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Owen
Before I have a chance to explain further, Smithy arrives back in the kitchen.
“Hey, I’m here to rescue you from the washing up,” he says as he pushes his thinning hair back with his forearm. His T-shirt’s soaked at the front and his cheeks are flushed as if he’s just wrestled two hippos into the bath. “The girls are out of the bath, but they want Alice to come and comb their hair. Apparently, Romana and I are ‘useless’ at it.”
He air-quotes the word useless, and I stifle a laugh.
“Alice, would you mind helping Romana with the girls’ hair?” he asks.
“No problem.” Alice smiles and hands the towel to Smithy. “It’s payback time.” She grins and ruffles her half-braided hair.
As Smithy takes the towel from her, she looks down at the worktops. “I’ve tried to keep the wet things off the worktop. Real wood looks nice, but it’s a pain in the backside to keep looking good. These are due an oil, I think.” Alice runs her hand over the splintered wood.
I flash Smithy a triumphant look.
“Did he ask you to say that?” Smithy says and nods in my direction.
“No.” Alice looks confused. “Comes with working with kitchens, I’m afraid.”
“You two and your goddamned worktops.” Smithy laughs before adding, “They’re in the girls’ room. Straight up the stairs. Follow the dropped toys and you’ll find their room.”
I return to the dishes as Smithy picks up where Alice left off.
“Hey, man, I’m sorry about the girls,” he says as soon as we’re alone.
“You don’t need to apologise. They’re just kids. Kids say things.”
“We guessed you hadn’t told Alice about Pippa.”
“There didn’t seem to be any need to. We aren’t dating. She isn’t my girlfriend.” I repeat Alice’s words.
“Then why are you going to this wedding with her?” Smithy grabs a new towel off the radiator before starting to dry the remaining cutlery.
“To help her out. She was stuck with no one to go with.”
“And since when do you, Owen Shea, sweep in to help the damsel in distress?” Smithy leans back on the worktop as he polishes a spoon. “Admit it, you like her.”
“Yes, I like her, as a friend.”
“Bullshit.”
“Watch your language,” I say, eyeing Paul, who’s curled up under the table.
“There’s no way you’d agree to go to a wedding with me if I asked you to, and I’m your oldest friend.” Smithy holds the spoon towards me like a wand.
“Of course I would,” I argue, knowing I absolutely would, but I’d hate every second of it.
“No, you wouldn’t, so stop lying to yourself. You like her.”
I rest my hands against the edge of the sink and look at Smithy.
“Okay, so what if I do? It doesn’t change anything.”
“Of course it does.” He grins.
“No, it doesn’t. For two reasons. One, she doesn’t like me in that way. She’s said on numerous occasions that she likes me as a friend.”
