Chapter 10

On Sunday mornings Holly usually had what she like to call a cub – a “little lie-in”. Nothing serious – she was invariably up and about by ten thirty, even when she’d had more to drink the previous night than was strictly necessary. This particular Sunday was different. When she finally opened one eye and used it to peer at the alarm clock by her bed, she saw that it was just after one thirty in the afternoon. A second realisation quickly followed: her knees were killing her. Holly put these facts together and concluded that she had – or rather would shortly have – a hangover. Most people, she understood, knew they had a hangover as soon as they awoke. Hers tended to sneak up on her. She could be fine all day long and then, wham, at four or five or six o’clock some invisible someone would tiptoe up behind her and hit her over the head with a lead pipe. Over the years, she had learned to look for signs that her day was doomed and she shouldn’t make any serious plans. Weirdly, the most reliable indicator of trouble brewing was sore knees. Why exactly an excess of alcohol should make her knees hurt, she had no idea, but as a clue, it had never let her down. She had even honoured it with a little mnemonic: Sore knees in the morning: hangover warning; sore knees at night: doesn’t really mean anything.

She rubbed her eyes and set about reconstructing her movements. They had gone from the bowling alley into the bar right next-door. It was a horrible pseudo-American sports joint whose name she hadn’t even bothered to register. And there, sitting at a small table all alone, they had found Orla. Apparently, she had intended to spend the rest of the evening at home with at least one bottle of wine but was in such a bad way that she had required a quick vodka to give her the strength to find a taxi.

It was a disaster at first, of course. Orla made to bolt when she saw the others arriving and, for a moment at least, had to be physically surrounded. Since there was no way they could pretend that they didn’t all know exactly where they stood, things came to a head immediately (James and John stole away to the bar, giving the girls room to fight). There were ugly accusations and heartfelt pleas for reason. There was finger-pointing and ego-stroking. Claim and counter-claim. Tears and taunts and threats. Sighs and snorts and sneers. Orla made to leave on several more occasions but always thought of one more thing she wanted to get off her chest first. Gradually, however – it took quite a while – the tone softened and the volume decreased. There was no dramatic breakthrough, no turning of a corner, no moment of joy and reconciliation. Instead, a sort of exhaustion seemed to settle over the three of them. Things weren’t great, but given that Orla’s storm-out had happened less than twenty minutes previously, they didn’t seem hopeless either. Holly distinctly recalled thinking that at least they could now part on semi-reasonable terms.

What she could not recall, distinctly or otherwise, was how they wound up looking for a table that could accommodate all five of them. One of their number had suggested it, presumably, but she had no idea which one had done it and what form of words had been used. In any event, they found a table easily enough and took their seats gingerly, each wearing a pale imitation of a smile. What happened next was entirely predictable. They were uncomfortable, they were Irish, and they had easy access to alcohol. There could only ever be one outcome. Even so, the speed with which their collective condition degenerated had been remarkable. Usually when Holly performed this sort of postmortem, she could look back at a part of the evening when she could and should have drawn the line; she thought of it as “pleasantly sloshed”. In this case, there seemed to have been no such period. Apparently, she’d gone straight from stone-cold sober to rubber-legged pissed and skipped everything in between, like someone who’d managed to drive from Canada to Mexico without visiting America.

