‘No, I just work there.’
‘Oh, right.’ Philip seemed perplexed by this.
‘But she wants to be a writer,’ Yvonne piped up. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Well, yes.’ Claire blushed. ‘But that might never happen.’ Clearly, having an ordinary job wasn’t the done thing with this crowd.
‘What sort of stuff do you write?’
‘I’m working on a novel for teenagers.’
‘Ah! So you’re going to be the next J. K. Rowling?’ Philip smiled knowingly.
‘Um, yeah… fingers crossed,’ Claire said weakly.
‘Come and sit down for a minute,’ Yvonne said, grabbing Claire’s arm and leading her to a shell-shaped turquoise sofa. ‘What do you think of Ivan?’ she asked, plonking her drink on a low, chocolate-coloured table in front of them.
‘He seems… nice,’ Claire said warily, hoping Yvonne wasn’t going to try to set them up.
‘What about the earring? Is it on the side that means you’re gay? I can never remember.’
Claire looked across the bar at him. ‘No, I’m pretty sure it’s the other one,’ she said, realising with relief that Yvonne herself was interested in Ivan.
‘The bar is nice, isn’t it?’
‘It’s lovely.’
‘He designed it all himself,’ Yvonne said. ‘He did the décor and everything. Do you think that’s a bit girly?’
Claire laughed. ‘No. He’s got great taste,’ she said, stroking the plush fabric of the sofa. ‘But that doesn’t mean he’s gay. Anyway, why don’t you just go for it? You’ll find out soon enough if he is.’
‘He might be in denial.’ Yvonne poked her straw around in her drink.
‘Then I don’t think he’d go with the earring and play up his interior-decorating skills.’
‘True!’ Yvonne brightened. ‘You talk sense, O Wise One. Thank you.’
Yvonne’s friends soon gravitated towards the sofa, and they were joined by everyone except Ivan, who was working the room. Claire found herself having to explainher position as a bookshop assistant to each of them in turn, meeting with blank incomprehension every time.
‘But… howoldare you?’ Leah asked her pointedly.
They all seemed to own chic shops or were hatching little start-up companies, playing entrepreneur on Daddy’s money. Claire sipped her water as the inane chatter went on around her, wishing once again she had something stronger.
‘Why did you have to invite that fucking pikey, Yvonne?’ Philip said suddenly, glowering across the bar.
‘Luca is not a pikey,’ Yvonne said, as Claire followed Philip’s gaze to another turquoise sofa on the far side of the bar where a dark-haired man was just visible between two very pretty blondes. One sat on his lap, her crotch-length mini riding up while his hand rested casually on her tanned skinny thigh. Claire was relieved to see that she was wearing underwear. The other was trying to get his attention with a frantic combination of hair-flicking and boob-shimmying.
‘How do you know?’ Fionn said. ‘Christ knows who his parents are. He could be 100 per cent pure-bred gypsy for all you know.’
‘Anyway, we know he’s Romanian,’ Philip said.
‘Luca’s no more Romanian than I am,’ Yvonne said. ‘He grew up here. He went to the same school as you, Fionn. He’s as Irish as the rest of us.’
‘You can take the boy out of Romania…’ Philip said sulkily. ‘What’s Aisling doing with him, anyway?’
‘Trying to get into his jocks, by the look of it.’ Fionn smirked, turning to him. ‘Are they the same lips she kisses you with?’
‘Never again.’
