“Fucking hayseed,” Lauryn screamed. “This is fucking crazy.” Then she slammed down the phone and looked at me. Somehow this was all my fault. We’d gone to the wire on this because I’d had the temerity to be in a car accident and had missed work for two months.

It was after five by the time the big cardboard boxes were being hefted into the boardroom. No one was meeting anyone else’s eyes because we were all thinking the same thing: Who was going to stay late—very late—and do it?

Brooke was going to a benefit, saving something or other: whales, Venice, three-legged elephants. Teenie had school (and it wasn’t her job anyway) and there was more chance of Lauryn eating a three-course meal.

It had to be me. Just me.

Everyone was so used to me working late that they didn’t even ask if I’d any plans, but as it happened, I was meant to be seeing Rachel. I’d given her the slip over the weekend, citing pressures of work. And now I really had to work—the girl who’d cried overtime.

“Does anyone mind if I make a quick call? Just to cancel my sister?”

I sounded so sarcastic that startled looks were exchanged. Now and again unexpected spurts of anger, so red-hot they almost scalded me, were shooting up through me and carrying rage-soaked words out of my mouth.

“Er, no, go right ahead,” Lauryn said.

Teenie helped me slit the boxes open and pile the products along the boardroom table, and Brooke, in all fairness to her, had already put a hundred and fifty press releases into a hundred and fifty padded envelopes, even though she’d been out for most of the afternoon because her aunt Genevieve (she wasn’t her real aunt, just one of her mother’s extremely rich friends) was in town and had hosted a lunch for her in a private dining room at the Pierre.

And then everyone was gone. The building was quiet, nothing but the hum of computers. I took a look at all the stuff on the boardroom table and was stabbed with self-pity.

I bet you’re really pissed off with the way they’re treating me.

I began by lining the inside of all the padded envelopes with sheets of silver lamé. This took until after eight; I was slower than I’d normally be because of my nails. Then I became a human conveyer belt. At one end of the table I stuck a printed label on the padded envelope, then I moved on to pick a Pack Your Bags from one pile, a Light Up Your Life from the next, an Iron Out the Kinks from the third, let them tumble into the padded envelope, picked up a handful of tiny silver stars, scattered them in on top, sealed the envelope, chucked it in the corner, and returned to the start.

I kind of got a rhythm going. Label, pick-pick-pick, tumble, stars, seal, throw. Label, pick-pick-pick, tumble, stars, seal, throw. Label, pick-pick-pick, tumble, stars, seal, throw. Label, pick-pick-pick, tumble, stars, seal, throw.

It was very soothing and I had been crying for a long time before I noticed. Mind you, I wasn’t crying so much as leaking. Tears ran down my face without any input from me—no heaving, no gulping, no shoulder shaking; it was very peaceful. I cried the entire way through the job, and although my tears blurred the ink on Femme’s address label, no other harm was done.

By the time I finished, it was midnight. But all one hundred and fifty packages were waiting to be couriered in the morning.

My taxi driver home was good and mad. He had a massive mustache and long curly hair, which he went on and on about. He said he was like Samson: he carried his strength in his hair and all his “women” tried to make him cut it off because “they want me to be weak.” On the mad-taxi-driver scale, he was easily a seven out of ten, possibly even seven and a half, and I felt he’d been specially sent by Aidan: it was late at night, I’d been working for sixteen hours straight, and he wanted to cheer me up.

44

Another e-mail arrived from Helen.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Job!

First day of surveillance on Detta Big. Stuck in hedge in her back garden in big detached house in Stillorgan, binoculars trained on her bedroom.

She’s about fifty, roundy bum, big knockers, leathery cleavage. Shoulder-length blondy curly hair, heated-rollers end product.

Wearing high heels and cream knitted (bouclé?) skirt and jumper. Couldn’t see lumps or bumps in her arse area, even with zoom at max. She must wear slip and steel-reinforced girdle. Looks like aging newsreader, maybe.

At ten to ten, she put on coat. We were going out. Bypassed car, big silver Beemer (car lacking in personality), and walked to local church. She was going to mass! I sat at back, just grateful not to be in hedge.

Afterward, she went to newsagent, bought Herald, Take a Break, twenty Benson & Hedges, and packet of mints (Extra Strong). Then went home again and I resumed vigil in hedge. She put kettle on, made tea, sat in front of telly, smoking and staring into space. One o’clock, she got up, and I thought, Please let’s be going out. But she was just making bowl of soup and toast, then went back to sitting in front of telly, smoking and staring into space. About four o’clock, she got up and I thought, Aye, aye, here we go. But she wasn’t going out—she was doing the hoovering. Really going for it. Maddest thing you ever heard?

After hoovering frenzy, Detta went back to kitchen, put kettle on, made tea, and sat smoking and staring into space. God, hope tomorrow’s going to be bit more exciting.

And an e-mail from Mum.

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Organized crime

Dear Anna,

We’re in a bad way. Helen no longer cares about our “domestic” issue (i.e., the dog poo). She is too caught up in her new job. She is “lording” it over us because she is associating with known criminals. If I’d thought, after all we sacrificed for your education, that this is how my youngest daughter would end up, I’d never have sent any of you to school at all. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child. She says the one she’s surveilling, the wife of the “crime lord,” has lovely clothes for an elderly person. Could that be true? And that her house is really clean? And that she does her cleaning herself. Could that really be the case or is Helen just trying to “upset” me?

I tried using her camera but it is a “digital” one and neither myself nor your father could figure it out. How are we to catch the old woman in the act? She was back again on Monday, up to her old tricks. If you are talking to Helen, would you try persuading her to help out. I know you are “bereaved,” but she might listen to you.