The words “Hard Rock Café” flashed in her mind. She rubbed her right temple and frowned, wondering why that was. Then it came to her and her hand moved from her temple to her mouth. The pub – “sports bar”, rather – was one of the worst she’d ever been in and she’d said so. Everything about it was not only fake but not worth copying in the first place. And it was all wrong for Dublin. There were baseball bats on the walls, for God’s sake. Themes were just plain wrong in her book and anything that employed one – a pub, a restaurant, a party – was doomed to failure. James disagreed with considerable enthusiasm. This specific pub was fairly awful, he admitted, citing in particular the fact that there was a blaring TV stuck to every surface – but what about the Hard Rock Café? Had she ever been in one? They were terrific! Holly’s memories of the subsequent exchange were reasonably vivid. She remembered assuming that he was joking and taking some convincing that he was not. She also remembered the sense of ambush that swept over her when Aisling piped up to counsel James that there was no point in trying to argue the point. Themed bars and restaurants were on Holly’s list, and that was that. Once a concept made the list, it stayed put. James was intrigued. What else was on this list? Aisling was quick to fill him in. Well, there was astrology, obviously, as he may have noticed earlier. Reality TV. Mothers who have their baby’s ears pierced. Organised religion in all forms. The phrases “At the end of the day”, “If you ask me”, “This isn’t rocket science”, “Very unique”, “Your call is important to us” and many, many others. Waiters who keep asking if everything’s all right. People who emphasise their sneezes . . . At some point, Orla joined in, quietly at first but with ever-increasing zeal. What about creationists, she said? And psychics. That man with the ghost show on Channel Four. Products that are as individual as you are. Drivers who take up two parking spaces. Nicotine beard stains. Tiny hotel kettles. Cyclists on footpaths. People who whistle tunes that they just made up . . .

Holly did her best to smile throughout all of this but eventually decided that enough was enough and spoke up in her own defence. They were making it sound as if she hated everything and everyone, she said to James (who regarded her with a sly smile), but that wasn’t true. The only difference between her and everyone else was that she was comfortable talking about the things that annoyed her while everyone else bottled it all up. She recalled ending this observation with an unconvincing grin. It had felt silly at the time and felt doubly so now. James had responded by saying that she didn’t have to defend herself to him and that, somehow, had made her grin all the harder. Looking back now, she couldn’t remember how the conversation had moved on but she had a terrible suspicion that she had maintained the ridiculous leer for quite some time.

Her next semi-clear memories were of the moment when she realised that their physical arrangements had settled down. As the night wore on and they made their multiple trips to the bar and the loos, they had shifted and rotated into a wide variety of seating plans. Eventually, however, they’d become a table of two halves. On one half, Holly and Aisling faced each other with James, perched at the end on a low stool that made him look faintly preposterous, forming the apex of their triangle. The other half was Orla and John’s. There was no obvious physical divide between the two groups. A passer-by would have called it a table of five. But the separation was very real. Holly’s half of the table never got the chance to discuss this remarkable development, but she recalled a great many raised eyebrows and head-points. When she tuned in to Orla and John’s conversation, as she regularly did, she found it to be polite and safe and friendly – work this, family that. Nevertheless, the fact that they were having what amounted to a private chat had seemed remarkable. As far as memories went, that was almost it. The rest was a series of blurs of varying hues and intensity. She could glimpse images – John spilling a drink, Aisling having a fit of the giggles – but could form no cohesive narratives. There was something in there about a taxi too, but it was vague in the extreme. Yup, that was almost it. Almost. She did seem to recall something about deciding that James Bond was the man for her.

It was nothing specific, nothing that she could put her finger on at any rate. In retrospect, it seemed as if the feeling had just crept over her. She’d arrived in the sports bar thinking he was a nice guy and she’d left it thinking he was a nice guy that she wanted all to herself. He hadn’t said or done anything in particular. It was just his . . . She pulled the duvet up to her nose and struggled to find words other than “essence” or “spirit” – words that wouldn’t make her feel like a fourteen year-old drawing love hearts on the back of her geography book. It was his . . . himness? His himissitude? She sighed. It was just him. The way he was. The way he acted, the way he spoke. She’d met happy-go-lucky people before and she’d always hated them with a sizzling passion. They were always so insufferably twee, bouncing around in their pastels, humming stupid songs and babbling about upside-down frowns. And that wasn’t all. She’d never met one who hadn’t wanted her to be just like them, either by “cheering up” in the short-term or completely transforming her life in the long-term. James was different on both counts. Somehow, he managed to be positive and upbeat without being insufferable. And he didn’t seem to give a damn if she – or anyone else, for that matter – followed suit. It was a combination that she found . . . tantalising.

She lay there for another hour, staring at the ceiling, feeling tantalised.

