‘You stay here in case she comes back.’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll find her.’
‘See that you do.’
Turlough aimed a kiss at Maria’s lips but she turned at the last moment and his nose bumped against her ear. He flashed me an uneasy look and left.
‘Tea?’ Maria said.
I searched for excuses but came up empty. ‘Sure,’ I shrugged, and stepped into an apartment I found eerily familiar, like the figure of a stranger you might feel compelled to wave at in the street. Their TV was a little bigger than ours, but cheaper. Their stereo was vastly inferior, I was pleased to note. I liked the set-up of the bookshelves, though: they carved the open-plan living area in an interesting way. I admired too the arrangement of the floor lamps: even in daylight I could tell that it would make for superior illumination. But most impressive was the way the place smelled: like soap, perfume and time-intensive cooking. It made me feel guilty about the slide in standards over which I was presiding.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Maria said, rubbing her elbows.
‘Grand.’
I walked to the window. Their view was almost the same as ours, except, from this slightly greater height, they could see beyond the graffitied wall of blue construction hoarding that faced our building and truncated my own perspective. I looked out over the waste ground that surrounded the development on three sides. Kids in dirty trainers and warm coats were milling about in the long grass. I wanted to be outside, to breathe the air they breathed.
‘I don’t understand it,’ Maria said over the whistle of the kettle. ‘The lock broke yesterday. And he told me he’d fix it and of course he didn’t. But that doesn’t explain how the dog got out now, does it? Do you follow me? How did she do it?’
‘Weird all right.’
‘Did she jump up and turn the handle, I’m saying? Does she always do that when we’re not here?’
‘Right.’
‘I mean, anything could happen. When you think about that it’s terrifying.’
Maria had left the parcel on the kitchen island. Beside it, she placed two cups into which she dropped tea bags and poured water.
‘Lumps?’ she said.
‘None, thanks.’
‘Moo juice?’
‘Just a splash.’
She joined me at the window. I took my tea and stood for a moment, envying still the extra sliver of life that they could see and we could not.
‘She’ll come back,’ I said, and the uselessness of the sentiment forced me to say it again.
‘She will or she won’t,’ Maria said with a shrug. ‘Sit.’ She picked up the parcel and brought it to the couch.
‘Are you going to open it?’ I eased myself into the leather armchair facing the door.
Maria’s fingers traced the lines of the address, as mine had done a short time before. She weighed the parcel, shook it and, with a sad smile, set it down. ‘I’d better not. No, it’s not addressed to me. It wouldn’t be right.’
I made a show of looking around at the apartment. ‘Your place is lovely.’
‘I’m sure it’s pretty much the same as yours.’
‘It is and it isn’t, if you know what I mean. We should have you two down, though. To see, like. Sometime.’
‘That’d be nice,’ Maria said. ‘Where I grew up we all knew our neighbours.’
‘So did we. I still get a little present from the woman next door at Christmas.’
‘Now, you see? That’s what I’m talking about. That’s nice, isn’t it?’
‘We talked about that, actually,’ I said. ‘Wished for it even when we moved here. When we first bought the place, like, and were settled. We were envisioning kids. And other kids for them to play with. We thought about having a party.’
‘And did you?’
‘No. And then we got a bit upset that we got no invites either.’
‘Were you expecting fruit baskets?’
‘Honestly?’ I said. ‘I think we were. Something like that. Just a little — what? Something would have been nice.’
‘Recognition.’ Maria nodded. ‘I get that.’
‘So, who are you, then?’
‘I’m Maria.’
‘And Turlough?’
‘He’s Turlough.’
‘Right.’
Maria squirmed. ‘I’m a dietician. Turlough’s an engineer. I was born in Dublin but grew up in Madrid. Dad taught English. Mammy was a housewife. I came back here for college. That’s where I met Turlough. Will that do?’
‘Sure.’
‘That’s better?’
‘That’s good.’
‘That’s how people talk to one another, isn’t it?’
‘As far as I remember.’
Maria smiled. ‘And you?’
‘I’m Kevin, she’s Sarah. Unmarried, no kids.’
‘Oh, us too, I forgot that.’
‘She’s an HR officer, the money of the operation.’ I laughed. Maria studied me. ‘And she’s based in London at the moment.’
‘Working?’
‘Working.’
‘For good?’
‘For now.’
‘Right.’
‘Just for now.’
‘Sorry.’
‘But we’ll work it out.’
‘Sure.’
I sipped my tea.
‘So,’ Maria said after a while. ‘What do you do for a living? If she’s the money, you’re the — what?’
‘I’m a music journalist.’
‘Really?’
‘Freelance.’
‘So, you’re the passion, then?’
‘You could say that.’
Maria chewed her lip. She folded her legs beneath her and leaned towards me across the arm of the couch. ‘Who do you get to meet? Impress me, now. Is it ever anyone cool?’
‘From time to time.’
‘Who’s the most famous person you ever met?’
I thought for a moment. ‘Roy Keane.’
‘Is he a musician as well?’
‘I was in a queue behind him in an airport.’
Maria grinned. ‘So, do you work for a newspaper or a magazine?’
‘Internet.’
‘Is that what you wanted to be when you were a kid?’
‘There was no Internet when I was a kid.’
‘I bet you wanted to be in a band.’
‘To be honest, no, not really.’
‘What, then?’
‘I wanted to be an explorer.’
Maria giggled.
‘Thanks very much.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s perfectly reasonable. So, where would you have explored?’
‘I never really thought that far ahead.’
‘And where would you have lived?’
‘I’ve always liked Dublin.’
Together we looked out the window: grey, heavy sky. When our eyes met I noticed in Maria’s a fear with which I was familiar.
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘I can’t do this. Just sit here? Come on. We’ll have to go look.’
‘But what if she comes back by herself?’
‘Do you think that’s likely?’
I shrugged. ‘If she can turn a handle …’
‘Well.’ Maria stood. ‘I have to do something.’
I heaved myself from the chair and followed Maria to the hall. She took out her key and swore as she watched it swivel in the lock. She rolled her eyes at me, I shrugged, and together we took the stairs, Maria’s hand brushing the banister behind her.
Outside the afternoon was cold, already turning to evening.
‘Well, Magellan, which way?’ Maria said.
I squinted into the wind, wondering about the dog’s motivation. ‘This way,’ I said, and led us along the alley between our building and the next one. It felt good to be out, breathing fresh air; my steps grew quickly in confidence. But soon I realized that there were parts of the development with which I was unfamiliar: clean canyons sided with unknowable buildings; a mini-plaza built around a waterless fountain; gleaming access roads that ended abruptly at the borders of grass-choked wastelands. At the furthermost edge of the development I stepped into empty space and looked out over churned earth, abandoned digging machinery, stacks of concrete sewer pipes and new snarls of brambles and brush. Maria called the dog’s name, and I did too, but the only sound that returned was the trundle of motorway traffic.