But I feel overwhelmed. Whenever I start talking I worry that I’m talking too much, so I shut up and then I worry that I’ve been silent for a freakishly long time. It’s like the stress of this job has made me regress twenty years. I never feel comfortable.
‘You know Bernard’s married?’ Simon tells me. ‘Second wife, too. I can’t even get a man to go on a second date with me, and Bernard’s found two women willing to marry him!’
‘Well,’ says Nora, ‘he might not be married for much longer. I know I shouldn’t gossip—’
‘But you will,’ says Simon, winking at me.
‘I heard Nadine has left him,’ says Nora.
Simon gasps. ‘Seriously?’ He shakes his head. ‘Wow,Northsidereally is all he has these days. The poor thing.’
‘I can’t believe you feel sorry for Bernard, Adebayo!’ says Nora. ‘Does my rash mean nothing to you?’
‘I care very deeply about your rash, and I’m not saying I feelsorryfor Bernard, but you’ve got to admit he’s pretty tragic these days.’ Simon turns to me. ‘You know hisNorthsideobsession is why his first marriage broke up? He was never home. It basically destroyed his family life. His son got married last year and didn’t even invite him to his wedding.’
‘Serves him right,’ says Nora.
I’d love to join in the bitching but I can’t let myself. What if they repeat something I say back to him? They mightn’t even do it on purpose – it might be like Róisín telling him about Laura …
Art, of course, is in his element. You’d never know there had been any stress or awkwardness in his life this week. He sits back in his chair, totally at ease, talking just the right amount, making the others laugh. It’s infuriating. How does he do it?
And why can’t I do it too?
But I can’t, so I sit there and eat my pizza and I’m quite relieved when, after one drink, Sorcha says, ‘Right, everyone, I think I’d better call it a night.’
‘Good idea,’ says Art.
Sorcha, Nora and Simon are getting home by bus and taxi but Art and I both live within walking distance, so after we’ve left Simon at his bus stop Art and I walk down Drumcondra Road together.
‘Still think they’re our enemies?’ says Art.
‘No,’ I say. ‘And I never did, not really. I was just worried.’
‘I know,’ says Art.
We walk past the Tesco in silence and reach the junction of Richmond Road. I stop at the corner and take my keys out of my bag. I want to keep them in my hand as I walk home.
‘Well,’ I say, ‘I’m down there.’
‘How far down?’ says Art.
‘Um, it’s a cul-de-sac just past Grace Park Road,’ I say.
Art looks down the dark, twisty street. ‘I can walk you home,’ he says. And then he adds, ‘If you want, of course.’
I wouldn’t have wanted to ask Art for a favour, but I’m relieved he’s offered. I slip the keys into my jacket pocket.
‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Thanks.’
We set off in silence. The path isn’t very wide and after a few minutes my right hand brushes against Art’s left, just for a moment. The contact feels like the striking of a match.
I pull away, and he does the same.
But then our hands touch again. And this time I don’t draw away from him.
And he doesn’t draw away from me.
This time his fingers linger on mine a fraction of a second longer. Our hands part but when they brush against each other again Art intertwines his fingers, just briefly, with mine. He pulls his hand away and then draws his fingers along the inside of my wrist and back again, and when his palm meets my palm I curl my fingers tightly around his for a moment before our hands part and then come together again.