‘Maybe it’s the other way around.’ I slide my hand from under hers. ‘The advice you gave me, get under a new bloke to get over the old one? Doesn’t that mean I’m using him?’
‘My arse.’ Her laugh is brittle, her eyes like flint. ‘You don’t have it in you.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong—’
‘‘Cos you’ve had it in you all night?’
‘And he’s not Emirati, English or whatever; he doesn’t fit any of your categories. And as for wanting to get into my undies, wherever he’s from, he already has and it was pretty fantastic, all half a dozen times!’
‘Jaysus, Kate, I’m surprised you’re able to walk at all!’ she exclaims with a laugh. I join her, escaping a conversation that is at the same time a little too honest and surreal.
‘Babes,’ she says eventually, our giggles dying down. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t want you to get hurt again.’
Her eyes are imploring and I know her words come from a place of true concern. I don’t want to fall out with her, not over this, so I nod my understanding, despite still feeling a little disturbed.
The leather of the chair creaks loudly as she eases herself back. ‘And you expect me to believe you’re using Mr Hard for a ride? Maybe I’ll just call mammy dearest, I’m sureshe’d have something to say.’
‘Thatisnotfunny. And it’s firm, not hard!’ I really wish I hadn’t mentioned that part of the evening at all. ‘Don’t ever mention it again,’ I say, giggling. ‘Delete, delete!’
‘I’ll have a terrible time keeping my eyes on his face.’ She sniggers, rolling her gaze heavenward. ‘But I will try veryhard.’ She adds a three-fingered Girl Scout salute and I flip her the bird in return. ‘Sure, who’d believe me, anyway?’
The fact that I’ve had a one-nighter or the basis of Kai’s name?
‘You know it could be worse. You could call mum and tell her Iammarrying him,’ I reply, the thought rising along with more giggles.
‘Christ, she’d have a fit! Mrs Good-Heavens-what-will-the-neighbours-think? I’m surprised you escaped the basement this time, the shame of it all!’
I clutch my sides, lungs drained of air from laughing. My mother probably lit enough candles to power a small town after the humiliation of my non-marriage. Bringing home a non-Catholic—never mind someone of a different religion—would have her writing letters to the Pope!
Tears stream down our faces before, eventually, we calm enough to exhale more than singular, halting words.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say softly as Niamh dabs her eyes with a crumpled napkin. ‘I’ll take care.’
With pursed lips and a furrowed brow she seems to consider my words, probably waging some internal battle and literally biting her tongue. Finally, she tips her cup and drains it in one.
‘Okay,’ she says, placing it back down, ‘but if you tell me he plays polo, I’m staging an intervention, great in the sack or not.’
