I knew it wasn’t fair to ask the poor addicts to do without when people like me who didn’t have a problem were imbibing freely. It wouldn’t be right to wave temptation under their noses. But all the same…

I could hear bangs and thumps and screams and laughter as the others played their musical chairs in the room below me.

When Chaquie came up to bed she was flushed and happy-looking.

Briefly.

‘I didn’t see you at Mass this evening,’ she said, purse-lipped.

(A priest came every Saturday to say Mass for those who were interested.)

‘That’s right, you didn’t,’ I said cheerfully.

She glared and I grinned brazenly.

Then she started on another of her hobby-horses. This time it was the evil of mothers who work. I made a great show of pulling the covers over my head and saying ‘Goodnight’. But it made no difference. Chaquie had some things to get off her chest and she didn’t care who knew it.

‘… And the husband comes home after a long day in the office – or the beauty salon…’ she allowed herself a little tinkle at this ‘… And the house is a shambles, the kids are screaming…’

‘There’s no dinner on the table,’ I interrupted from under my blankets, deciding to beat her to it.

‘That’s right, Rachel,’ she sounded pleasantly surprised, ‘There’s no dinner on the table.’

‘His shirts aren’t ironed,’ I called up to her.

‘That’s ri…’

‘The children come home from school to an empty, cold house…’

‘That’s ri…’

‘They eat crisps and biscuits instead of a hot, nourishing meal…’

‘Exac…’

‘They watch pornography on the telly, they indulge in incest, the house burns down and their mother isn’t there to stop it and they all die!’

A silence followed that and eventually I peeped out from under my blankets.

Chaquie was staring at me in confusion. She strongly suspected that I was taking the piss, but she couldn’t be sure.

I had thought I hated her before that, but then I knew that I really, really hated her.

Fascist cow, I thought to myself. I knew her sort. She was a member of Right-wing Catholic Mothers Against Pleasure, or whatever they were called.

Shortly after that, in grim silence, Chaquie turned off the light and got into bed.

Mercifully, due to great exhaustion, I fell asleep.

20

Sunday. Visiting day!

Except not for me. I would have loved some contact with the outside world. I’d even have been glad to see my mother. But I hadn’t been in for the required week yet, although I already felt as if I’d been there for several years.

The first thing I thought of when I was woken by Monica’s flashlight, was Luke. I was tormented by thoughts of what he might have got up to the night before. Might still be getting up to. After all, it was only three a.m. where he was. Saturday night was only getting going.

I wanted to ring him. I wanted to ring him so badly it was almost unbearable. But he probably wasn’t even home yet. Unless he was in bed with someone. Perhaps he’s in bed with some girl right now, I thought, frantically. Maybe he’s just this very second having an orgasm with another woman. I realized that this was how people go mad. That I really would need to go to a loony bin if I didn’t watch myself.

I had to talk to him, I decided. I’d have to ring him. But I did a quick sum and realized I’d have to wait until at least three o’clock, when it would be ten in the morning in New York. Oh, why can’t I do it now ? Fecking time difference! Bitterly, I cursed the curvature of the earth.

In my heart of hearts I knew ten on a Sunday morning was probably still too early, probably by several days. But I didn’t care. It would do.

After breakfast ended, Chaquie launched into frantic preparations for Dermot’s arrival. To my surprise she asked me to help her to choose what to wear. That touched me so much I forgot I hated her.

And I was wildly grateful to have something to do. I didn’t stop thinking about Luke, but it reduced the agony to a background-noise type of ache. It wasn’t as bad, just omnipresent.

Chaquie had her entire, very large wardrobe spread around the very small room. Which reminded me that I really must get round to asking her would she mind making room for some of my stuff which was still in my suitcase on the floor.

‘What do you think, Rachel?’ she asked. ‘The Jaeger suit with the Hermès scarf?’

‘Er, maybe something a little less formal,’ I suggested tentatively. ‘Have you any jeans?’

‘JEANS!’ she hooted with laughter. ‘Sacred Heart! I do not! Durm’t would die if he saw me in jeans.’ She gave at the knees to see herself in the (tiny, age-spotted) mirror and bobbed her hand around her perfect hair.

‘Jeezus, Mary and holy Saint Joseph,’ she declared, rolling her eyes. ‘I’m like the wreck of the Hesperus.’

Of course, she was nothing of the sort. She looked immaculate.

‘It’s very important to look good for your husband,’ she confided, as she put on a tailored skirt and a cardigan with beads and things appliquéd to the front. Awful stuff.

With jerky movements she back-combed her hair. She was nervous, really nervous about Dermot’s visit.

‘You look lovely,’ I said, even though I thought she looked a right state.

I looked at my watch – midday. Only three more hours and I’d be talking to Luke! ‘When Dermot comes, would you like me, to, er… you know?’ I magnanimously offered Chaquie, as I made vamoosing type movements with my hands.

‘What?’

‘Would you like to have the room to yourselves so that you can, ahem, you know…?’

She looked disgusted. ‘What? Have intercourse, do you mean?’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’ The language of romance.

‘Sacred Heart, no!’ she said. ‘The only good thing about being in here is not being pestered by him and his flute when I’m trying to read my book in bed. Anyway, we’re not allowed to have visitors up to our rooms.’

‘Not allowed to have people up to our rooms?’ It was my turn to look disgusted. ‘Surely even in prison people are allowed their conjugais?’