"How?"

"She put them in the electric mixer and switched on the power."

"I hope she remembered to put on the lid."

"She turned the lovely fish into sauce," she says bitterly.

"It must have made lovely sauce, so," I cheekily reply, taking a puff of my fag (I will use outmoded eighties language if I want to).

She returns to her painting. "She has no respect for wildlife."

"Fish aren't wildlife," I reply, taking another drag of my fag.

She jabs her brush aggressively into the palette and starts humming, as if to rise above my tiresomely flippant commentary. Her brush is flicking across the canvas, making scraping, scratching noises. Now she stops and stares at it. She doesn't look too pleased with what she sees.

"Ronan was at dinner with his wife and her mother and a friend last Monday night. Do you know what the mother did?"

"What?"

"She poured the fish sauce on to his spaghetti."

"You're joking."

"I'm serious."

"Well, I'd imagine that was bad Feng Shui Feng Shui."

Her mouth has turned hard and obstinate all of a sudden.

"And did he actually go ahead and eat it?" I ask her, suppressing a grin.

"He wasn't to know. The wife and her mother disguised the taste with lots of herbs and spices."

"Cuisine is all about disguise."

She stares at me with a look of puzzled vexation, her brush pointing towards the sky. She's clearly upset that anyone could do that to her darling Ronan.

"So what do you think of that? that?" she says.

I take a drag and look away. "Hilarious."

"They could have poisoned him, Julianne!"

"Don't be ridiculous: fish is fish. Don't be distracted by the outer design."

From the corner of my eye I can see that she's still got her brush stuck upwards in the air, which probably means she's still staring hard at me. I'm clearly not giving this issue the seriousness it deserves.

"Your paintbrush is going dry, Nicole."

She returns to her painting.

"I mean, to do do that," she declares. "Her mother must be a madwoman. Ronan thinks it runs in the family." that," she declares. "Her mother must be a madwoman. Ronan thinks it runs in the family."

I laugh uproariously. "Is that what he said?"

"Yes. Ronan says her mother is a real..."

I turn my head and stare at her now. "A real what?"

"She interferes a lot."

"A real what? A real bitch? Is that what he said?"

"A real old bag. I'm only quoting him."

"What a nice way to talk about your own mother-in-law."

"She's vindictive," Nicole protests.

"I suppose that's where her daughter gets it from."

"That's what he says."

"Yes, well, as we already know," says I with resignation, "the wife is off her rocker."

"But she is is," she protests.

It's beginning to aggravate me, watching her indulge her favourite pastime as she stands there calmly laying into me.

"And of course." She sulks. "That's not all she did."

"What now?" I sigh.

"Ronan has come to the conclusion that it was her who destroyed Chi Chi. He was in a terrible state when he rang me from his surgery, over an hour ago, and told me. I pretended not to know anything about it. He said she also destroyed his surgery with a sledge hammer."

"A small finishing touch."

"So what do you think of that?"

"Tragic."

"She ate cheese on toast, which proves it was her."

"Have you any idea how idiotic that sounds?"

"Ronan said she was spying on us in the apartment; that's how she found out."

"It's her apartment, Nicole."

"It's despicable. Also she is the one who smashed his brand-new Porsche to bits last week. And now she's stolen it."

I can feel her annoyance peeling away on the surface of my skin. I should really call Sylvana at work; it's not right that she should have to miss this. So I draw out my cellphone from my pocket, careful not to burn my jacket with my cigarette. I am about to dial her number when Nicole interrupts.

"Julianne, I can't believe anyone would do all those things."

"No, but then you don't know her."

"I certainly don't."

"I mean, you don't even know her name."

Pause.

"Her name's Julie, but Ronan never talks about her."

"Unless it's to criticize her."

"She's deranged."

She pokes her brush hard into the palette, raises it, flicks her hair back and daubs it (the brush, that is) on to the canvas.

I take a drag.

I'm deranged nowimportant qualitative difference here. We're on to a totally different level.

"I put a lot of work into Chi Chi," she explains in a hurt voice. "It had great potential. It's really upsetting that I have to do this. I thought it was going well, but now I'm not so sure."

"No comment."

"I can't believe she actually burnt it under the grill."

"I wonder if she added Worcester sauce."

"Julianne!" she cries. "She burnt my painting. It was really close to my heart."

"How sad for you," I reply, raising my eyes to heaven for indulgence.

"I can't believe you're being like this!"

I admit I'm being an absolute and total signed-up scumbag. I blow smoke straight into her face.

She is about to burst into tears.

"Okay, Nicole. I admit that your painting Chi Chi is probably more than just...I don't know, a mixed grill, but for chrissake she only did it because she was under the impression that the painter was screwing her husband." is probably more than just...I don't know, a mixed grill, but for chrissake she only did it because she was under the impression that the painter was screwing her husband."

Everything stops.

Nicole is standing there staring at me like a mannequin, mouth open, my words hanging in the air between us like a nasty odour, a droplet of bright-blue paint quivering at the edge of her brush, threatening any time to plop off and plunge down on to my clean balcony floor.

I input Sylvana's number.

It's ringing.

Nicole turns away suddenly. She stares at her canvas, a look of Eva Peron on her mouth.

"Nicole, I've a suggestion to make about your painting. You see your grass there? Would you not think of trying some, like, green?"

No reply.

"It's only a suggestion."

She's still staring hard at her 'art'.

Sylvana replies.

"Hello, it's me, Julianne. Want a laugh?"

Nicole slams her palette hard down on the table, splashing speckles of blue and red and yellow and black paint on to the window. Why do I bother entertaining people like this when they're going to splodge up my apartment on me?

"What's all that noise, Julie?" says the phone.

Nicole slaps down the brush, rubs her hands fiercely on a cloth, pulls off her white overall, bunches it up and flings it down on the tiles with a light thud, then proceeds to unclip the canvas from the easel. She rolls it up.

"Well," I reply to Sylvana, "I have someone here in the process of losing her temper."

"I'm coming over."

"Yes, I think that would be a good idea," I reply.

Suddenly Nicole stalks angrily through the french windows with her canvas, her footsteps snapping through the living-room and through my marvellous Feng Shui Feng Shui hallway, at which point the footsteps stop abruptly and she roars "You cow!" just like that. hallway, at which point the footsteps stop abruptly and she roars "You cow!" just like that.

There's a nasty, gut-wrenching suspense in the air.

"Julie, are you still there?" says Sylvana in my ear.

Suddenly I remember something: wasn't I supposed to lock Nicole out on the balcony?

In a panic I run after her, shouting that there's something I'd like to talk to her about if she'd care to come back in and I think it might be of considerable interest to her.

But the front door slams with a crack that resounds throughout the hollow-sounding apartment. I pull it open and fling my head over the bannister: "Come back!"

"I'm never going back there again," she warbles, her voice spiralling up through the distorted acoustics of the stairwell, the clipped snaps of her shoes expanding into a pattering reverb.

"Where are you going?" I shout.

She advises me to go to hell.

"God, you hurt, my feelings!" I yell back at her, following her downstairs.