‘November!’ he said. ‘I checked earlier today. Barely a day free between now and then.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘I keep refreshing the calendar to admire it,’ he said. ‘I feel so … Would the word be validated? Reading the nice reviews, I feel, yeah, warm on the inside. When they say the location is great, I think how smart I was to have bought it all those years ago. I feel like a savvy biznizzy man. So that’s all okay then, is it? Thanks, Cara, thanks.’ Full of smiles, he left the kitchen.
Cara resumed her lettuce-washing, her hands trembling slightly. That went okay, she thought. She’d been brave.
But poor Johnny.
Then, What is he planning to do with all that money?
It wasn’t much later when Jessie came in, dumping her old-fashioned shopping basket on the worktop. ‘Do you know what they have in Fausto’s grocery store up the town?’ she exclaimed.
‘What?’
‘Fuck-all! Pure fuck-all.’ Jessie cast an anxious look about. ‘Any of the bunnies here?’
‘Am I a bunny?’ Tom popped out from the pantry, where he’d been holed up, reading.
‘Course you are.’ Jessie grabbed him and planted several quick smackers on his head. ‘But you don’t judge.’
‘It’s just a word,’ Tom said. ‘The F one. It’s got no moral value in itself. Dad says.’
‘That’s grand,’ Cara said hastily. ‘But you’re still not to say it.’
‘I’m not saying Fausto’s shop isn’t lovely,’ Jessie said dreamily. ‘It’s like a movie set. Soft yellow paper sacks of semolina flour, dusty cans of chestnut purée, four gazillion jars of preserved lemons … But a box of Rice Krispies? Not a chance. I managed to get bread, wine and ice-cream, all the major food groups. But we need a visit to the big supermarket on the Lucca ring road. We’ll be grand with bread and cheese for lunch today. Salad from the garden?’
‘And we’re making the pizzas for dinner.’
They’d been there less than forty-eight hours but they’d already slipped into an easy routine: a late breakfast, followed by pool time. A light lunch, more sunbathing, a snooze, then dinner, usually up in the town.
‘I’ll go to the big supermarket tomorrow,’ Cara said.
‘Good woman.’
SEVENTY-ONE
In her bedroom, as Cara hit Peggy’s number, her first morning checking in to St David’s came back to her.
‘Date of birth?’ the female admissions clerk had asked, then stopped typing and looked up as the office door opened. A man in a shirt and tie had come in, looking flustered. ‘Peggy wants her letters.’
‘Those.’ She pointed with a pen at a pile of paper.
‘Thanks.’ The man took a sheaf of pages and hastened away.
‘Sorry. Give me that date again.’
When all of Cara’s details were input, the clerk pressed an intercom and spoke: ‘Can somebody come and get one of Peggy’s?’
Then to Cara, ‘You’re with Peggy.’
‘Who’s Peggy?’
She seemed surprised. ‘Peggy Kennedy. Your counsellor.’
The way Peggy was being spoken about implied she was important.
A security woman materialized. ‘I’m here for one of Peggy’s.’
Cara was led along shiny-lino corridors, through set after set of double doors, en route to this Peggy. The hospital looked clean and well-maintained but it was old and austere. I should be at work right now. Instead I’m a patient in a psychiatric hospital.
It was impossible to believe.
‘Everyone seems scared of Peggy,’ she said to the security woman.
She’d expected, at the least, to get a smile out of her. But the woman said stiffly, ‘She’s very highly respected.’
Cara burnt with embarrassment. She’d only been trying to make small-talk.
‘Here we are.’ The guard ushered Cara into a small room, then promptly left.
Cara sat in one of the two armchairs. Apart from a low table, the room contained nothing else. What am I doing here? What’s gone wrong in my life? How could I have avoided this?
In came a short woman with curly hair, probably in her late fifties, wearing an A-line skirt and a pale pink blouse. The kind of woman who might be described as ‘cuddly’. ‘Peggy Kennedy.’ She extended her hand and gave a quick, brisk squeeze. ‘You’re Cara Casey? So what has you here?’
‘… Haven’t you been told?’
‘I’d rather hear it from you.’
Oh. Okay. ‘So … on Friday night, I had a small seizure. It looked far worse than it was. It was just a bit unlucky. But my husband panicked, so here I am.’ She paused. ‘Everything feels a bit Kafkaesque to be honest …’
Peggy looked blank.
‘I mean, as if I’ve been incarcerated for something I didn’t do.’