The accountant is here today.

When I hear phrases like that, I still find myself thinking of a man.

But this is a woman. I kick myself.

Her appearance is ambiguous. Her hair is very short, cropped close and tight: masculine. But she wears long earrings and other pretty jewellery: feminine. Her dress is pretty, flouncy: feminine. Underneath, flat laced-up boots: masculine.

The three of us who make up the monastery's finance committee sit with her in the small conference room and go through last year's accounts. For an hour and a quarter we talk business: money, investments, depreciation, cost of wages, tax relief. For an hour and a quarter we all pretend to ignore the biggest fact in the room: that Brenda is about seven months pregnant.

But I am not ignoring it. Brenda's bulge dominates the room. Fills our chaste conference room with the silent, fascinating presence of sex.

She never touches her bulge, never folds her hands across her enormous tummy like some pregnant women do. Her hands are on the table, holding her pen, calmly turning pages. If it was my bulge, I would have my hands across it all the time.

She proposes some steps we might take to reduce the possible negative impact of the strength of the dollar. Does your husband love you madly?

We should also proceed to make precise plans for our church renovation. Does he find you attractive now? Do you know from which love-making you conceived?

'How is the building reserve calculated?' How do you lie beside him at night?

'Are we in a position to renovate the guest-house as well?' In what position do you make love with that big bump?

'Is our health insurance adequate for the older sisters?' Are you afraid of the pains?

She answers everything coolly, competently, professionally. Was it a night of wild passion?

Sister Joanne comments that the new goat's-milk cheese venture has been surprisingly fruitful. Brenda replies that it has made better profit than anticipated.

I want to ask a question about the estimates for next year, but cannot formulate it without beginning 'Are we expecting...?' I do not ask it.

The meeting ends. Brenda files her papers neatly into her briefcase, smiles her professional smile, declines a cup of tea. Walks in her flat boots and flouncy bulging dress to her car.

I wonder how it will be for her when her time comes.

Vespers. Silent prayer. Supper.

Tonight in bed I will pretend that I am Brenda.

Abbie Halpin is a member of a monastic community in Ireland.