all the people she and his father had known there.
She had told him these things, and he had listened to her and, she felt, they had grown closer still, and that was a joy, she said, ‘a marvellous joy’. And on Sunday evenings, when she
had crossed the yard to the main house – to her own house, as she had thought of it by then – she had begun to feel, somehow, as though she were the one living in the chilly little
rooms, as though she were the one who was, as she put it, no longer quite at home.
The rattle of the doorknob startled Joanne. As she turned to greet Mona, the other trainee, she felt herself flush, guilty at her absorption in Elizabeth Lefroy’s testimony, at the
fullness with which she had been living through these moments of the old woman’s life.
‘Morning,’ she said, too brightly.
‘You’re in early,’ Mona said, as Joanne had known she would. She looked perfectly put-together, as always; today a dark linen suit – a new one, Joanne thought –
carefully pressed, the skirt hitting just below the knee, and black patent heels, and her makeup as flawless as though she had come from a stool in the Brown Thomas cosmetics hall.
‘Catching up,’ Joanne said. ‘I didn’t get much done over the weekend.’
Mona smiled knowingly as she laid her huge leather handbag on her desk. ‘Must have been a good one, so,’ she said.
Joanne shrugged. ‘It was fine.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Mona said. ‘You’re blushing. You’re scarlet . Something went down.’ She smirked.
It would have been easy to take it from there; to talk about meeting him, about the party, about him turning up at her door last night, about how he had come in and kissed her for ten minutes
and then fallen asleep on the couch, about how she had covered him with a blanket and left him there for the night, about how bashful and sweet he’d been earlier, as she was leaving for work.
He’d made her promise that she’d answer her phone when he called her later that week; he’d asked for her number, then, and discovered that he’d lost his own phone. And so
he’d written her number, too, on the hand with the blurred ink.
But coke rooms and hangovers and hands through letterboxes and lost phones were not, she suspected, Mona’s idea of a fine romance, and Mona would be horrified, and probably a little
disgusted, by the idea of leaving a stranger on your couch and trusting him not to steal anything – let alone by the idea of letting that stranger sleep on your couch while you yourself were
asleep just a staircase away. Mona was not that kind of girl. She still lived with her parents in Castleknock. The only powder that went near her nose came out of a compact marked Chanel. She
expected her boyfriends to be in control and in possession of a number of things, including their own apartments, in which they did not, ever, pass out on their own expensive couches. The parties
she went to were catered. The gardens she sat in were not attached to the back walls of Thomas Street pubs.
‘So how was your weekend?’ Joanne asked, because it seemed polite.
‘Oh, you know,’ Mona said, and launched into an account of how swamped the Dundrum centre had been on Saturday, and how it always seemed impossible to get her size in anything in
Harvey Nichols, and how some new restaurant on Dawson Street had sushi to die for, and how she thought maybe that she was getting tired of the nightclub she and her friends always went to on
Saturday night, but how there was nowhere else worth going to, really, so what could you do?
‘Right,’ said Joanne, summoning all her reserves of empathy. ‘I suppose those places get tired fairly quickly, don’t they?’
‘They really do,’ Mona said, spinning around in her chair and seeming about to extend the analysis, but then she took a long look at the open folder on Joanne’s desk. She
frowned. ‘That’s the transcript from the Lefroy case?’
Joanne nodded.
‘Crazy old bat,’ Mona
She had told him these things, and he had listened to her and, she felt, they had grown closer still, and that was a joy, she said, ‘a marvellous joy’. And on Sunday evenings, when she
had crossed the yard to the main house – to her own house, as she had thought of it by then – she had begun to feel, somehow, as though she were the one living in the chilly little
rooms, as though she were the one who was, as she put it, no longer quite at home.
The rattle of the doorknob startled Joanne. As she turned to greet Mona, the other trainee, she felt herself flush, guilty at her absorption in Elizabeth Lefroy’s testimony, at the
fullness with which she had been living through these moments of the old woman’s life.
‘Morning,’ she said, too brightly.
‘You’re in early,’ Mona said, as Joanne had known she would. She looked perfectly put-together, as always; today a dark linen suit – a new one, Joanne thought –
carefully pressed, the skirt hitting just below the knee, and black patent heels, and her makeup as flawless as though she had come from a stool in the Brown Thomas cosmetics hall.
‘Catching up,’ Joanne said. ‘I didn’t get much done over the weekend.’
Mona smiled knowingly as she laid her huge leather handbag on her desk. ‘Must have been a good one, so,’ she said.
Joanne shrugged. ‘It was fine.’
‘Yeah, right,’ Mona said. ‘You’re blushing. You’re scarlet . Something went down.’ She smirked.
It would have been easy to take it from there; to talk about meeting him, about the party, about him turning up at her door last night, about how he had come in and kissed her for ten minutes
and then fallen asleep on the couch, about how she had covered him with a blanket and left him there for the night, about how bashful and sweet he’d been earlier, as she was leaving for work.
He’d made her promise that she’d answer her phone when he called her later that week; he’d asked for her number, then, and discovered that he’d lost his own phone. And so
he’d written her number, too, on the hand with the blurred ink.
But coke rooms and hangovers and hands through letterboxes and lost phones were not, she suspected, Mona’s idea of a fine romance, and Mona would be horrified, and probably a little
disgusted, by the idea of leaving a stranger on your couch and trusting him not to steal anything – let alone by the idea of letting that stranger sleep on your couch while you yourself were
asleep just a staircase away. Mona was not that kind of girl. She still lived with her parents in Castleknock. The only powder that went near her nose came out of a compact marked Chanel. She
expected her boyfriends to be in control and in possession of a number of things, including their own apartments, in which they did not, ever, pass out on their own expensive couches. The parties
she went to were catered. The gardens she sat in were not attached to the back walls of Thomas Street pubs.
‘So how was your weekend?’ Joanne asked, because it seemed polite.
‘Oh, you know,’ Mona said, and launched into an account of how swamped the Dundrum centre had been on Saturday, and how it always seemed impossible to get her size in anything in
Harvey Nichols, and how some new restaurant on Dawson Street had sushi to die for, and how she thought maybe that she was getting tired of the nightclub she and her friends always went to on
Saturday night, but how there was nowhere else worth going to, really, so what could you do?
‘Right,’ said Joanne, summoning all her reserves of empathy. ‘I suppose those places get tired fairly quickly, don’t they?’
‘They really do,’ Mona said, spinning around in her chair and seeming about to extend the analysis, but then she took a long look at the open folder on Joanne’s desk. She
frowned. ‘That’s the transcript from the Lefroy case?’
Joanne nodded.
‘Crazy old bat,’ Mona
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