‘I lovedSlow News Day!’ says Nora. ‘Didn’t you win, like, a bunch of Emmys?’
‘We did,’ says Art, though as I recall from my googling the other night, he didn’t win the Emmys himself.
And next thing I know, he’s holding forth about award shows and after-parties, and Nora and Simon are hanging on his every word, plying him with questions. It’s like the film studies class all over again. Yes, I will admit he can be quite funny, and yes, he might tell an amusing story about being mistaken for someone’s driver at a fancy Beverly Hills hotel, but the ease with which hesits back and tells these glamorous tales, theconfidence, the fact that even his self-deprecating stories end up making him look good – it rubs me up the wrong way, just as it did back then. He seems to find it all so easy. I do not find any of this easy. I’ve literally never felt as comfortable in a new group as he clearly feels right now. Unlike me, I bet he’s not going to go home this evening and analyse every word he said over lunch and convince himself that he was offensive or rude or irritating.
But Nora and Simon seem delighted by him. I still seem to be the only person in Ireland who’s immune to Art Sullivan’s charms. It’s infuriating.
‘Are you all right?’ he says, when we’re back in our office. ‘You were surprisingly quiet over there.’
‘I’m grand!’ I say airily.
We work all afternoon in silence (thank God for noise-cancelling headphones). I’m in the middle of a tricky scene when Art says, ‘Right, I’m off’, so I barely look up as I say, ‘Oh right, see you tomorrow.’
Roo’s out working at an event when I get home, but after spending a day with Art Sullivan I’m quite happy decompressing by myself. I’ve settled down on the couch to watch a Spanish period drama when the doorbell rings.
It’s probably someone selling something, I think as I drag myself off the couch and out to the hall. As I open the door I’m about to say that I’m sorry, I don’t need to change my broadband provider, but then I see who it is and for a moment I can’t say anything.
‘Annie! Um, sorry, I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
The man standing on the doorstep has expensive fashionableglasses, a painfully Gen Z mullet and a terrible moustache. He wasn’t sporting any of these things the last time I saw him. When he was still Roo’s boyfriend.
I give him my most ferocious glower.
‘What do you want, Justin?’
‘I tried to ring Roo to say I was coming to Dublin but I couldn’t get through.’
‘She blocked your number,’ I say.
Justin shifts from one foot to another. ‘Is she there?’
‘No.’ I almost add, ‘She’s working,’ but I stop myself in time and say, ‘She’s in town.’ Let him think that Roo’s off on a hot date with some tall, handsome man with great hair.
‘Oh right,’ says Justin. ‘Can I come in?’
Can he come in? Tomyhouse? After the way he treated Roo?
‘Justin, you are never setting foot in this house again.’ I start to close the door but Justin grabs it and says, ‘Wait!’
‘Let go of the door,’ I say.
‘I will!’ says Justin. ‘I just …’
He looks awkward all of a sudden and it hits me that maybe he’s seen the error of his ways. Maybe he’s come back to apologise. Maybe he wants Roo to take him back. And even though I think she should stay well away from him, I know that if a reconciliation with Justin were genuinely what she wanted, if it would really make her happy, I couldn’t and wouldn’t stand in her way. Even though it would mean leaving this house that I’ve already started to think of as home. What I want doesn’t matter. I have to hear him out.
I fold my arms. ‘Go on.’
‘I left some of my games under the stairs,’ says Justin. ‘I want them back.’
I stare at him, speechless.
‘Oh God,’ says Justin. ‘Roo didn’t throw them out, did she? I didn’t think she’d be so petty …’
‘No, Justin,’ I say. ‘She didn’t throw them out. Though she should have. She should have set them on fire and sent you the ashes! But she doesn’t give enough of a shit about you to do that.’
Justin’s expression is peevish. ‘Can I get my games, please?’
‘If it’s the only way to get rid of you,’ I say. ‘Stay there.’