‘Bridget!’ Clodagh hugged her, air-kissing as though they were long-lost friends. ‘So lovely that you came.’
‘I would not have missed this for anything. I just love parties, especially ones like this. It’s full of the old dinosaurs of Irish television. All those ones who you thought had popped their clogs years ago. I mean, I just saw Val Connolly. Who exhumed him?’
‘Val?’ said Clodagh. I couldtell she was doing her best to hold on to her smile ‘He runs his own production company now. Makes millions.’ She turned to me and imperceptibly widened her eyes giving a tiny shake of her head.
‘Well, not as disinteresting as I initially thought,’ said Bridget. ‘I always say, there are only two points to a man. One, if he’s drop-dead gorgeous, or two, if he’s loaded. Normally, I like both.’
Clodagh managed to mouth ‘see what I mean’ to me. ‘Tab,’ she said, ‘I should have introduced you… this is Bridget O’Flaherty, our new weather...
‘The newmeteorologistand television personality,’ said Bridget. ‘Or that’s what my agent wants me to call myself. It’s meaningless, to me, but sheinsistson it. Absolutely insists. Says I’m not just a pretty face. Well, she says I’m that, but she wouldwouldn’t she, being my mother and everything. Meteorologist and television personality, that’s me! Anyway, pleased to meet you.’ She shook my hand.
‘Tabitha,’ I said. ‘Clodagh’s friend. No media connections. Just here for the free champagne.’
‘So, how oldareyou, Clodagh?’ she said.
‘Forty,’ said Clodagh, quickly, eyes giving a flicker.
‘Really?’ Bridget raised a sceptical brow.
‘Yes really!Goodness me, you don’t think I am younger than that, do you?’ went on Clodagh. ‘You don’t think I am pretending to be older than I actually am to lend myself a sense of gravitas?’
‘Gravitas? Is that something to do with gravity?’
‘No,’ said Clodagh. ‘It’s to do with gravy. On your roast chicken.’
Bridget looked confused, but I was beginning to laugh, discreetly.
‘We all like gravitas, Bridget,’Clodagh continued. ‘Except some of us were born with it, some of us have gravitas thrust upon us and others don’t even know what it is.’
‘Oh do fuck off,’ said Bridget, sweetly. ‘All I’m saying is that you don’t look forty…’
‘Nor do you,’ said Clodagh.
‘ButobviouslyI don’t!’ said Bridget.
‘You look fifty!’ Clodagh drained her glass of champagne. ‘Oh, aren’t you?’
‘I’m fecking thirty-one,’said Bridget, rattled. ‘It’s just that I’ve been working – professionally – since I was five. It’s really ageing, those late nights and having to get on the road again. Fecking Riverdance. Even now, if I walk into a shop and they are playing the music, I can feel my feet start to twitch, and my knees start to ache. I can hear the voice of our teacher shouting at us to keep on. I can’t walk aroundTemple Bar or any of the tourist shops. It’s all Mammy’s fault. She put me on the stage, spotted my talent early. Her own dancing career was cruelly cut short by a terrible accident that involved a bullock at the St Patrick’s Day parade when she was twelve. Never got over it and she put all her effort into me. When my knees packed in, she thought television was our only answer. She’s over there,actually.’ She pointed out a woman who looked like a slightly older version of Bridget, the same look entirely, but she was shorter and her hair anunnatural shade of red.
Then Bridget suddenly shouted. ‘Selfie!’ And put both arms around us and held up her phone. ‘This, ladies, is going on Twitter,’ she said. ‘I try and post every fifteen minutes. Everyone smile!’
And just as I was clinchedin this media sandwich, I saw a face looking over at me. Red. He waved his hand, an indiscernible expression on his face, while I disentangled myself from Bridget’s limbs.
Maybe it was the effect of the champagne, but all I wanted to do was put my two hands around his face and pull him towards me and kiss him. I wanted to remember what he tasted like, what it felt to feel his breath on mine,feel the heat of his skin on me.
*
Clodagh passed me another glass of Prosecco as soon as Bridget had gone to air-kiss and schmooze others. ‘You look like you need this,’ she said. ‘I know I do. What do you think of her?’
‘Who?’
‘What’s wrong with you? You’re miles away.’
‘She’s…’ I came back to the conversation. ‘She’s just like all you media types. Self-obsessed.’
She sank her wine. ‘You’reright,’ she said. ‘But who else would put them through this except for self-obsessed, masochistic narcissists.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Talking of another one.’ And then, louder, ‘Max! I thought you’d disappeared somewhere.’
And there was Max, shorter and plainer than I had remembered, wearing a black polo-neck, like a miniature James Bond, or at least someone trying to channel James Bond. Andfailing. He didn’t smile. ‘No, but I’m not going to stay much longer,’ he said. ‘I’m going to head off.’ He nodded at me, ignoring Clodagh’s obvious disappointment.
