‘Yes,’ she says, and now I know she’s smiling.
‘One of us has to be manipulative. You’re a bit clueless, to be honest, Sid, I don’t know how you’ve survived this far.’
For a moment I almost can’t breathe because sometimes I’m not entirely sure Ihavesurvived this far, but Vilma doesn’t need to know that.
Existed: that’s the word. Some days, I just exist. I don’t try to have a good day – I just try to have a day full stop, where I get up, take care of my body, sit at my desk, drink my coffee shakily, and get into bed at night with relief, so glad it’s all over.
‘What do you suggest?’ I say, wrenching myself out of this train of thought.
I’ve always wanted Vilma to be able to look up to me, to show her that you can have a wonderful, marvellous life and be strong. But I’ve faked it a lot of the time.
I didn’t want to be a horrendous role model for the rest of her life, the cautionary tale. I didn’t want to be her sad older sister who never did normal things, never fell in love or settled down.
Vilma thought I’d had a lovely, normal relationship with Marc but I could never explain it to her. Now that he’s out of my life, she merely wants me to be happy – and apparently lots of friends is the secret to this.
‘Just one coffee,’ she wheedles.
‘OK, one coffee.’ I sigh. ‘I’ll text him now.’
‘Good. Now when you meet people you don’t really know, you’ve got to meet them somewhere really public, never night time, and in a busy area, OK?’
‘No shit, Sherlock?’ I reply laughing, the big sister letting herself be schooled by the baby of the family. If there’s one person I can’t say no to, it’s Vilma.
I spend so long at my desk composing the text, that I probably could have written an entire report on the negative impact ofsoft-drink machines in schools in the time it takes me. In the end, I look at my masterpiece and sigh.
Hi, Finn, Sid here. No good films on. Will we meet for a coffee and talk about work?
I send it before I can stop myself. And then I think how lame is that: can we meet for coffee and talk about work? I’ve basically set us an agenda.
I can feel myself blushing. Me? A woman with biker boots blushing.
I turn my phone to silent and stuff it into my pocket. I don’t want to see what he sends back; in fact, he probably won’t send anything back because, under the circumstances, why would he? I have made him wait five days and nobody waits five days. Plus, he’ll think I’m a nutcase because we discussed the concept of being friends and friends don’t say,Let’s talk about work.
Unless they have no life at all, which makes sense. I have no life at all.
‘Are you OK, Sid?’ I look up; it’s Chloe, innocent intern. She’s wearing false eyelashes and I have to admit they look amazing. She’s no longer wearing herI’m intelligentglasses though: the lashes would probably keep banging into the lenses. I read that somewhere; the two don’t go together terribly well.
‘Just running through some work problems in my head,’ I say with false calm.
In case she asks, I make up a work problem on the spot. I am good at lying, definitely.
Is there an Olympics for that? I was never sporty and it seems that all my skills – being quirky as hell, having weird hair, dressing all in black – are not ones with Olympian categories. But Chloe just nods and floats away, leaving me to ponder mynon-existent problems.
The rest of the afternoon passes and I refuse to look at my phone. If the apartment is burgled, the alarm company have my work number as well as my home number. If something happens with Mum, Vilma or Stefan, they all have my work number too. So people can get me.
I stay in the office until six and I’m one of the stragglers, the last to leave.
‘Night,’ says Eddie, going off with his rucksack. Eddie is a cyclist and makes a round trip of twenty miles every day to get into the office. I have no idea how he hasn’t been squashed before now, because I certainly wouldn’t cycle along Dublin’s roads, but the exercise looks good on Eddie. He is certainly a lean, mean fighting machine.
‘See you, Eddie,’ I say, ‘careful of those trucks.’
‘Yes, sir,’ he says, saluting me.
Finally, I’m at the door of the office. There’s nobody else there except me and the cleaners who are beginning to arrive. I greet them, chat to everyone, particularly Imelda, who’s one of my favourites. Imelda has a large and noisy family and it only takes the slightest encouragement for her to start discussing them. Three of her nephews are now in a band.
‘I told them they might as well stand at traffic lights washing car windscreens for money because they’ll make more cash that way,’ she cackles.
I’m comfortable with Imelda, because she’s a woman. And I’m comfortable with women. Which is probably why it was days before I texted Finn, and yet I was comfortable with him – so maybe I can be comfortable with some men?
