‘What are you going to buy me with all that moola?’ asks Fiona, dunking a chip into the sea of gravy on her plate.
Cormac strokes an invisible beard. ‘Hmm, I’d say probably a Netflix subscription. I’m worried about all this reading you’re doing.’
Tommy ruffles her hair. ‘My wee brainbox, aren’t ya?’
Fiona smiles proudly and, if I was being rude and she wasn’t nine years old, I’d say ‘smugly’.
‘Just like her aunt Aoife,’ says Sheila. ‘Maybe we’ll have another professor in the family, eh, Fiona?’
Fiona screws up her face. ‘No, thanks. When I grow up I’m going to be an investigative reporter.’
Figures.
‘How do you even know those words?’ says Cormac.
She sticks out her tongue. ‘Because I read books instead of looking at boobs on the internet.’
‘Fiona!’ Sheila shoots her a glare and she goes back to her book.
‘This is a madhouse,’ grumbles Tommy as he spikes a chip. ‘How were the docks, Michaél?’
‘Yeah, had a look about. Took some photos with Meg.’
Encountered a potentially malevolent spirit that haunts my dreams.
‘Who’s Meg?’ Tommy asks.
‘Friend.’
‘Oh aye?’ He wiggles his eyebrows and I can see Cormac grinning.
‘Oh, here,’ says Sheila. ‘Is that the wee goth girl, Cormac?’
‘Aye.’
‘Ack, she’s lovely.’
‘She is,’ says Mum.
‘She your girlfriend?’ says Tommy.
Fiona lowers the book, hungry for gossip.
Mum is dissecting a chip on her plate, Sheila is smiling and Tommy’s eyes are boring into me like a heteronormative power drill. I turn to Cormac, begging him to come to my rescue.
He clears his throat. ‘Well, actually, Michael isn’t her type.’
OK.
‘Because…’
No, Cormac, please.
‘…she’s queer.’
What follows is worse than silence. It’s like the absence of noise. Tommy seems to have forgotten how to blink.
‘Cormac!’ whispers Sheila. ‘You can’t use that word.’