It was almost four o’clock when the phone call came. Holly had emerged from a hot bath and was curled up at one end of the sofa half-watching an old movie in which Cary Grant was getting himself all worked up about Katherine Hepburn. Claude was at her feet dreaming vividly; his little paws were twitching so much he seemed to be receiving mild electrical shocks. As predicted, her head had started to pound and her stomach was churning ominously.

“Hello,” she sighed into the phone, not bothering to make an attempt at sounding pleasant.

“Hello, Holly,” her mother said. “You don’t sound very pleased to hear from me.”

“Mum. Sorry. It’s just . . .” She paused. No reasonable excuse presented itself. “Well, I overdid it a bit last night, that’s all. Feeling a bit delicate.”

“Oh dear. You don’t need alcohol to have a good time, you know.”

This was all Mrs Christmas ever had to say on the subject of booze. This was perhaps the five hundredth time Holly had heard her say it.

“Yeah. You’re right. I know.”

“So . . . what does ‘delicate’ mean? Are you bedridden?”

“God, no,” Holly replied and then immediately regretted it. She had been trying to portray herself as someone who’d had two glasses of wine instead of her usual one, rather than someone who could scarcely remember how she’d made it home. But she hadn’t considered the possibility that her mother wanted her to go somewhere or do something. Now she had painted herself into a corner.

“Good,” her mother said. “Because tonight’s the night. For meeting Charlie, I mean. Obviously.”

Several of Holly’s organs seemed to swap places. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. It seemed too soon. “You’re joking me.”

“No. Why would I be joking?”

“It’s not much notice, is it?”

“Sure what do you need notice for? And besides, I didn’t get any notice myself. He’s only after ringing me. He’s talking about dinner in town.”

“And what did you say? ‘Can my daughter come too and do you mind if she brings a notebook?’”

There was a small chuckle on the other end. “I did very well, Holly. Do you know what I said to him? I said I already had plans to meet you and you were really looking forward to it and all – but I supposed we could join the two things together.”

There was a pause during which Holly slowly came to understand that she was supposed to be issuing congratulations. “Well done,” she said through her teeth.

Another chuckle. “I know, I was all pleased with myself. So – what do you say?”

“Where does he want to go?”

“Why? What does that matter? Are you not coming if it’s not swanky enough?”

“Mum . . .”

“It’s called The Green Panda. Chinese. South William Street. Great reviews in the papers, so he says. Have you heard of it?”

“Yes.”

“And what have you heard?”

“Yeah. It’s supposed to be lovely.”

“Oh good! Chineses don’t always agree with me, as you know, but Charlie says this is nothing like a take-away down the road.”

“Hm. What time? This is a school night, you know, so I can’t –”

“Seven thirty. Nice and early. You’ll be home again before you know it. So you’ll be there?”

Holly had immediately regretted the schoolnight remark. She’d agreed to this, after all. There was no point in complaining now. She closed her eyes and gave the heartiest “Of course!” that she could muster.

When it came time to leave the house, Holly realised that she was facing something of a dilemma: should she drive or take a taxi? In other words, should she leave open the alcohol option? Her hangover had developed rapidly. Mercifully, it had stopped getting worse at around six but had not yet started getting better. All things being equal, she couldn’t see herself having another drink for the remainder of the decade. Then again, what if all things turned out to be unequal? What if she found herself gagging for a softener and unable to do anything about it? She thought about it long and hard as she oscillated between bedroom and bathroom and ultimately came down on the side of driving herself. Even if the meal was a disaster, she could hardly sit there and get plastered. Why go to all that hassle and run the risk of having Bernard Manning for a driver just so she could have what undoubtedly would amount to no more than a tipple?

The trip into town took longer than she’d allowed for and she found it necessary to speed-walk the short distance from the car park to the restaurant. This unexpected spurt of physical activity had two unfortunate consequences. Firstly, it made her head throb a little harder. And secondly, it covered her in a thin film of what Aisling called “dew” and everyone else called “sweat”. When she finally arrived, she discovered that the interior of The Green Panda was much more spacious than the exterior promised. At first glance, nothing about it said Chinese. There wasn’t a dragon or a fan to be seen. It was decorated in muted pastel tones and delicately lit. The owners seemed to have gone out of their way to make sure that every edge was straight and every angle a right one. The lampshades and candle-holders were cuboid. The picture frames and menus were square. Holly decided at once that she liked it. There was a pleasant hum of activity and the air itself seemed tasty. She was greeted by a startlingly beautiful Chinese woman who wondered if she had a reservation. Holly was tempted to say that she wasn’t happy about the whole Tibet situation but decided that the joke was too obscure and would probably earn her nothing more than a squint and an “Excuse me?”.

