Then she started to talk about her house. She had an unnatural interest in en-suite bathrooms.

‘Our house is perfect, an absolute showhouse!’ she declared. ‘Although we had no architect over from London to do it.’ More humorous rolling of the eyes, inviting me to smile with her.

I did. I was anxious to please, even if I hated the recipient of my pleasing. My pleasee.

‘It’s in Monkstown,’ she said with pride. ‘You’ve been away for a good while, so you mightn’t know, but Monks-town is very up and coming. Oh, pop stars galore. Chris de Burgh is only down the road.’

I shuddered.

‘The singing eyebrow? Well, there goes the neighbourhood.’ I mean, she couldn’t really be glad, could she?

‘I hope you don’t hear him practising,’ I went on. ‘That would be just the pits alt…’

I trailed to a halt when I saw the expression on her face.

Oh dear. Oh, oh dear. We had not got off to a good start. I hoped to God she was getting out soon.

‘Er, how long have you been here, Chaquie?’

‘Seven days.’

Shite!

Then, to my great alarm, she started to talk. Really talk. I had thought my comment on Chris de Burgh had put an end to dialogue, which suited me more than I could say. But suddenly, before my weary eyes, she mutated into the Duracell bunny of trivial chat. The stuff about bathrooms and husbands had been mere messing around as she waited for the runway to clear. And now in response to some signal that only she could hear, she had gone into overdrive. Full throttle, firing on all cylinders, foot pressed firmly to the conversational floor.

The gist of her bitter monologue was that you couldn’t trust anyone. From gynaecologists to milkmen to husbands.

Especially husbands.

Her words swam giddily at me.

‘… I told him that there couldn’t be two pints of milk for Tuesday because Durm’t and I were away that day…’ (Her milkman was under suspicion.)

‘… And how am I supposed to trust him the next time he puts his hand up my skirt…?’ (Her gynaecologist was having an affair with one of her friends.)

‘… I still can’t believe he put me in here! How could he!?…’ (Durm’t had upset her.)

‘… I shudder when I think of all those times I took my clothes off in front of him…’ (I think that was the roving gynaecologist. Although I later found out stuff about Chaquie which meant it could just as easily have been the milkman.)

I felt faint and queasy and kept losing the thread of what she was saying. I hoped I would pass out or have a fit or something but every so often I would come to, only to find she was still at it.

‘… And they were full-fat pints anyway, and Durm’t and I only have skimmed milk, well you’ve got to take care of yourself haven’t you…’ (The milkman again.)

‘… Any time I’m with him now, I feel that he’s looking lustfully at me…’ (Either the gynaecologist or Durm’t. Although on second thoughts maybe not Durm’t.)

‘… What did I do to deserve being shoved in here? How could he?…’ (Definitely Durm’t.)

‘… And he said there was nothing he could do, that the bills were generated by a computer. And I said “Don’t talk to me like that, young man”…’ (Possibly the milkman.)

‘… And they were six inches too short for the bay window. So I refused to pay…’ (No idea, sorry.)

On and on she went, while I lay against the headboard as though flattened by centrifugal force. I wondered if I looked as desperate as I felt.

I nodded mutely, unable to speak. Just as well, because she didn’t stop to draw breath.

Maybe it was just because I’d had a long, strange day, but I really felt that I hated her. I didn’t blame Durm’t for putting her into the Cloisters. If I was married to Chaquie, I’d be happy to incarcerate her in an institution. In fact, I’d want her dead. And I wouldn’t pay a hired killer to do it, either. Why deny myself the pleasure?

Battling against the hail of her words, I dragged myself off the bed and decided to try to get some sleep. But I didn’t want to get undressed in front of her. I mean, I didn’t know the woman from Adam. Although, as Adam was the name of my sister Claire’s live-in-lover, perhaps that was the wrong analogy. Because I did know Chaquie from Adam. And I would have been delighted to share a room with Adam. He was about eight foot ten, knicker-meltingly gorgeous and Claire had promised me that when she died I could have him.

As I wriggled like a contortionist into Mum’s nightdress, trying not to let an atom of my shameful flesh show, Chaquie scolded, in a school teachery voice, ‘You’d want to watch that cellulite, Rachel. At your age you can’t afford to ignore it.’

As my face burned with shame, I climbed into the narrow bed.

‘Have a word with Durm’t,’ she said. ‘He’ll sort you out.’

‘PARDON?’ I was shocked! What kind of woman was this who offered her husband to sort out the cellulite of a stranger?

‘Durm’t runs a beauty salon,’ she explained.

That explained a lot. It certainly explained how she managed to look so glamorous.

‘Well, I say he runs it,’ she tinkled, ‘I should really say he owns it. We own it. As Durm’t always says “There’s great money in cellulite.” ’

Then her face darkened. ‘The louser,’ she hissed.

Chaquie had no shame about getting undressed. She positively flaunted herself in front of me. I tried not to look, but it was unavoidable because she stayed in her knickers and bra for far longer than was necessary. And although it galled me to admit it, she was in pretty good shape. A bit saggy, but only a tiny bit. She was just showing off, I thought with gritted teeth, as I wished death and destruction to rain down on top of her and her lean, tanned thighs.

She spent several hours taking off her make-up, a lot of dabbing with fingertips and patting and stroking and gentle massage. On the rare occasions when I removed my slap at all, I just threw a lump of cold cream at my face, like a potter throwing wet clay onto a wheel, and swirled it round with the palm of my hand as if I was cleaning a window. Then gave it the briefest wipe with a tissue.

I desperately wanted to get to sleep. I’ve had enough of today, I thought, I really, poxing-well have. I’d like a bit of oblivion, please, any time you like. But Chaquie wouldn’t let me. She kept talking, even when I tried to hide behind my Raymond Carver book. Which I’d only brought because Luke had given it to me, but all the same. I might have wanted to read it.