9

The pub is full of wood panelling, green leather seats, gold-and-green patterned carpet. The walls are adorned with hundreds of signs – ‘Tipperary 200 miles’, ‘Céad míle fáilte’ – and various football and rugby shirts. I glance around; we could be anywhere in the world. Just like in the Hard Rock Cafe the other night.

‘Wow,’ Carrie says, ‘it’s like they went to Ireland-R-Us and bought the entire stock.’

I laugh. ‘That really should be a shop. They’d make a killing on these Irish bars around the world.’ I think back to the Irish Bar I’d found in Beijing, the night before I met Carrie. I’d chatted to a pilot in there for a while. He bought me a few drinks and I’d thought he might be a good candidate for my new friend, but the more whiskey he drank, the more I started to doubt his story. He might have been a pilot once, but I wasn’t convinced. Some people are pathetic when they lie.

Carrie heads over to a booth seat in the corner, close to the bar. A couple of lads sitting on stools at the bar glance over at us, throwing appraising looks, but I look away. I hope Carrie doesn’t invite them over.

A pretty girl who looks about fifteen, wearing a green polo shirt with the bar’s emblem in gold on her left breast, arrives at the table with a notebook and pen. She places two leather-bound menus on the table.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I really recommend the cheeseburgers today. Can I get you a drink first? Some Guinness maybe?’ She has the barest hint of an accent, but her words are precise, as if she has rehearsed this short speech.

‘I’ll have a lager, actually,’ Carrie says. She looks across the table at me expectantly.

‘Same.’ The waitress opens her mouth, ready to reel off the brands. ‘You choose,’ I say, and she smiles and scurries off.

Carrie opens the menu and starts reading it out loud. ‘Homemade Irish stew, corned beef and cabbage…’ She looks up and rolls her eyes, then goes back to the menu. ‘Irish cheddar cheese on homemade soda bread.’ She runs a finger down the page. ‘Burgers made with genuine Irish beef.’ She snaps the menu shut. ‘Really? They import Irish beef?’

One of the guys at the bar, who has clearly been earwigging, leans over to our table. ‘They have to import everything here. Vegetables from China, because nothing grows. Meat from Russia…’

‘Thanks for your input,’ Carrie says, without turning round.

The other guy laughs, then slaps his friend on the back. ‘Buuuurn,’ he says, and gives me a wink.

I ignore him and open my menu. Why do men assume that all women want to talk to them? Sam and his irritating friends were exactly the same. Only difference was, I actually did want to talk to him, but it was hard to get into a proper conversation with the others around.

Carrie leans across the table and whispers, ‘Maybe later … Let’s make them work for it.’

I give her a small smile, hoping it masks my irritation. She is one of those women who craves male attention. I’d hoped she was better than that. I need to captivate her more, it seems.

‘Oh!’ She slaps her hands on the table. ‘I’m so stupid. You’re thinking about Sam, aren’t you? I’m so insensitive…’

‘I’m not thinking about Sam,’ I lie. ‘I’d rather just talk to you, though. Not them.’

She shrugs. ‘Fair enough.’

The waitress returns with our pints and a basket of popcorn.

‘Later for food,’ Carrie says, taking a handful and stuffing it into her mouth. She chews quickly, then licks the salt off her lips. ‘OK, forget Sam. Forget men.’ She lifts her pint then mouths a kiss at me over the top of it.

I decide to move on. ‘Do you think Geriel is expecting us for dinner?’ One of the men from the bar looks over at us again, but his mate nudges him and mutters something I can’t hear. Then they laugh, and I know they are saying something shit about us, because that’s what these types always do.

‘Oh, Geriel … sweetness and light – is that what she said?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I was named after the Stephen King character. My mum was a massive fan.’

I’m about to take a drink and have to stop to take this in. ‘No way? Wasn’t she a bit mental?’

Carrie laughs. ‘Not at all. Her mother was a religious whacko. Carrie was telekinetic. She wasn’t bad – she just took revenge on the arseholes that tried to make her life hell. Including her mum. Thankfully mine is nothing like Carrie’s mum. She just likes Stephen King. To be honest, I’m quite happy with the choice – it’s a talking point.’ She shrugs. ‘Besides, could’ve been worse. She could’ve called me Christine … after the possessed car.’

A girl in my class at primary school was called Christine. She was an annoying little whinger of a kid. One of those with a constantly snotty nose and horrible pink NHS specs. I wonder where she is now.

Carrie takes another handful of popcorn. ‘What about you? Violet is a great name. Was your mum a hippy? Flower child? Have you got sisters called Daisy and Tulip?’

‘Well…’ I take a long slow drink. She’s gazing at me, waiting for an answer. ‘I actually wasn’t given this name by my parents. I changed it when I left school. It’s after the Hole song. You know it?’