“No,” she said, still struggling to catch her breath. “I’m meeting . . . oh, it’s a couple, a middle-aged couple. I think the reservation is in the man’s name, but I can’t seem to remember . . . Uh. His first name’s definitely Charlie. And the woman’s name is Delia Christmas, if that’s any help. She’s my mother.”

All of this had tumbled out of her in a sort of heap that now seemed to lie between them on the floor. Too late, Holly realised that she might as well have drawn a picture. My mother’s out on the town with some man who isn’t my father. A second dragged by.

“Christmas?” the woman said then. “Really?”

“Yes,” Holly said and before she knew she was doing it, added, “Don’t start.”

The woman flinched. “Well. Let me see here . . . Seven thirty, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Charlie . . . Ah. I have a Charles Fallon by three?”

“That’s him.”

“Okay. This way, please. May I take your jacket?”

Holly shimmied out of the garment in question, which was immediately palmed off on an underling who seemed to appear out of nowhere and then disappear again with equal stealth. The table she was led towards was right at the end of the restaurant which, apart from the odd nook and spur, was broadly L-shaped. Right up until the moment when her host came to a stop, Holly had been unable to see which one they were heading for. She didn’t know what Charlie – or “Charles” – Fallon looked like, of course, but she’d expected to recognise her own mother.

“Mum!” she wheezed when it became clear that she had failed to do so. “Look at you! You look great!”

“Have a nice evening,” the Chinese lady said and crept away.

“Oh, thank you,” Mrs Christmas said. “So do you.”

“But I mean it,” Holly said. It was the truth. Although her mother had done nothing else but spend some time on her notoriously unruly hair and apply a little make-up, the effect was startling. “You look like someone from an After picture,” Holly marvelled. “I mean, as opposed to a Before. That came out wrong. But you know what I mean.”

This drew a small chuckle from Charlie and gave Holly an excuse to look at him properly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You must be Charlie. I’m Holly. I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Not at all,” he said and got to his feet.

He extended his hand and when she took it, drew her towards him. Before she knew what was what, he had deposited a small kiss on her cheek and basically pushed her back to her original position. It was more wrestling move than greeting. Holly made a conscious effort not to mind. Early days, she thought as she took her seat. She had somehow assumed that he would be a large, leather-skinned sort of creature with brilliant white teeth and a thick head of silver hair; something like a movie mafia Don. Where she had acquired this image, she had no idea. She guessed that she had just heard the words “New York” and let her imagination run away with itself. Given her expectations – silly though they were – she couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed by the figure sitting opposite her now. Charlie looked like a retired jockey. He was short and slightly built. His salt’n’pepper hair was not so much receding from his forehead as energetically fleeing it. The little that remained had been coerced into forming an ill-advised miniature quiff. His skin had a blue-ish tinge and seemed to have been borrowed from a much larger man.

“I’ve never been here before,” Holly said. “It looks really lovely.”

“Oh yes,” her mum said. “All . . . modern.”

Charlie wobbled his head. “But you can’t tell, can you? That’s the kicker. I’ve been in some beautiful places where the food was no better than mediocre and, obtusely, I’ve been in some real dives where they served nothing less than heaven on a plate.”

Holly winced. She wondered if she should correct him. Her mother either didn’t notice his mistake or – this was more likely – didn’t care.

“Charlie’s quite the gourmand,” she said with what sounded like a degree of pride.

“No, no, Delia,” Charlie said, patting her wrist. “A gourmand is just someone who likes eating. I’m a gourmet. That’s someone who knows what they’re talking about. Big difference.”

“Oh,” Mrs Christmas said. “Sorry.”

