‘That sucks.’ He sounded sincere. ‘You really wanted it, right?’
‘Yeah …’ Then she blurted, ‘I was devastated. Even now …’ Her confidence was in bits.
‘Give it time.’ His voice was halting. ‘It sucks. But, dude, you need to get back on the horse.’
‘Right.’ She hadn’t gone near the horse since the rejection. It was as if she’d lost all love for her work.
‘Right?’ Ferdia repeated.
Actually the smaller productions for September’s theatre festival would be looking for people. Maybe she’d send a couple of texts, see what came back. At least Liam would be happy. He hadn’t known how to deal with a negative, pessimistic Nell. Especially because he’d enrolled on a massage course and was all gung-ho about it. Which made a change from his usual bitterness about Chelsea’s lack of respect.
A squeal of feedback returned her to the room.
Up on the stage, the first speaker started talking about lobbying the government. After a while, someone else focused on fundraising, then a journalist spoke about calling the media out on inaccurate articles.
Eventually it was Perla’s turn.
‘’Bout time,’ Barty whispered loudly. ‘I was nearly nodding off there.’ Then, ‘Whoops. Sorry, Ferd!’
Perla described day-to-day life in Direct Provision. She was concise and confident. Increasingly, the woman she’d once been was coming into focus: a middle-class wife and mother and a respected professional.
Nell had always thought of her as physically small but, although she was thin, these days she looked far less diminished. It was her posture: she stood differently now, fully inhabiting her space.
‘I am a doctor,’ she said. ‘I deal with situations scientifically, logically and without too much emotion. But when I talk of Direct Provision, it is all emotion, because there is no logic. I feel wrong to criticize the system, because I am grateful that I am here. But why can I not work and live independently while I’m waiting to find out if I can stay in Ireland?
‘All my life I have worked to help people. I want to help people in Ireland. They have been kind to me. The principle of Direct Provision is designed to humiliate. We are treated almost as prisoners.
‘People need to live like human beings, to be independent and to work for their livelihoods. You let me move to your country, you keep me physically alive, but you don’t let me live a full life. Please try to imagine yourself in my situation and remember that the only difference between you and me is the luck of where we were born.’ She stopped, smiled briefly and said, ‘Thank you for listening.’
Instantly Ferdia got to his feet, clapping enthusiastically.
Perla bounded over, giddy and energized. ‘It was okay?’
‘More than okay,’ Ferdia said. ‘You were great. Really great.’
So …? Ferdia liked Perla? Liked liked?
‘We going for a drink?’ Ferdia asked.
Perla literally turned out the empty pockets of her dress. ‘It’s not looking good.’ She gave a goofy little grin.
‘It’s on me,’ Ferdia declared.
Wow. Seemed he really did ‘like’ her.
And did she like him back? They certainly seemed comfortable with each other.
Nell’s worry was Jessie. She was cool – much cooler than Nell had first realized. She was clearly fond of Perla. But she might turn on a hairpin if Ferdia fell for Perla – a woman eight years older than him, who already had a child.
Right now Nell was high in Jessie’s estimation, but as the person who’d brought Perla into the Caseys’ life, she’d get the blame if things went sideways. Maybe she was jumping the gun here. They might just be friends.
‘I’ve to head off,’ Nell said. ‘Enjoy your night.’
‘See you for Mum’s birthday thing,’ Ferdia said.
‘You’re going?’ She was surprised.
‘… Yeah. Like, you’re right.’ He seemed embarrassed. ‘She’s not so bad.’
‘Oh. That’s cool. What character did you get?’
‘Quentin Ropane-Redford. Racing-car driver and eligible bachelor.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘You?’
‘Ginerva McQuarrie. An adventuress.’
‘What’s that? Someone who does extreme sports?’
Nell laughed out loud. ‘I think she’s a swizzer, a woman who pretends to be rich –’
‘“– who schemes to win wealth or status by unscrupulous means”,’ Ferdia said, reading from his phone. ‘Wow. That’s a bit …’
‘Thank you, Ferdia, it is “a bit” …’
‘All the women’s roles seem decorative or, like, menial,’ he said. ‘Saoirse’s a showgirl, Mum’s a secretary, you’re some grifter. It’s so not cool.’
‘No.’ She kept her face solemn. ‘It’s not cool, Ferdia, not cool at all.’
FIFTY-SIX
‘It’s a fancy-dress party?’ Patience asked.
‘Worse,’ Cara said. She was trying to explain the concept of a murder-mystery weekend