Chapter Fourteen
Matt’s living room is almost a mirror image of my own, save for the monstrous tiki-style bar which takes up almost an entire wall. I can see now why Niamh wasn’t sure of their colour scheme as every surface seems to be covered with boy stuff. The walls are plastered with abstract posters and beer mats, the sofas covered in denim-coloured throws. But it’s the massive bar that is the focus of the room. Well-used, and almost battle-worn, it’s pinned with postcards from far flung places and other holiday paraphernalia, including a huge sombrero and a novelty nodding Indian Sadhu.A baba bobble-head, would that be?It would be tacky enough without the accoutrements, but with them it’s lifted into a whole other level of tastelessness. And I love it.
I clamber onto a high stool as Matt slides in behind the bar with an infectious smile.
‘What’ll it be?’
Definitely more avin rougegirl, I note the absence of wine amongst the bottles, so opt for a vodka tonic instead.
‘Whoa, the hard stuff. Sorry,’ he says, shaking his head, ‘we finished it last night. Straight.’
‘After youvomitted on the way home?’
‘Good for cleansing the palate. Rob’s logic.’ He shrugs.
‘Sounds to me like he might’ve been trying to finish you off, especially after you scuppered his and Niamh’s plans!’
Oh, shit. From Matt’s expression, he obviously had no idea what the pair intended.
‘Were they really going to—’
‘And most people rinse with mouthwash,’ I bulldoze on. ‘Vodka’s a bit posh for bleach. How about you surprise me with that drink instead?’
When put like that what else can he do? He begins to select unfamiliar bottles, gathering a glass from beneath the bar. His eyes rise hesitantly to mine once or twice as he examines and measures like someone in a lab. Then, flipping a small bar towel over his shoulder, he places the glass before me, grabbing a beer from the fridge for himself.
I twirl the stem in my fingers, recognising the shape of the glass, though I’ve never tasted the actual drink before.
‘A martini?’
‘Dirty, is that okay?’
‘How’d you make a martini dirty? Take its undies off? Call it a bad girl?’
Matt chokes a little, teeth clashing with his beer bottle before he places it down, thumping his chest once with his fist. ‘I think you might’ve confused it with its slutty cousin, the appletini.’
‘The appletini does sound like a bit of a flirt,’ I agree.
‘And we only serve manly drinks here.’
‘That so?’ I eye a bottle of butterscotch schnapps on the shelf behind, without comment. ‘What constitutes a manly drink, then?’
‘Beer, straight from the bottle.’ He raises his. ‘The martini, naturally.’
‘Of course.’ I dip a finger into my, as yet, untasted drink.Slightly bitter, but not unpleasant.‘If it’s good enough for Bond.’
‘Exactly,’ he agrees. ‘Then there’s vodka, which we don’t have; bourbon, which we do. Would you like me to slip you a couple of fingers?’
He holds out two gun-like fingers and I know he means the gesture as a measurement, but my smutty mind goes somewhere else, and it’s my turn to choke. Matt, meanwhile, looks like his head’s about to pop off.
‘No! I meant... you haven’t touched your drink. I could...’ His neck moves as he swallows.
‘Of course you did,’ I sing.
The awkwardness clears once I’ve stopped giggling, Matt grateful to move on. We chat about everything, and nothing, including his travel aspirations and mine. He’s very easy to get along with and tactfully doesn’t mention my phone call, other than asking how a person goes aboutcracking shit,for purely anthropological purposes. In the interest of cultural understanding, I explain. I also further educate him by explainingrootedin Australia is pretty much getting, or being, screwed. Depending on how lucky you are, I suppose.
One martini becomes two, two becomes three, and I’m feeling extremely relaxed as his phone vibrates against the bar top. As he answers, I realise not only is it getting late, but I’ve also left my phone in my kitchen next door. Toes against the stool rung, I lean across the bar and plant a swift, smacking peck on his cheek. Making to hop down from the stool, I mouth my thanks when his hand catches my wrist.
‘Wait,’ he whispers. But there’s no fizz or spark as his skin meets mine, despite the warmth growing in his eyes.