Holly chewed on the tip of her right index finger for a moment. She had no idea if he was right about the gourmand/gourmet thing but that was hardly the point.For a man who said “obtusely” when he meant “conversely”, he was awfully quick to correct other people.

“So,” she said when her fingertip began to hurt. “Mum tells me you’ve been living in New York?”

“That’s right. Thirty-odd years. Greatest city on Earth. Capital of the world. You ever been, Holly?”

“Once, yeah, a few years back. Just for a long weekend.”

He spluttered. “A weekend? But that’s no good. You couldn’t even scratch the surface in a weekend, long or not.”

“Well, we did know that at the time,” Holly said, doing her best to smile. “It’s not like we thought we were going to turn into Woody Allen after three days.”

She picked up her menu, hoping the move would instigate a change of subject. It didn’t.

“What did you do and see while you were there? Tourist crap, I suppose?”

Holly’s sole companion on the trip had been Aisling. Orla had planned to go too but had been laid low at the last minute by an unspeakably nasty throat infection. The upshot was that Holly had spent the majority of her time on Fifth Avenue standing outside changing rooms while Aisling tried on the shop’s entire stock. The remainder had indeed been devoted to tourist crap.

“We saw the sights,” she said from behind her menu, “if that’s what you mean. What else are you supposed to do on your first trip?”

“Get off the beaten track!” Charlie said. “First trip or not. Strike out! Explore! See the real New York!”

His accent up to now had been just what Holly had imagined it would be – ninety per cent Dub with a sprinkling of American on top. His delivery of his adopted city’s name, however, was pure parody: Noo Yawk. She found herself holding this detail against him.

“I’m sure Holly will be more adventurous next time,” Mrs Christmas said, perhaps sensing trouble. “Now – what are we going to eat? We’ve been putting off choosing until you got here.”

“Yeah, let’s get to it,” Holly said quickly. “Everything looks great.”

They perused in silence for a moment. Then Mrs Christmas said, “It’s all a bit confusing to the likes of me.” She leaned over the table and dropped her voice as if she was divulging a great secret. “They don’t seem to have chicken balls and tubs of curry sauce, which is what I normally go for.”

Holly gave her a wink. Charlie gave her another pat on the wrist.

“Leave it to me, Delia,” he crooned. “I’ll order for you.”

“Oh, I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Holly said through gritted teeth.

“I really don’t mind,” Charlie said, as if that was the issue. “It would be my pleasure. Holly, would you like me to order for you too? Maybe –”

“No, thank you,” Holly said, returning her gaze to the menu for fear that it might betray her. “I can order for myself. Maybe you could cut things up for me, though. I’m not great with a knife and fork.”

Charlie tut-tutted. “Surely you won’t be using a knife and fork?”

“As opposed to what?” Mrs Christmas said.

“He means chopsticks,” Holly replied.

Her mother flinched. “Oh no, I don’t think –”

“No problem, Mum. Look, they leave knives and forks on the table for a reason. Don’t worry about it.”

“But it’s so easy!” Charlie squeaked. “Look . . . ” He broke his chopsticks open and used them to snatch at the thin air like the little old man in The Karate Kid trying to catch a fly. “You see, Delia? See how they pivot? See? Open . . . closed . . . open . . . closed . . . open . . . closed.”

Holly stomach gurgled. She wasn’t sure if the cause was hunger, her hangover or simple annoyance.

“Well, I’ll give it a go,” Mrs Christmas said. She opened her own chopsticks and ever so carefully attempted to copy Charlie’s movements.

Holly tried not to watch. She looked like someone who was learning to use a hand they’d just acquired from a donor.

“Not bad for a beginner,” Charlie said. “But you’re gripping the top one like a pen – that’s all wrong. More like this, look. See? Open . . . closed . . . open . . . closed.”

The worst part about all of this, Holly thought, was the expression on her mother’s face. She looked embarrassed – not by Charlie’s attitude but rather by her own shortcomings. And she seemed so keen to learn, so keen to please him. The lesson went on for a couple of minutes. Holly realised that she might as well not have been there and eventually started scanning the room for an available waiter. She soon caught one’s eye and was greatly relieved when he approached and asked if they were ready to order.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “I am, anyway.”

