I stressed that in the city I had worked for a number of wealthy people. I had seen my share of spectacular views because looking at things was simple and easy. I had been brought to several penthouse apartments, all of them stubbornly identical, stared out the glass and exhaled in appreciation of beauty. I took my life apart for them with a cheerful contempt. It was amusing to me.

I sensed a certain exasperation with my stories. My girls, my sweet girls, suddenly all had the searching, exhausted faces of the precariously employed. They sighed, slurped their drinks in an unladylike manner, repeated my name hundreds of times. While I had been pottering around, waiting for the right moment to introduce myself to the world, they had been attempting sombre business—trying to drink in moderation, paying motorway tolls.

Of course, we had an abrupt, jittery conversation about money. My main problem was I had none and I was uneasy about it. In the city, getting cash was no problem. Anytime I opened my purse, ugly dollars just leapt out, excited to see me. I never stole anything. I was civilised in that way. I made a living. It was a confidence trick, it was leaning in at exactly the right moment, it was lying on your back very flat, very still. Poverty was only for women who didn’t know how to make slight social improvements.

My friends said I should keep busy. They were all familiar with my patterns – my fondness for just fucking things away. They had a dull list of activities for me to do. At one point or another, it was put forward, it was implied that being a good-looking person was not a full-time occupation.

‘You should try it,’ I said. ‘Try it for a week and get back to me.’

If there was a lull in the conversation, if there was a place I could edge in, I liked to talk about the city women on the trains, the women who never removed their sunglasses. They were incredible, these ladies! They sat deathly still, their eyes shielded from the dark, metal sun and tears moving down their cheeks, as if by chance, as if it had nothing to do with them.

I exhibited much wisdom and maturity at these moments. I didn’t know where it came from. I was really very drunk.

*

Back at the garage, I was in charge of the interior. It contained three tin cans of indiscernible origin, one for each shelf; a feeling of forever melancholy; a postcard of a skyscraper; and a ghostly fridge floating in the middle of the floor. We talked about painting the walls. Painting, stock, customers – Kevin had the schemes and the mindset of a helpless idealist.

As regards love and friendship, I sometimes got the sense it was a bit of a one-way street with Kevin. He was embarrassed by my cluelessness, and this brought out a red, rough rash on his cheeks and an unattractive side. I slowed him down, he said. I held him back from advancement in his field, he said. Blah-blah. He had a habit of pointing out my less-than-quick wits in the mornings. He pushed out his hands, rolled back his eyes and staggered in my direction. I was his zombie wife, his zombie sister. He added, in a polite and helpful way, that there are ways of mixing drinks so you don’t get formidable hangovers.