‘Us?’
‘I have two older brothers. They’re both married with children.’
‘No sisters?’
‘No.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘I’d love to have a sister. So, how about you? You said you grew up near Yvonne so you’re from Dalkey originally?’
‘Yeah. Well, not originally. I was adopted.’
‘From Romania.’ She nodded.
‘Yeah.’ He could see the questions in her eyes, and could tell she was struggling with herself not to ask them. He was glad. He didn’t really want to talk about it. Then it occurred to him that maybe she didn’t need to ask because she already knew the whole story. He hated the thought that she might know all about him. ‘Who told you I was from Romania?’
‘That guy, Philip, mentioned it.’
‘I bet he did.’
‘So what will you do about your electricity?’ she asked.
‘I’ll figure something out.’
‘Wouldn’t your parents help?’
‘I wouldn’t ask them to.’
‘Oh. Well, why don’t you get a job?’
‘Doing what?’
‘I don’t know. Anything. Just to pay the bills.’
‘I’m an artist. It’s not a very transferable skill.’
‘Well, I’m sure there are plenty of other things you could do. I mean, if you can’t make a living as an artist…’
Oh Christ, not this again. He’d had enough of being harangued over the years – by his parents; by random girls, who decided they would like to be with him if only he were different; by well-meaning friends who wanted to make him their pet project and sort out his life. This was why he didn’t want a girlfriend. They were always trying to change you, to mould you into the person they wanted you to be.
‘I mean, I write but?—’
‘You do?’
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I can just say, “I’m a writer,” and give up work to sit around writing all day.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I have bills to pay. I have my mother depending on me.’
‘Well, I don’t have anyone depending on me. If I’m broke, it doesn’t affect anyone but me. Besides, I don’t “sit around all day”. I work hard. Do you work at your writing?’
‘Yes,’ she said, bristling. ‘But it doesn’t pay the bills, and I don’t think it makes me too special to have an ordinary meaningless job.’
‘Neither do I!’ he protested. She obviously thought he was really up himself. ‘I don’t think working’s beneath me, or any crap like that – though I’ve been told I’m unemployable, on numerous occasions, and at this stage I’m inclined to believe it.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I do bits and pieces when I can – casual work that won’t interfere with my painting.’
‘Like what?’
‘I do some framing occasionally for a friend who owns a gallery. And there are a couple of Polish girls in my building who work as cleaners. They pass on jobs to me sometimes when they have an overload.’
‘Cleaning?’ She raised a skeptical eyebrow, no doubt remembering his flat.
