Mary asked me for one more coat of spray tan. She didn’t want to look pale on her family Christmas holiday in Thailand, where she was flying the next morning. While drying off, she chatted about the new house she’d bought in Terenure, right beside Bushy Park. She hoped there wouldn’t be any break-ins while they were away, with all the presents already wrapped and waiting under the tree. The plan was for the children to open them tomorrow — a few days before Christmas — and take the smaller gifts with them on the trip.

When she was ready to leave, I opened an umbrella and walked her to her brand-new Range Rover parked behind the salon. I didn’t want her tan to run in the rain. She handed me a beautiful gift — a bottle of Moët & Chandon Rosé, a Yankee Candle, and a lovely card thanking me for taking care of her body and for all our chats. She laughed that I should charge more since I was “more therapist than beauty therapist.” Mary was an accountant for a large corporation; her husband worked in finance.

By the time I pulled down the shutters, the street was empty and slick with rain. I’d stayed late to scrub the walls and ventilate the salon after a long day of spray tans and shellac removals. My chest burned slightly as I coughed — a leftover from the months before I’d installed the ventilation system. That little box of fresh air had cost me fifteen thousand euros, after my builder friend Mark stuck a broom handle into the vent and told me the duct led nowhere.

When I finally got to my car — a fifteen-year-old Peugeot 206 — the door stuck again. My neighbour had reversed into it weeks before, rushing off with her five children. I hadn’t bothered claiming; what would be the point? The car was already full of dents and scratches, and as long as it passed the NCT, I didn’t care. It didn’t fit on this street of BMWs, Mercs, and Jags, but at least James was growing up in a good area and going to a good school. That mattered more.

By one in the morning, I was in the shed, sealing another batch of pierogi for the freezer. Every year I cursed the Polish Christmas tradition of twelve dishes, but at least it meant we’d have enough food to last two weeks over Christmas. I set my alarm for six — James’s lunch to pack, clients booked from nine.

Before sleep came, I thought about Mary again. I pictured her in Thailand, waking up early to the sound of her children opening their presents, glowing in her perfect tan, the sunlight pouring through her new windows. I wondered if she ever thought about women like me — the ones making other people beautiful so they could live lives that looked effortless. When I opened my salon two years earlier, I thought by now I’d be in a different place — maybe not Thailand, but somewhere lighter than this.

My phone had been buzzing for five minutes while I waited to give my update at the Monday morning briefing. I’d spent the whole weekend catching up on client accounts that were due that day. Seven missed calls from a friend — never a good sign. I slipped into an empty meeting room and called him back.

The sheriff had turned up that morning, threatening to tow his van if he didn’t pay. I spent fifteen minutes negotiating, persuading, reasoning. He’d have to give the man something today. We settled on five thousand, with a payment plan to follow. I’d just taken on another client — my friend. Friends are always the worst clients, but maybe fear would finally make him listen.

Back at my desk, I stacked another set of filing boxes on the trolley, glad to clear some space in my cubicle. The room was silent except for the soft clatter of calculators and the shuffle of paper. If I took down the partition between my desk and the next one, would it make the space feel less dark? I walked to the coffee station, grabbed the free banana — one of the office perks — and noticed, for the first time, how low the ceilings were. No wonder it always felt like the light couldn’t breathe in here.

When I came back, another case had already landed on my desk. No pause, no breath. Just another “urgent” email explaining what needed to be done. Always urgent.

By seven, I was finally leaving. I passed the glass office where my boss was still typing at his computer. His son had just started university; he’d missed the graduation for a business trip, someone said in the canteen. He was one of the sharpest, most composed people I’d ever met. I’d admired him even more after last week’s audit meeting with Revenue — one of our biggest clients under review.

He’d asked three of us to attend, “to outnumber them,” he joked. We were told to take notes, say nothing. I watched him handle every question with quiet precision — calm, professional, not defensive, not evasive. He knew the answers but never gave more than was needed. It was control disguised as grace. I knew I couldn’t do what he did — not like that.

When it was over, he calmly listed next steps, divided the tasks, set deadlines, and left the room. I thought about how I’d need a full day in a spa to recover from that kind of pressure. For him, it was just Monday.

By the time I reached Connolly Station, the rain was falling sideways. The bus didn’t show; another fifteen minutes. On the ride home, I rang my friend again, explaining what statements and letters I’d need to build the sheriff proposal. I got home just before half eight. James was eating dinner, beaming about his basketball game the day before — the one I’d missed.

I ate my reheated lasagne, listened to him talk, then went to my room to send my friend the Revenue authorisation form. I started reviewing his accounts — chaos, all of them. No wonder the sheriff had come calling. I worked until two in the morning. Six a.m. alarm again, another day.

Lying there, I thought of my boss — his house in Dublin 4, his framed family photo, his calm authority, the respect in every room he entered. The man had it all. And yet, looking at him from the outside, I realised something that landed heavy in my chest: I didn’t want his life.

That was the first time I knew I had to leave.