‘This one—no one’s in here,’ a woman’s slurred voice says with a giggle. The voice is too soft for me to recognize—as long as they don’t come out on the terrace I don’t really care who they are. There is some more giggling. I hear a door shut and the voices are abruptly cut off.

I sigh with relief. My breast still feels strange. No one but Sid has ever touched me. Where is Sid? None of this would have happened if only he had come home and we would’ve gone out for our dinner …

‘The devil after you, Polly?’ asks a voice from somewhere to my right.

I nearly jump out of my skin. I know that voice and it’s the last person I wanted to be alone with. If I’d wondered where Comma had been all this while, I’ve got my answer.

Comma steps out from behind the palm and I realize she too had sought out the darkness of the terrace.

I’ve never met her outside of work and she looks very different. At office she always wears 1970s’ high-waist jeans and men’s collared workshirts. Though she has long hair, she always keeps it tied in a tight braid and uses many hair pins to keep even the tiniest fly-away firmly in place. Tonight, though, she wears an ankle-length skirt with a short, boat-necked tee shirt and open-toed sandals. I’ve never seen Comma’s toes before.

She glances towards the terrace door and walks closer to where I’m standing. She has a whiskey glass in her hand and the ice in it clinks softly with each step she takes. She stands next to me and places the glass on the parapet.

‘Why aren’t you downstairs with the rest of them? I’ve always thought you’re the party type,’ Comma says, without looking at me.

She picks up her glass and twirls the ice in it, ‘Cat got your tongue, Polly?’

‘I was—I was going to the toilet,’ I lie. I don’t think I can tell her I’m running away from Neelima’s horny husband.

Today was my Saturday off, I was supposed to go on a date with my husband and instead here I am standing with Comma about to be berated. I can’t believe it’s happening to me.

‘You don’t have to lie to me, Polly. I won’t bite if you tell me the truth, you know,’ Comma says and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing.

This is news—the only time Comma doesn’t try to bite me is when she’s barking at me. I keep quiet, from habit I know she’s not finished yet.