Charlie seemed a little disappointed by this interruption to chopstick class. He picked up his menu and said, “Yes. I’ll be ordering for myself and the lady beside me.”

The waiter shifted from foot to foot. “Certainly.”

“But first,” Charlie said, “I have some questions regarding the wine list . . .”

An hour and a half later, as she examined the dessert menu, Holly found herself wondering about her hangover. It should have been on the way out by now, but it was still firmly in its plateau phase. Although there were any number of factors that she could have held responsible – Chinese food was hardly a good idea, for a start – she decided that the number one reason why she was still feeling unwell was because she’d spent the evening listening to Charlie frigging Fallon. In fact, she was quite sure that if she’d arrived feeling on top of the world, he would have given her a headache and an upset stomach. Although it seemed unfair to dwell on just one of his many transgressions against common taste and decency, the moment when he expressed his “pity” for the friends he’d left behind in Dublin had been a real low. They’d been talking about the émigré life in New York – a subject that occupied them for about three-quarters of the meal – when he dropped that particular bomb. Holly had allowed him to twitter on for a while about the experiences they’d missed out on and the bitterness they must harbour towards the likes of him before she pointed out that her mother was one of those “sad cases”, as he’d called them. She’d imagined that he would hastily backtrack and looked forward to seeing him squirm a little. But he didn’t backtrack, much less squirm. He smiled and said that “obviously” he’d been talking about men. It was different for women. They had “their own role in life”. Holly would have liked nothing better than to explore this topic a little further and to ultimately leave him curled up in the corner, weeping and promising to never express an opinion about anything ever again. But she’d kept her mouth shut. It was already becoming clear to her even then that, somehow or other, her mother actually liked this tool – or, at least, was impressed by him. Again and again she had displayed the same attitude that she’d adopted during the chopstick lesson: Charlie was a knowledgeable and sophisticated man of the world and she should count herself lucky that he was showing an interest in a timid little ignoramus like herself. Holly would have found it thoroughly inexplicable if it hadn’t been for those occasional moments when Mr Start-Spreadin’-the-News paid her mother a compliment. They were small asides, all of them – she had a wonderful laugh, her perfume was refreshingly subtle, she had the delicate fingers of a concert pianist – but the effect they had was considerable. Her mum positively swooned each time and then broke into a giggle that she found hard to control. Once she even slapped him playfully on the bicep. That constituted Voluntary Physical Contact and VPC, Holly had read somewhere, was one of the seven signs of something or other. Holly spent an alarming portion of the meal wondering about Charlie’s bladder capacity and hoping it was significant. The last thing she wanted was for him to go to the Gents, leaving her alone with her mum. She was bound to ask her what she thought of him – that was the point of the whole exercise, after all – and Holly felt that she needed time, possibly several weeks’ worth of it, in which to choose her words.

“So,” Charlie said after they’d spent a silent minute with the dessert menu. “Anyone tempted?”

“I don’t know,” Holly said.

“Neither do I,” her mother agreed. “I won’t get through the door when I get home.”

Charlie shook his head emphatically. “Nonsense! You’re as slender as a reed.”

Cue swoon. Cue giggling fit. They went back and forth on the subject for a minute or two before all three ultimately succumbed.

As the waiter made off with their order, Charlie joined his hands in front of him, looked at Holly and said, “Science, huh?”

She didn’t even know what he was talking about at first. And then she realised that he was referring to her teaching career. He had asked about her job way back during the starters but had offered no follow-up questions when she gave him the headlines; instead, he had embarked on a long review of Frank McCourt’s book about teaching in New York.

“Yup,” Holly nodded. “Science. And maths.”

“Hmmm. Gets us into a lot of trouble, doesn’t it? The old science lab.”

Holly took a deep breath. “Oh? What do you mean by that?” She knew fine well what he meant by that; she was merely buying time for more deep breathing. Her instincts told her she was going to need it.

“You know,” he said. “Weapons. And fiddling with genetics – making mice with ears growing on their backs. All that.”

