaim. ‘I knew you were watching me. But I wasn’t crying that night.’

‘No, that was the night you made it look like your house had vomited grass on your garden.’

I can’t help it, I have to laugh, but we are too loud and so Monday and Dr J guide us away from Corporate Man’s house so he won’t wake up and see how we’ve decorated his garden.

Ignoring Dr Jameson’s advice to keep your shoes on, you walk ahead of us, kicking off your leather shoes and throwing your stinky socks in my direction. You decide to be rooted to the earth, grounding yourself, but doing an unusual hippy kind of dance which makes us all laugh whether we like it or not. It is quite amusing until you step on the piece of broken bottle that you fired across the road.

Dr Jameson goes running to help.