Ryan smiles knowingly, like only he knows how. It’s one of those smiles that promises a world of shit.
“You’ll see.”
27
Casey
Ithank the waiter who showed me to my table, and take a seat opposite my date, who’s finally chosen a different restaurant. Not that I don’t love Italian food, but I was starting to get tired of the same old dinners. I’m hoping that this change also means a change in rhythm. Maybe tonight there’ll be something after dinner, too.
We’ve come to one of the steakhouses in the city centre,Shanahan’s, opposite St Stephen’s Green. It’s modern and intimate, and it has the best meat in the whole of Dublin.
“I love meat,” I say to my handsome surgeon, before taking a sip of the wine I’ve just been served.
“It’s probably best not to eat too much,” he comments. His usual, super-healthy, doctor’s response.
“I eat it every day,” I say, trying to defend myself.
“Well, you’re still young. But you should start thinking about introducing less carcinogenic foods into your diet.”
Carcinogenic? Meat?
I throw back my entire glass of wine, trying to drown out the words I want to scream in his face.
“Another one?” The waiter notices my empty glass right away.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Wine, as well, you know. Everything in moderation…”
Oh, my God. I’m really about to start screaming now.
By way of response, I order the biggest steak on the menu, cooked rare – actually, almost still mooing – just to spite thewonderfulsurgeon sitting across the table from me, who’s just started glaring daggers at me. I tell the waiter to just leave the bottle of wine on the table. I’ll need it.
There you go, mydarlingsurgeon. This is Casey Madigan: never try to tell me what I should and shouldn’t eat.
Luke shakes his head, trying not to comment. It’s probably for the best, or instead of leaping at him to rip his clothes off, I’ll want to wrap my hands around his throat and suffocate him.
He takes a few bites of his healthy vegetables, when his phone starts to ring on the table. I already hate the fact that he leaves it on the table, so when he answers on the third ring without any apology or explanation, steam starts to shoot from my ears.
“Sure, I understand,” he says, with a glance that tells me he’s about to leave me here on my own. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”
He hangs up then looks up at me.
“You have to go,” I say.
“It’s an emergency.”
“But you’re not on call.”
“No, but they called me, and I can’t say no. It’s my job.”
“Sure,” I say, sinking my second glass of wine in one gulp.
“Do you reckon you can make your own way home?”
“I’m not a baby, Luke. I’m perfectly capable of calling a taxi.”
“Great,” he says, before planting a quick kiss on my cheek and dashing out of the restaurant, just as the waiter is bringing our food over.
