Standing next to him, almost a foot smaller, wearing an elegant floaty chiffon dress in a canary yellow that accentuates her tan, Marty's mother seems to occupy just as much space. Her scowl pulls at features which would otherwise be classically beautiful - dark eyes framed by brows that have a natural arch, rosy-pink lips and high cheekbones. Now I see them side by side, I can tell she and her husband differ in age, and I fleetingly can't help but wonder by how much. Maeve then steps up to join them, her head bowed over her phone, and the screen lights up a face that I can now see mimics her father's, even despite the artistry that is her hair and make-up. Her outfit, a skin-tight olive-green dress, makes her eyes pop and accentuates just how long and lean she is.
Marty's relaxing back in his chair and chuckling to himself because of course that's his default reaction to being interrupted mid-snog by his parents. Meanwhile I am busy touching a hand to my mouth as if to remove any evidence as I also pray for the ground to swallow me whole.
“Should we give you a minute?” his father asks, but all the same he moves to the table, placing his phone down. Then he steps to the side and pulls out the chair opposite Marty for his wife to sit in, which she does, her expression no softer.
“Not necessary.” Marty shuffles his chair forward as I attempt to meet his mother's eyes and smile at her. She suddenly becomes deeply invested in unfolding her napkin and placing it across her lap, looking at nothing else. Marty’s father sits at the head of the table.
“I'll sit myself then,” Maeve says, and she drops her phone to the table with a loud thud. She flops down in her chair – the one opposite me – with a huff. “It's not like I'm already experiencing my perpetual third wheel PTSD from this dynamic.”
“You can't get PTSD from that,” Marty says.
“It certainly feels traumatic at this point,” Maeve mutters.
“Actually, Maeve has a point. Loneliness is an epidemic,” I say and am now trying to catch any of his family member's eyes to prove I'm more than just an older woman who chews Marty’s face off.
“Oh, fantastic. It's killing me too as well as making me a social pariah,” Maeve says, but then she catches my eye and gives me a wink I could describe as life-saving.
“You're a lot of things, Maeve, but lonely is not one of them. Not with 800,000 followers on TikTok,” Marty adds.
“960,000 actually.”
“How many?” I gasp.
Maeve just shrugs. “And here I am, date-less, while my social media inept brother has managed to pull someone while stone cold sober and practically bankrupt.”
Marty does a mini bow over the table towards his sister. “It's a natural talent. I can't teach it.”
“Jenna's right,” Cynthia says suddenly, and all our heads twist her way. She's still playing with the napkin on her lap, eyes downcast. “I've read about it in theIndependent. We don't have the same sense of community anymore. We used to live together - multi-generational families all under the same roof - and now families are separated by more distance and have much more disconnected lives with online connections replacing real life contact. And the research suggests that loneliness does indeed kill.”
“Yes, that's very similar to what I've read,” I say. I am ready when Cynthia looks up, nodding at her with a small smile she doesn’t return.
“Well, at the risk of exposing myself as the emotionally-underdeveloped man that I am,” Marty's father says after a much quieter throat clearing. “Could we maybe rewind the conversation a little from such a heavy topic and start again, also pretending that obscene French kiss hadn't happened?”
“French kiss? Jesus, Da. What year are we in?” Maeve spits out.
“Yes, I'm sorry about that,” I say, wiping my mouth again, this time with my napkin.
“Jesus, we were just shifting. It was hardly obscene,” Marty mutters.
“Tell that to my stomach contents,” Maeve retorts, her phone back in her hand.
“Shifting?” I ask inquisitively.
“Snogging, lobbing the gob, eating face, póigín, getting off, kissing,” Marty lists and I swear out of the corner my eye I see his mother flinch with each word.
“It's good to see you again, Jenna,” his father interrupts loudly.
“You too,” I say, following his lead. “James, right?”
“Correct. Good memory. And I believe you've already met my wife Cynthia,” he says in a way that teeters between innocently cheerful and deliberately cheeky. I can see where his children get that from now.
“Yes. Nice to see you again too, Cynthia,” I say the name somewhat intentionally because while I am ready to prove to an extent that I'm not too old to be her son's date tonight, I equally want her to know that I am definitely too old to call her Mrs O'Martin.
“Hello, Jenna,” Cynthia says, finally looking up for more than a moment. The similarity between her eyes and Marty's stuns me briefly. Holding my gaze, she swallows. “I want to firstly say that I'm sorry for this morning. I shouldn't have said some of the things I said.”
It's a real, genuine apology and it lands with me as exactly that.
“Thank you, Cynthia. I appreciate that although I do understand why you may have some reservations.” I feel Marty's hand clamp down around mine which actually makes my body jolt as much with desire as shock at this very suddendisplay of affection. As if that wasn't enough, he pulls both our hands over to rest on his thigh and the heat from him travels up my arm.