She wrinkles her nose, drops her brows. ‘As in Courtney Love, Hole? Courtney who ruined your man’s life, there?’ She lifts her chin, gesturing at my T-shirt. Her accent has gone decidedly Irish.

‘It depends whose account you want to believe,’ I say, sniffily. I loved Kurt Cobain, of course I did. But I loved Courtney too. They were the nineties’ Sid and Nancy. Oh how I ached to be part of that lifestyle.

‘Didn’t their daughter disown her for being a terrible mother?’ She takes another drink. ‘Maybe that was about the name though … Who the hell would be happy with Frances Bean, for fuck’s sake.’

‘It doesn’t matter. It’s the song I liked. Like.’ I correct myself. ‘Do you know it?’

She looks up, as if trying to get the song to slot into place in the jukebox inside her head. She hums a few bars. ‘Na nana, take everything … everything. Something like that.’

‘Yeah.’ I’m a bit annoyed that she doesn’t know it better than that, but it’s my song, not hers.

‘What’s your real name then? Was your mum not pissed off that you changed it?’ She turns away, waving a hand to attract the waitress.

‘Violet is my real name,’ I say. Both of our pints are empty now. ‘Do you fancy some food yet?’

She shakes her head. ‘Two more,’ she says to the waitress, ‘and let’s have a couple of sambucas too.’

As we’re waiting for the drinks, a short man wearing a pale-blue cap and beige slacks comes in from outside, handing out flyers. He slides one on our table. ‘Tour tomorrow, girls. Good price.’

‘Tour to where?’ Carrie says. She peers at the leaflet.

‘Into the Gobi. Authentic Mongolian experience. Stay two nights, see wild horses—’

‘Let’s do it.’ She takes a wad of Genghis notes out of her bag, and grins at me. ‘Don’t look so shocked, V. Live a little, eh?’ She turns back to the man, who looks slightly stunned that he hasn’t had to try very hard at all. ‘Where do we get the bus?’

‘Guide will pick you up. Where you stay?’

‘Sunrise Guesthouse.’

The man nods, satisfied. Then moves on to the next table. The lads at the bar wave him away, one of them slaps his back and says something I don’t catch.

The waitress returns with our drinks, and Carrie hands me a shot glass, raises hers. ‘To adventures in the desert,’ she says, knocking the drink back in one.

‘Sláinte.’

Three more pints, and three more sambucas, and the lads from the bar are in the booth beside us. They’ve brought a large jug full of something lurid pink, and the waitress has brought four small glasses on a tray.

No one has had any cheeseburgers.

‘I’m Rory,’ says the first lad. The one who tried to get our attention at the start. ‘And this boring fucker is Martin.’

Martin is on my side of the booth, a respectful couple of fists’ distance away from me. Rory is on the other side with Carrie, squeezed up against her. She doesn’t seem too bothered, but she’s not paying him any attention. She’s looking over the jug, at me, and I’m trying to read her, but I can’t. We’re both too pissed.

‘I’m not sure we should drink this…’ I have to say the words carefully to avoid slurring.

‘Come on, ladies. Got it made specially for you,’ Rory says. He fills two of the glasses and slides them across to me and Carrie.

‘Why aren’t you drinking it?’ I ask. ‘Have you put something in it?’

‘Rory…’ Martin says, warning in his voice.

‘Don’t be daft,’ Rory says. ‘We’re just sticking to the beer. We got this for you two. Just wanted to say hi.’

Carrie picks up the glass and sniffs it, wrinkling her nose. She takes a sip. ‘It’s not bad, actshullly…’

I take a sip. It tastes of Wham Bars. Those sweet, pink, fizzy chews we used to eat as kids. I knock it back.

‘That’s the spirit,’ Rory says. He winks across at Martin. I’m not sure what they’re up to, but I know I don’t like it.

‘Carrie…’

Her head is lolling a bit, but it snaps up when she hears her name. I give her a hard stare, hoping I’m getting the message across. She gives me a half-smile and lifts her hand in a placating gesture. Rory is smirking now, but Martin looks annoyed. Carrie seems to slide back into coherence for a moment, glancing at me, then at both men. Then she pulls herself up straighter and shuffles along the booth seat towards the wall, so that Rory is no longer touching her. She slides the jug and the glasses along the table towards the end, and I feel Martin bristle beside me. Rory is still smirking, still thinks he’s got the upper hand. But he hasn’t.

Carrie leans across the table; she puts one hand on top of mine on the table, puts her other hand on my cheek, then leans in and kisses me softly on the lips. It’s only a moment, but it feels like it is going to go on forever. I open my mouth slightly, press against her. She tastes of aniseed and salt.

Martin makes a small noise. Rory swears under his breath.

Carrie pulls away, but her hand is still on mine. She speaks to them without addressing them. Without taking her eyes off me at all. She smiles.

‘You know what, lads? I think the two of yous need to get tae fuck right about now.’