‘Oh right.’ I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised at this, coming from the former golden boy of indie cinema. ‘Well, nobody ever claimed it was like LA.’
As if to prove this, a double-decker bus rumbles past with an ad for Brennans white sliced pan on it.
‘It sure isn’t,’ says Art. ‘What about you? Did you always want to come home?’
‘Not at first,’ I say. ‘But yeah, I’d been thinking about it for a while before I got the call from Bernard. I didn’t want to live inNewcastle forever and my folks are getting older and of course …’I gesture across the road. ‘How could I resist living near glitzy locations like the Skylon Hotel? You may not be familiar with it seeing as you basically grew up in the Royal Canal, but my mother had her very glamorous retirement party there.’
I expect Art to make a joke back but he doesn’t say anything. He can’t be offended, can he?
‘Art?’ I say.
‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘It just hit me that the last time I was in the Skylon was my dad’s funeral.’
I stare at him, aghast. ‘Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have—’
‘Stop that, McDermott,’ says Art, but not unkindly. ‘It’s fine. I’m sorry for dropping that one on you.’ He glances back at the large white building. ‘You know, I cycle past that place almost every day now and I don’t even look at it. Or think about it. Probably because I don’t want to think about it.’
A gang of students cross the road, swamping the pavement, and when we emerge on the other side of the crowd, Art says, in a more cheerful voice, ‘Anyway. I suppose this place is full of memories for both of us.’
I think of Art, having to cycle every morning past the place where he mourned his dad. I think of the school gates that still make me feel queasy.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘It is.’
We walk past a string of restaurants (neither of us can quite believe there are so many restaurants in this neighbourhood now, and yet there they are) and the pub where we went for a pint with our colleagues – God, how is that only a few days ago? Neither ofus mentions that night, though when we reach the junction where Art offered to walk me home he meets my eye, just for a second, and I feel a little jolt.
‘My house is up here,’ says Art, as we cross the bridge over the Tolka river.
‘Yeah, I know,’ I say.
Art looks slightly taken aback. ‘You do?’
‘I was at a party there when we were in college,’ I say.
‘Oh right.’ I’m not surprised he doesn’t remember talking to me at his party. He was peak golden boy at the time, after all. ‘Well, I’ll leave my bike there.’
A few minutes later, Art is double locking his bike to the railings outside his family home.
‘You didn’t want to call in to your mam?’ I say as we walk on.
‘She’s not there,’ says Art. ‘She’s at bridge club. She’s always off doing some ridiculous activity.’
‘Oh my God, same with mine!’ I say. ‘I wanted to check in on my parents last week but they’re out, like, every night. And day. Bridge club, book club, choir trips …’
‘It’s outrageous,’ says Art. ‘How dare they have such active, healthy social lives!’
He grins at me and I can’t help laughing back. ‘Mine almost seemed annoyed I was so worried about them.’
‘I think my mum’s quite touched by it,’ says Art. ‘But she’s made it clear she doesn’t need me fussing over her. Which is a good thing, I might add.’
We cross the canal and walk past the restaurant-bar where Roo is having her birthday party next week.
‘Have you been there yet?’ I nod towards it. ‘The food’s meant to be great.’
‘No,’ says Art. ‘I’ve only met up with people in the city centre.’ He glances at the bar. ‘It’s kind of weird, not knowing where to go.’
‘What do you mean?’ I say.
‘Well, the last time I lived here, I knew where all the best places were.’