to people who crossed her. Perhaps she should send her a ‘get well soon’ gift, in case the police came sniffing around later on. She would give one of her winning performances, expressing how sorry she was. Hell, she might even visit her in hospital, just for kicks.
‘You’re not going to see her,’ Daniel told her, ignoring the persistent ring of his mobile phone.
‘How did you . . ?’ Sheridan’s voice melted away. Her husband’s ability to read her mind was uncanny sometimes.
‘I know you. If you go there you won’t be able to resist gloating. They’ve got CCTV everywhere these days. Best to maintain a dignified silence.’
I wouldn’t be able to resist pushing a pillow on her face, more like, Sheridan thought, smiling sweetly at her husband. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’ll send something over to wish her a speedy recovery.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
ROZ
NOVEMBER 2018
I thumbed through the pregnancy book Dympna had left next to my bed. She knew what she was doing. She hoped I’d change my mind. In the privacy of my bedroom, I could not resist the urge to look up how much my baby had grown. I scanned the page as it described the eleventh week of pregnancy.
‘You’re smaller than my pinky finger, little bean,’ I said, glancing down at my stomach. ‘You’ve got tiny fingers and toes, and . . .’ I smiled as I read. ‘You’re the size of a lime. Your heart is beating twice as hard as mine.’
I felt a warm glow as I saw myself as a safe incubator for my child. But that was as far as it went. As a mother, I wouldn’t have a clue. Growing up, Dympna was my measurement of normality. When we were kids, I studied her like a curious magpie discovering a piece of jewellery for the first time. I remember being in awe of her insights and the little things she took for granted every day. ‘These earmuffs tickle my ears,’ she’d complain. ‘And how can I make a proper snowball with these gloves?’ I’d shove my hands deep into my pockets, the tips of my fingers numb. My bare legs felt frozen in the winter because the school wouldn’t let us wear trousers and my mother couldn’t afford to buy me tights. It was only when Dympna was older that she realised how insensitive she had been.
In the mornings, I would get myself ready for school. A piece of rough string tethered the front door key, which I’d post through the letterbox when I left. When I came home, my dinner would be on the table, cold and congealed on my plate. My mother would be sprawled on the sofa, her movements slow as hurtful words lazily rolled off her tongue. I pushed away the memory and slid the pregnancy book into the suitcase on my bed.
A rap at my bedroom door made me stiffen. I guessed Dympna was mad, because unless the ‘do not disturb’ sign was hanging, she’d have burst in by now.
‘Come in,’ I said, throwing an armful of clothes on to the bed next to my open suitcase. It was two weeks since my first contact with Julie, and things had progressed at a rapid pace.
Dympna’s face was flushed, her red hair tied up in a nest on her head. She had come straight from work, still wearing the hotel tabard she should have changed out of before she left.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded, taking one look at my suitcase before pinning me with a gaze.
‘What?’ I feigned innocence.
Dympna’s anger had a short shelf-life and it didn’t take long for her to run out of steam. I caught a whiff of her sweat laced with the high-strength lemon cleaner we used to clean the en suites in the hotel. She must have left in a serious rage if she hadn’t changed and showered yet; I could imagine her stomping all the way over here. I felt glad to know that she cared. Growing up, I’d mistaken my mother’s depression for indifference, but I knew better now. I folded my best pyjamas and sleep socks and tucked them into my case.
‘Orla said you gave in your notice. What’s that all about?’ she quizzed.
I sighed, unable to meet her gaze. Dympna had a right to know, but lately I was feeling the heat of her judgement. As for Seamus . . . I could barely look him in the eye. I reached for my stretchy tracksuit bottoms and placed them in