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really change. There's always the same stuff on them. The photographs, the clutter or neatness. She can tell each desk – man, man, woman, woman, man. She reckons she'd get ten out of ten. OK! in the bin – a girl. Manchester Utd sticker on the computer – a man. Unless it was put there before they sold David Beckham to the other crowd in Spain. Then it might be a young one. She bends down, looks closely at the sticker. It looks new – it's a man's desk. A young lad. Not long out of school. He'll come in one day and peel it off.
    Leanne likes Beckham. He does nothing for Paula. He's a nice-looking lad but he looks a bit thick and he walks like he's wearing a nappy. And his white boots. He'll always be a little lad. You see them around, men who didn't quite make it. They get the wrinkles and lose the hair, but they still look like boys. Her husband now, he looked like a man. Charlo would never have worn white boots.
    The last bin. She's done.
    Hristo's at the lift. He could have been there all the time, waiting for her to make it okay. She couldn't care less. Not tonight. She'll have a good look at his patch tomorrow. She'll inspect. She will supervise.
    He smiles at her. He fancies himself. She looks straight back at him. She likes nothing about him. Not one thing. And that's fine. He's looking at a poor oul' one. She can see it in his face.
    So fuck him.
    —Finished? she says.
    —Yes.
    —Sure?
    He tries to look hurt.
    —Yes. Of course.
    —Well, she says. —Good.
    She'll start being the boss tomorrow.
    She waits for the lift.
     
    She's never seen anything like the rain. It falls in sheets, then stops. Minutes later the ground is dry but the air is wet and oily. She's sweating drinks she had years ago. Moving, even thinking, gets her drenched. Her head – Jesus. This isn't fuckin' Ireland. It can't be.
    But it is. It's out there. The accents are the right ones. The swearing, laughter, the shouted comments about the weather. It's her country alright.
    It was stupid. Fuckin' stupid. She should have thought it through. She should have fuckin' thought.
    She did it for spite.
    It's not the heat. It's not just the heat.
    It's everything. She'll go home tomorrow. It's the only thing to do. She's vulnerable here; she's lost. It's ridiculous. If Jack had come with her she'd be better. But that wasn't going to happen. He's too old now to be going on holiday with his mother.
    His oul' one.
    She's in her sister Denise's mobile home. She's sitting in it while last night's rain rises up around her. She can feel it seep up from the ground beneath the floor.
    It's her own fault. She only took up the offer to get back at Carmel. She's stuck here in fluff – rug fluff, cushion fluff, lit by the sun and soggy. She hates the smell of the air freshener.
    It's no place for an alcoholic. Alone, restless; alone. Courtown. It isn't even Courtown. It's near Courtown. But not that near. Nearer the beach but still a good walk.
    She walked. She went to the beach. She sat like an eejit on her towel with a book. Till her back was sore and she had to stand up. Surrounded by families. But not really. The beach was quiet. The whole place is quiet.
    —They're all going foreign, the woman in the mobile next door told her. —It's the smoking ban. They feel like lepers in their own country.
    She walked down to the water. She took off her sandals and paddled a bit and felt old. She went back to the towel. She changed her mind as she started to sit down. She just grabbed the towel and the book and kept walking.
    She's sitting in a sweatbox. The windows are useless. She doesn't want to leave the door open. The neighbour might come in. She doesn't want that. She reminds Paula of too much.
    Mary.
    The life and soul of the fuckin' party.
    That's not fair. But she only really noticed when she stopped drinking, what fuckin' eejits people can be.
    The Mary one next door.
    —Come on out and have a can.
    —Ah no —
    —You deserve it; come on. Stuck in there