After nose to tail traffic and one asinine chick-flick later, as neither of us could face shopping, Niamh and I head for an Asian bistro—the one with the huge stone horse at the front—with the intention of consuming ridiculous amounts of carbs. The interior is dark and atmospheric, but not dark enough to hide the scowl on Niamh’s face.
‘What’s up?’ Her lips flex and purse but she doesn’t answer. ‘Is it your mocktail? Is the absence of vodka making you sad?’
‘It could definitely do with a splash, especially for the price you pay in here,’ she answers caustically.
‘What crawled up your butt?’
‘For sure it wasn’t Rob.’ Her face twists unattractively, wincing further as she takes another sip from her glass.
‘Still no luck?’
‘Not yet,’ she says with a protracted sigh. ‘Or I’d not be reduced to bad tempers and evenings of friggin’ myself blind.’ I almost choke on my straw as, at this point, the waitress appears, setting our dishes down on the table. ‘Ah, lovely!’ Niamh comments without missing a beat, as warm plates are placed in front.
The waitress retreats and we silently dole out sticky rice and lemon chicken.
‘Change of topic,’ Niamh says, pointing her chopsticks in my direction. ‘Tell me, how’s the view from loved-up land?’
‘Distant.’ I send a silent thanks heavenwards for the change in topic. The details of Niamh’s love life isn’t a conversation I want to continue in a public place. ‘Kai’s travelling for business at the minute.’
She eyes me quizzically. ‘Have you a touch of cystitis, then?’
‘What?’
‘You’re walking a little funny, chick. It’s either the peeing curse or overuse.’ Pausing, she jabs her chopsticks in my direction. ‘You need to take care. You don’t want a kidney infection.’ A thought flicks across her face before, unfortunately, she opens her mouth to voice it. ‘The curse of sexing a well-endowed man, so it is.’
My head does one of those cartoon shakes. I wish I could shake off her words, sort of like you do with an etch-a-sketch. Maybe shake off her mouth for a while.
‘Run that by me again, you think I’ve got what and why? And secondly, how do you know what his pants are packing?’
‘That’s three points, actually.’ Unperturbed, she continues with her meal, chewing contemplatively. Then, laying down her chopsticks, she delicately dabs her mouth with the linen napkin. ‘You’re walking like you’re missing your horse.’
‘Yeah, because that’s the most normal statement to be making over dinner.’
‘Which leads me to think,’ she says, beginning to tick her list off her fingers, ‘you’ve some kind of infection, and your fella has a big—’
‘Enough, enough!’ I hold out my hands. ‘I get it.’
‘And as to what he’s packing, doing thebold thingwith a little fella is like ploughing a field with a pencil. You’d hardly be walking funny after that.’
‘Stop it, Sherlock. Your theories are crap in this instance. No, not that!’
She begins to prod chicken around her plate. ‘I’m glad to hear, for you, anyway. Still, better get some cranberry juice from the supermarket before we leave.’
‘No, bugger it!’ I lower my voice and look over both shoulders cautiously. ‘I got waxed. Earlier.’ Lowering my eyes deliberately, I add, ‘You know?’
‘You got rid of the seventies’ bush?’
‘Niamh,shush!’
