56
Savannah
Last week
At eight o’clock last Tuesday evening, Savannah cycled home from the gym in glorious amber sunlight. It was wasted on her though; she was wrecked. Wrecked from the long day of work, the stint on the XSGym machines, and OK, the two glasses of white in the afternoon. She was ready to collapse on the couch. Braking at her front porch, she slipped off the bike and considered for a moment. Sheshouldwheel it around to the back garden, but the side gate was locked. And the effort to go through the house, out the back and around to unlock the bolt, was too much. Anyway, Oakpark was a safe neighborhood. Nobody was going to come in and steal her bike. She left it propped against the front wall of the house and made her way inside.
From her kitchen, after her third shower of the day, she texted Jon to see if he was calling over after work. They always came here or went to hotels. Jon lived in Maynooth, which was miles away, and there was no chance Savannah was bothered traveling all the way there when they could as easily come here. Jon had a brother living in Blackrock, and he sometimes stayed there if it was too late to go home. She’d stayed thereonce, when Jon was housesitting for his brother and sister-in-law. It was an OK house, as far as she remembered, though her recollection of that night was hazy. They’d had alotof wine, first in Peronique, then in Goggins. Shedidremember that the house was a little shabby, but deliberately so, the way people do when they want to invest in home decor but don’t like anyone to know they care. People could be such weirdos. She remembered a hideous yellow couch that they sat on for all of five minutes before moving upstairs, and the rest was a blur. The only other thing she recalled was dropping Jon’s sister-in-law’s retinol serum on the en suite tiles the following morning when she was rushing to get out to work. Luckily, she’d cleared it up before Jon noticed. She’d actually felt a smidgeon of guilt—it was an expensive brand, one she used herself. But hey, these things happen, and Jon’s sister-in-law probably didn’t even notice.
Jon texted back—he was working late and heading home to Maynooth. Savannah sighed and leaned against the kitchen counter. A long evening alone stretched ahead. She had never minded being on her own…but suddenly, she did. Was she falling for Jon? Until now, she’d seen it as a casual fling. But maybe that was changing? Her bracelet glinted in the evening sunlight and she ran her fingers over the inscription. It had seemed too much at the time. But now…maybe she could see herself with Jon long term? Her gaze fell on her wedding photo. The photo that made her mother sniff in disappointment every time she called by. Savannah knew it was probably time to take it down, but also, she had never, ever looked as good as she did in that photograph. Her beautiful cream taffeta dress, and Albie so smart in his tux. She’d thought they’d be together for ever, that he was the one. But maybe Jon was the one? Maybe it was time to take down the photo…
Not today, but soon.
57
Susan
Wednesday
I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, Peronique receipt in my hand, when my phone beeps with a notification. I ignore it. Six more beeps follow. It’s Leesa, messaging in our sister group, asking “what the hell is going on?” It takes me a moment to read back, to piece it together, but it’s about something Celeste has just sent in the Oakpark group. Leesa sends a screenshot:
Just a note to any parents considering the Whiterock Hockey camp run by Greta O’Donnell. My daughter was in the camp, but we’ve had to take her out due to a serious and possibly life-threatening incident. Details are not yet clear but, at best, there is negligence at play and, at worst, the incident may have been deliberate. I don’t want to name names, but I’d be very wary of anything being run by Greta O’Donnell.
I type a reply to our group:
“Don’t want to name names”…Jesus, she’s some wagon. What is she on about?
Leesa replies:
I have no idea. @Greta, what’s happening? Can we help?
Blue ticks tell me Greta has read my message, but from Greta herself, there’s nothing. We usually stick to texting, but this is too important. I hit the call button and Greta answers with a heavy sigh.
“What’s happened?”
She tells me the whole story. Or not the whole story, because there’s something missing.
“OK, Celeste is a lunatic, we all know it wasn’t you, but how did you know to check the lunchbox?”
Silence.
“Greta?”
This really isn’t like her.
“I mean, it wasn’t you, was it?”
More silence.
“Greta, what’s going on? I know you wouldn’t do something like this.”
“I’d better go.”
“Hang on.” I look down at the receipt on the carpet in front of me. Jesus, I’m being haunted by nut allergies. “Have you seen Jon in the last few days?”
A beat. “No. Why?”
“Not at all?”
