Then she exclaims, ‘Oh my God!’
‘What’s wrong?’ I say.
‘See that couple?’ Roo points through the wide doorway of the function room and into the main bar, where a man and woman are sitting at a table. ‘It’s Clown Egg!’
‘What?’
‘The guy I went on a date with!’ says Roo.
We both stare at Clown Egg and his date. She looks like she’s listening intently as he talks.
‘She looks very taken with him,’ I say. ‘Do you think he’s told her about the egg yet?’
‘Maybe she’s into it,’ says Roo.
The woman is now talking earnestly to Clown Egg.
‘Maybe she’s saying, “Yes, I’ll sleep with you,”’ I say. ‘“But only if the clown egg can watch.”’
‘“And only,”’ says Roo, ‘“if you dress as a clown.” Oh well, good for him, I suppose! He was nice apart from the egg thing.’
‘And good for her,’ I say, ‘if that’s what she likes. Each to their own.’ If clown afficionados can find each other, there’s hope for all of us.
‘And of course,’ says Roo, ‘good for the egg. Sitting there by the bed in its special cup, taking it all in …’
We’re still laughing when a familiar voice says ‘Annie!’ and I turn to find Roo’s friend Rachel, her arms outstretched. ‘Long time no see!’
An hour later I’m in the middle of a group of Roo’s college pals. I haven’t seen any of them for ages but I’ve always got on well with them whenever we’ve hung out together. I’m deep in a conversation about how TV programmes depict single thirty-somethings, and for a while I don’t think about work or Art at all. As I finish my glass of wine, it hits me that if I’d stayed in Ireland all these years, these nice people would be my friends too, not just Roo’s.
‘You know, my practice is down the road from the IBC campus,’ says Rachel. ‘We should get lunch when your work’s a bit less chaotic.’
‘That’d be great,’ I say.
Maybe it’s not too late. These people might still become my friends now.
A little glow of optimism flickers inside me after I give Rachel my number and head to the loo on the far side of the bar. However things work out withNorthside, I know I can make a good life for myself in Dublin. I’d wanted to come back here for a while, close to my family and my old friends. Now I know for sure I made the right decision. I’m rebuilding my old friendships. And I know I can make new friends too. Art may be a secret-keeping arsehole but he was right about one thing: I’m tougher than I thought I was.
But then, just after I emerge from the bathroom, I glance across the room and there he is.
Oh my God. I completely forgot about Roo inviting him to her party.
I’ve spent so much energy over the last three days trying to be normal around Art. Trying not to show how I feel about him. Trying not to showanything, even after discovering his plans to leave, the plans he never mentioned to me. I’ve tried so hard. And now, when I have an evening off, when I can finally stop making an effort, when I’m trying to celebrate my best friend’s birthday, here he is. Art bloody Sullivan.
For fuck’s sake, can I not get away from him for five soddingminutes?
I’m so, so tired of this. I can’t, I justcan’tput up a front with him right now. I’ve just decided that my only option is to head back to the loo and hide until he gives up on finding me and leaves when he spots me, smiles and makes his way across the room.
‘Hey!’ he says. ‘What are you drinking? I’m going to the bar.’
I don’t say anything. I can’t figure out a way to politely tell him to go away.
‘McDermott?’ he says. ‘Do you want a drink?’
‘No thanks,’ I say.
‘Are you sure?’ he says. ‘I can get you a fizzy water or—’
‘I said I didn’t want anything!’