Upside Down Inside Out by Monica McInerney

looks or the job. Mindful that she was now an art student and supposedly at the cutting edge of society, she had half-heartedly protested that if the boring, rigid conformists of Ireland’s narrow-minded society couldn’t face up to the vibrancy of … Ambrose had listened patiently for a minute or two, then stopped her flow with a hand held up. ‘Eva, please, do you want this job?’ She hadn’t just wanted the job, she’d needed it desperately. She’d been studying part-time as it was, supporting herself with the delicatessen work and the few pounds she got singing in a cover band once or twice a month. But that wasn’t reliable. She’d thought about her tiny bank balance and the drudge of going out looking for work again. And she’d thought about how much she enjoyed working in the shop. It didn’t feel like work to spend hours surrounded by fresh smelling herbs and good cheeses and exotic oils and breads. And she certainly ate better than any of her fellow students. ‘The job, please, Ambrose,’ she’d said quietly. The following Monday she’d arrived into work looking like a different woman. Her face was free of
    make-up except for a warm red lipstick. Her long dark hair was tied back in a sensible plait. Her white shirt and dark skirt were stylish and simple. And that was pretty much how she’d looked since. Ordinary. She looked like an ordinary shop assistant. Because Dermot was right, she was an ordinary shop assistant.
    She’d had such high hopes once. To be a great painter, or even to make a career out of singing. But what had happened to those dreams? She just didn’t know any more.
    She walked back to the living room and put her glass down on the coffee table with a bang. That was enough introspection. Enough tripping down memory lane. Stumbling down it, more like it. She needed to do something. She spied her computer in a corner of the living room. Perfect. That’s what she’d do, pick up some emails. Distract herself with the flickering screen.
    A few clicks and several minutes later she watched as three new emails arrived. One was from her mother and father in Dunshaughlin. They were still learning their way around the computer Eva and her sister had given them for Christmas. Eva clicked on the envelope to open their message and almost jumped as the type fairly leapt out at her.
    Hello Eva. How are you? Everything’s grand here. Love Mammy and Da
    Eva smiled, despite her mood. They’d obviously reached the Adjusting Font Size section of their instruction manual. Last month they’d learnt how to send an attachment. The week before they’d discovered you could jazz emails up with borders and decorations and Eva had been bombarded with everything from balloons to ivy. No messages, just the borders. At least she’d got a message of sorts this time. She sent back a quick reply in normal font size, without borders or attachments:
    Aren’t you both clever! All well here too. Love Eva xxx
    She clicked on the second message - a corny joke forwarded on by Dermot. She deleted it with some force. The third was a chatty, newsy email from Lainey. She was really looking forward to her trip to Brisbane, to set up a new office for the event management company she worked for, she’d written. Lainey’s career was moving ahead in leaps and bounds by the sound of things. Eva read on to the end of the message.
    Are those wedding bells still pealing???? (I’ve found THE perfect shade of pink taffeta, by the way.) Keep me informed At All Times please. Love L. xxxx
    Wedding bells? No, not exactly. Bells were tolling, but not with good news, that was for sure. She tapped out a quick message.
    Lainey, put the pink taffeta back on the shelf. I’m back on the shelf. The wedding is off. New York holiday is off. Dermot is COMPLETELY off. Now what do I do with two weeks holiday? Answers on a postcard please. Have gone swimming in a sea of gin, will write again soon. Love Evie xxx
    As Eva pressed Send, she realised