She forced herself to finish her breathing exercise before replying. “Really? That’s what you think of when you think of science? Weapons and mice with ears on their backs?”

“Oh, I know what you’re going to say.”

“Do you?”

“You’re going to say, ‘What about curing diseases?’, ‘What about inventing useful things like airplanes and television?’”

“I have to admit, you got me. So – what about curing diseases? What about inventing useful things like airplanes and television?”

“Those are good,” he said. “I’m not saying they aren’t.”

“Phew.”

“I’m just saying, we have to have a little perspective. Science gave us penicillin, sure, but it gave us the bomb too.”

“Science is just a method, Charlie,” she said as evenly as she could. “It’s just a way of finding out about the world. It’s up to us how we use it. If we use it to invent nuclear weapons or poisonous gases or whatever else you care to name, that’s our fault. Not science’s.”

“And what about the genetic end of things? Do you approve of that?”

Holly took a sip of coffee. “I don’t think it matters one way or the other if I approve. It’s not as if the world’s geneticists are sitting around waiting for me to –”

“You’re avoiding the question.” He said this in a sing-song voice with a playful shake of his index finger, as if trying to emphasise that they were just talking, not arguing.

“I wouldn’t like to be that mouse with the ear on its back,” Holly said, “if that’s what you’re asking me. Then again, I wouldn’t particularly like to be a mouse, full stop. Not a big cheese fan.”

“Once again, you’re av–”

“Broadly speaking, I think that fiddling with genetics, as you call it, is a very exciting prospect. Anything that can help us cure horrible diseases and, you know, save people’s lives, I’m all for.”

Charlie shook his head sadly. “And what about God?”

“What about Her?”

“Don’t you think that tinkering about with life is God’s domain and not ours?”

Mrs Christmas cleared her throat. “Charlie . . . has strong religious views,” she said.

Holly nodded and considered her options. She considered them for so long that Charlie eventually prompted her with an urgent “Well?”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on this one,” she said carefully. This was the only one of the options she’d considered that did not include shouting and creative swearing. She felt oddly pleased by her self-restraint. And there was no doubt that she had done the right thing. The look on her mother’s face – it was if she’d just been told that a relative had survived delicate surgery.

“A conversation for another time, perhaps,” Charlie said.

Yeah, Holly thought. Behind the bicycle sheds after school. Bring an ice-pack. “Perhaps.”

Their desserts arrived shortly afterwards. Like their main and starter predecessors, they were universally declared to be delicious. Holly thought she might have enjoyed her cheesecake even more if she hadn’t – twice – caught Charlie stealing a peek at her boobs. Mark from next-door had once explained to her that a woman should never be offended when she caught a man’s eyes going south because they genuinely couldn’t help themselves. It was a reflex. Built-in. Hard-wired. They no more decided to do it than they decided to jerk their leg when the doctor hit their knee with the little rubber hammer. Still, given their relationship – she was Charlie’s potential girlfriend’s daughter, for Christ’s sake – she was more than a little horrified. Once again, she thought of several interesting spears she could throw at his head and once again, she decided against all of them. Perhaps realising the effect they were having, he had increased the flow of his compliments to her mother – she could really tell a story, her watch was a thing of rare beauty – and this alone stayed Holly’s tongue.

When the bill arrived, Charlie was horrified by her offer to split it. She assumed that his dismissal would quickly segue into a lecture about the “man’s role” but, to be fair to him, he made no such error.

“Well then,” Holly said when the moment came, “I suppose I’d better get going. School in the morning . . .”

She stood up and pushed her chair in. Neither of the other two budged. She had assumed that they would all leave together, but apparently she had been mistaken. What was that all about? Were they relocating to a wine bar somewhere? Going for a game of pool? Heading – dear God – back to his place? The cold reality washed over her. This could turn out to be a genuine thing.

“Thanks for coming,” her mother said. Her expression said that this was no platitude; she really meant it.

“Yes,” Charlie nodded. “It was great to meet you. I’m sure you and I are going to have a lot of, uh, interesting discussions.”

