‘I believe New York is a great place,’ he said. ‘So much to do. Great theatre, great fringe productions.’

I couldn’t have agreed less, but I was happy to overlook it to make him like me.

‘Great!’ I said with pretend enthusiasm. I was in luck because, a couple of months before, I’d gone with Luke and Brigit to this awful ‘interactive installation’. A kind of a play thing that was on in a disused garage in TriBeCa. It had bodypainting and nipple piercing actually live on stage. Although when I say stage, I really mean the piece of greasy floor that the audience weren’t allowed to stand on.

The only reason we’d gone was because Brigit was having dealings with a boy called José. (Pronounced Hose-ay, except Luke and I called him Josie to annoy Brigit.) Josie’s sister was in the play thing so Brigit wanted to curry favour with him by going to see it. She begged Luke and me to come and provide immoral support, she even offered to pay for us. But the thing was so awful we left after half an hour, even Brigit. And went to the nearest bar, got jarred and made up pretend reviews. (‘A pile o’shite,’ ‘Loan the usherette your clothes.’)

I closed my mind to the feelings of loss as I remembered that evening. Instead I dredged up a flattering description of the play for Chris and threw in words like ‘groundbreaking’ and ‘astonishing’ (it was that, all right).

While I was still expounding he stood up and said, ‘I suppose I’d better get on with the tidying. I can’t let the lads down.’

Slightly dazed, I looked around. The inmates were scraping plates and loading them onto a trolley. One of them was tickling the lino with a sweeping brush. Why are they doing it? I wondered in confusion. How come the Cloisters haven’t got a team of lackeys to clean up? And set up, for that matter? Are the inmates really doing it just because they’re nice people?

Well, why not? I demanded of myself. People can be nice, you know. And I shook my head at my lack of faith in human nature. I must have lived in New York too long.

‘Can I do anything to help?’ I asked politely. Although I didn’t mean a word of it. If they had said yes, I would have been highly annoyed, but I knew they wouldn’t. And they didn’t. There was a chorus of ‘no’s and ‘not at all’s. And I was pleased because they obviously sensed that I wasn’t really one of them.

But then, as I ran up to my room to quickly re-do my make-up in honour of whatever happened after tea, I passed the kitchen. Where to my great surprise Misty O’Malley was washing a huge pot. She had to stand on a chair to do it. Although I was sure that she didn’t really have to stand on a chair, she only did it to look cute and dainty.

I was instantly sorry that I hadn’t insisted on helping with the tidying. I never felt that anything I did was right. If I had helped and Misty O’Malley hadn’t, I would have felt like a right sucker. But the other way round, with Misty helping and me skiving, I felt lazy and worthless.

So when I got back I tried wandering aimlessly around with a butter dish until one of the jumpers stopped me.

‘There’s no need for you to do that.’ He gently removed the dish from my happy-to-yield hand.

I was delighted. Beat that, Misty O’Malley!

‘We’ve put you on Don’s team,’ he continued.

I wondered what that meant. Don’s team? I supposed it must be something like Josephine’s group.

‘You’re on breakfasts tomorrow, so I hope you’re good at getting up, it’s a seven o’clock start.’

He was obviously having me on.

‘Ha ha.’ I winked at him gamely. ‘Nice one.’

13

I loitered in the dining-room as the remains of the tea disappeared. Whenever I wasn’t actively involved in doing something, thoughts of Luke overwhelmed me. The pain of his rejection increased from a background hum to acute misery. I needed a distraction and fast. It must be time for the massage and the gym and all that, it really must. I could no longer sit quietly, drinking tea, tormented by the realization that Luke had ditched me, I just couldn’t!

Hysteria rose from the pit of my stomach to contract my throat. Sweat prickled my scalp and I was suddenly propelled into positive action. I found myself on my feet, looking for Mike. Forgetting my earlier reluctance to seem too pally with him, I marched up to him and demanded, in a belligerent fashion, ‘NOW WHAT?’

I managed to stop myself from grabbing the front of his jumper and, in an wild-eyed, out-of-control screech, adding ‘And just in case you were thinking of suggesting it, I’m not drinking any more fucking tea!’

He looked taken aback at my aggressive stance, but just for a moment. Then he smiled easily and said ‘Whatever we want. On Friday nights we’ve no lectures or meetings, so we can do whatever we want.’

‘Like what?’ I asked. Strangely, I found that the great rage had left me breathless.

‘Come on and I’ll take you on a little tour,’ he offered.

I was torn between curiosity and reluctance to spend time with him. But he was already racing out of the room, so, still gasping for breath, I followed him.

First stop was the sitting-room. Like the rest of the place, it was in the middle of being redecorated. But they’d really ripped this room asunder. All the furniture had been moved out except for a couple of threadbare couches and there were lumps of plaster on the carpet which must have fallen down from the ceiling. The windows were being replaced, but in the meantime a bitter wind raided through the room. There was only one person there. I was surprised there was anyone at all, considering the Siberian temperatures. When we got closer I saw that it was Davy, the lone gambler. I hadn’t recognized him because he was wearing his coat and a hat with earflaps. He was on the edge of the couch intently watching You Bet Your Life. ‘All of it,’ he muttered at the screen, ‘go on, chance the lot.’

‘What’s on, Davy?’ asked Mike, in an odd singsongy voice.

Davy jumped, he literally jumped, and hurriedly hopped up and turned off the television.

‘Don’t tell anyone, will you?’ he beseeched.

‘I won’t this time,’ said Mike. ‘But for Christ’s sake, be careful, you big eejit.’

I had not the slightest idea what either of them were talking about.

Next stop the Reading Room.

It too was being decorated. Despite that, there was a good number of the inmates there. Even though it was called the Reading Room, they were all writing. What were they writing? I wondered. Letters? But why would writing a letter make them slap the table with despair and shout ‘I can’t do this’? Because that was what they were all doing. I was only there for about three seconds and in that time at least five of them slapped the table. A few more crumpled pieces of paper into balls and flung them at the wall. The air was heavy with cigarette smoke and desperation. I was relieved to leave.