Die (too drastic)
Emigrate (no languages except dodgy French, plus allergic to many things found abroad, such as change)
Take an unfair dismissal case (unwise, she would likely be judged at fault)
Look for another job (not tonight)
There were times when you just had to sit it out.
Chapter 3
By Sunday afternoon, having watched all theAlienmovies and seven seasons ofBlack Mirroron Netflix, she decided it was time to open the curtains and face her next Everest:family Sunday dinner. She’d managed to wipe out the past almost-forty-eight hours in fantasy worlds, but oh boy, this was going to be the ultimate landing back to earth. She glanced around the apartment, which looked like the burrow of some small animal preparing for hibernation. Pillows and a grubby pale-pink throw were piled on the sofa; an empty pizza box full of crusts was open on the counter; the remains of Singapore noodles were mouldering in the fridge. Several mugs and bowls were stacked up, which wasn’t her fault, really, because the previous owner had opted for the washing machine rather than the dishwasher.
Right, Ally decided, she had to start somewhere. Even the feeling of her hands immersed in the warm bubbly washing-up water made her feel slightly better. Just do the next best thing, she kept repeating to herself, then the one after that. We’ll get there. Wherever ‘there’ was. She sniffed herself – oh God, she smelled like a pigpen after her weekend of escapism. There was only one thing for it: a long, hot shower.
She’d been planning to turn up in the clothes she’d spent the weekend in – sweatpants and beige sweatshirt; they were familyafter all. Mercifully, somewhere between doing the hoovering and sponging the sofa, she copped on that although this might be some sort of a pathetic cry for help, it would actually backfire, like going into battle dressed in a bikini. She leafed through her wardrobe and chose a ‘safe’ dark-green patterned wrap dress, teamed it with black boots and slapped on enough eyeliner and red lipstick to avoid worried looks from Mum.
She contemplated herself in the mirror: long, dark hair that could have a dramatic wave were it recently cut, which it wasn’t, so right now it hung flat around her face like Morticia Addams. She had large grey-blue eyes with long eyelashes and high cheekbones, and a well-defined mouth – a twin for her Italiannonna, Dad always said. Mum would always refer to her as the ‘striking’ one, which could have been good, except Ally always heard something regretful in her tone that implied it was such a pity she wasn’t born with the same fair, feminine prettiness of herself and Maeve, her sister. Being feminine had always opened doors for Mum, she’d confided to Ally. Well, it may have opened doors but it looked like they’d firmly shut behind her. Mum’s life these days seemed taken up with worrying about the family and gossipy lunches or the odd shopping trip with ‘the girls’ – her two lifelong best friends – or doing her volunteering. And that was a fate that haunted Ally.
* * *
‘Darling, there you are – oh, you look tired, have you not been sleeping?’
Ally had only just arrived at her parents’ door, but without waiting for a reply, Mum went on, ‘You’re just in time to make the gravy and set the table .?.?. Oh, and set out the high chair for your niece, there’s a lamb.’
For some reason Mum saw her as one of Santa’s little helpers, and never one of the adults, like her siblings, who arrived to jubilation from both parents.
Damo, her younger brother, turned up in his Leinster rugby shirt and chinos, upbeat and cordial, just like Dad. Maeve arrived in her cream cashmere tailored coat with her adorable toddler Lu – short for Luna – while Rob, her husband, was in the States on business. Maeve had been made partner in the family-law firm where she worked but, in fairness, was admirably modest and seemed to take every triumph with a shrug.
Dad emerged from the sitting room, oozing bonhomie, like a cross between Santa and David Attenborough, offering gin and tonics all round but not meeting Ally’s eye. Ally felt the familiar clutch of rejection in her stomach. OK, Maeve was busy with her tot and being the uber-successful daughter; Damo had just finished his shift at the hospital, saving lives – it all made perfect sense why they wouldn’t be asked to help. She was ‘just Ally’.
‘So .?.?.’ boomed Dad in a volume more suited to the stands in Lansdowne Road than a Palmerston Road residence, as he settled into his favourite chintz armchair. ‘I hear the pieces are shifting around above in Nutley Road?’
Dad was referring to St Vincent’s, where Damo was on his specialist rotation in cardiac surgery. Dad loved ‘insider lingo’, even though he was semi-retired, having recently sold his business in medical supplies.
‘Yeah,niente di ufficialeas yet, butsi dice in giro.’
‘Damo, why the fuck are you talking in Italian?’
Ally couldn’t contain her irritation at this stellar display of smugness.
‘You better tell us, Damo, darling, but maybe in English this time?’ Mum smiled with an indulgent little twist of her mouth.
