‘If we call ourselves the New Normals, then they’ll think they are the Abnormals,’ says Christie, giggling.
‘Yes!’ says Shazz delightedly. ‘That’s it, we’re the new normals and they are abnormals. What do you think?’ she roars to the taxi driver in front. He’s a nice man who appears to be keeping his head down, because all wise taxi drivers know it’s more sensible to keep their mouths shut when they’ve got a cab full of excitable women in it, going out on the town.
‘Whatever you say, love,’ he says.
‘Right answer,’ crows Shazz.
First, we’re going to get something to eat. Christie was in charge of picking the restaurant, because she has a friend who recently returned to Dublin to open a wildly successful new restaurant off Dawson Street. Usually, it’sjam-packed, but thanks to Christie’s pal, we’re getting a special table in the best location.
‘They do cocktails, right?’ Shazz asks.
‘Lots of cocktails,’ says Christie.
‘And then we’re going clubbing?’
‘You know the jury’s out on the clubbing,’ I say now, ‘besides, I’m wearing these stupid shoes.’
‘Take them off. I told you they were too high.’
‘They’re my good high shoes. I don’t have loads of pairs of shoes.’
‘You could have had my platform ones,’ Shazz goes on, ‘they fit you. I know they are a bit dated and everything, but still, you could carry them off, for an old chick,’ she adds, naughtily.
‘Did you have a cocktail before the taxi?’ I ask suspiciously.
‘Yeah, Zep mixed me up something Caribbean and it’s lighting my fire.’
‘Which one of us will be doing the fireman’s lift tonight?’ I ask Christie, who laughs.
Eventually, we’re decanted in front of the restaurant, all dressed up in ourbirds-of-paradise finery. Shazz’s long, artfully curled hair is a lovely combination of blonde with purple tips, mine – rippling brunette – has beenblow-dried straight down my back and Christie’s got a mop of tousled platinum curls that looks as though she has just come off some Australian beach after doing a bit of surfing.
‘We certainly hit all the demographics,’ says Shazz looking around. ‘I mean, look, we got everything, we’ve got wild pink, we’ve got sexy brunette, we’ve got a platinum modern blonde: there’s nobody we can’t hook up with.’
‘I’m not looking for a man,’ I say.
‘Me neither,’ says Christie. ‘I’m woman centric. I’m happy, thank you very much. Plus, you’ve got Zep.’
‘I know,’ sighs Shazz happily. ‘I’ll flirt a bit, that’s all. But you should score, Bea.’
Christie and I exchange glances.
‘Score? Like round the back of the bike shed? I thought I was going to find hot love on whatever website you’ve put the tissue of lies on,’ I say.
‘Bird seed,’ she says. ‘I didn’t tell you but I made it go live before we came out.’
My mouth falls opens. It’s live! The stuff aboutFrench-speaking,saxophone-playing,who-knows-what-else me...
If I was religious, I would say a prayer right now. God, please let someone normal be on the site and like the look of my pic. Then I realise what I’ve said. Do I want to go on a date?
I feel almost dizzy as we’re brought to our tables and I’m not sure if it’s the heels or the notion that I’m actually thinking of going on a date. With a man!
Christie’s friend has done us proud. Our table is a fabulous spot where we can see all over the restaurant, which is very glamorous and very noisy. Clearly the Christmas spirit is already here even though it’s only November, but then, many office parties start early because some companies are far too busy to have December parties. There is mistletoe in tiny silver vases all over the place and Shazz grabs the sprig from our table.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘I’m going to break this up into three bits and when any of us go to the loo, we can bring a bit, and if we see anyone we like, we have to dangle it over their heads.’
‘Youcan do that,’ I say.
‘Spoil sport.’