This sentence, it seemed to Holly, was crying out for another clause. When were they going to have these discussions? When he finally pulled her mother?

“I’ll look forward to it,” she said. “It was lovely to meet you too.”

She went around to the side of the table and kissed her mum goodbye. Charlie got to his feet and gave a repeat performance of his initial greeting, once again leaving her rocking on her heels.

“Okay then,” she said. “Be good.”

She turned and strode away, feeling fairly sure that Charlie was checking out her ass. Be good, she said to herself with a shudder. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Suddenly, she felt lost and alone and deeply, deeply confused. Her overriding thought as she waited for her coat was that she wished she could talk it all over with someone cool-headed and sensible. James, for example.

Claude seemed unusually pleased to see her when she got home. He trotted around after her as she got into her pyjamas and made herself a cup of tea, then followed her to the sofa and nestled on her slippered feet as she drank it. Her hangover had finally begun to fade; there was nothing to it now but a mild feeling of nausea and that, she suspected, had more to do with indigestion than the previous night’s exertions. She turned on the TV and then proceeded to pay it no attention whatsoever. Her mobile phone, she couldn’t help but notice, had found its way to the arm of the sofa. She picked it up and flipped through its various menus, not looking for anything in particular. Calendar, Games, To Do; so many functions that she would never use . . . Before long, she found herself browsing through her phone book. It had twenty-seven entries. She wondered if that was a little or a lot. It sounded like a little. And she didn’t even know who some of the twenty-seven were. Sheila P? She couldn’t remember having ever met such a character, let alone taken her number. What was the point of having an unknown person’s phone number? With a small shake of her head, she deleted it. She scrolled on, up and down, down and up . . . Lizzie, Ursula, Kevin – Kevin! How could she have forgotten to erase his presence? It was unlike her. Ex-boyfriends usually went through a process that she called “scrubbing”, the first and simplest part of which was the removal of their phone number. She did it now, pressing the buttons with a great deal more force than was necessary. Going through the list again – for no real reason, it was just for something to do – she saw that a disturbing proportion of the remaining twenty-five weren’t social contacts. They were doctors and dentists and plumbers and taxi firms. This seemed like a bad sign, but she supposed that she could be reading too much into it. She made a mental note to look through Aisling and Orla’s phone next time she got a chance, just for the sake of comparison.

James B. There he was. She’d never actually dialled his number. Her only phone contact had been via text messages and, if his early arrival at the MegaBowl was any indicator, he hadn’t paid very much attention to those. Even as her thumb hovered over the little green button, she told herself that she wasn’t going to actually call him. God, no. She was merely pondering the prospect. Toying with it.

He answered on the first ring.

“Holly Christmas,” he said. “Good evening.”

She could actually hear his half-smile. “Hi. Hi there. Uh . . . how are you?”

“Grand. To what do I owe the pleasure? Postmortem on last night?”

“Well, that and . . . yes, that.”

“Oh? There’s something else?”

“No, no, I . . . It was an interesting evening, huh?”

“It sure was. Have you spoken to Orla today?”

“No. What about John?”

“Not today, no, but he did a lot of rambling in the taxi last night.”

This small piece of information unlocked a few more memories for Holly. Yes: James and John had shared a taxi, as had she and Aisling. Orla had left a little earlier, citing profound drunkenness. Aisling had seen her into the car and had been chatted up twice on the way back.

“Yeah? What sort of rambling? The good sort?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know . . .”

“Yes. I would. That’s why I’m asking.” Her brow furrowed. Had that come out playfully sarcastic or nastily sarcastic?

“Well, then,” James said. “I suppose I’d better tell you. It was the good sort. Very good, actually. He’s quite taken with her. More than taken. I’d go so far as to call him ‘smitten’.”

“Smitten, you say?”

“Smitten.”

“That’s great. I’ll have to have a word with herself but from what I saw last night – the bits that I can remember, anyway – I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that it’s mutual.”

“Great. I’m quite chuffed with myself, are you?”

“Oh yeah. Definitely. Victory from the jaws of defeat and what have you.”

There was a brief silence. Holly could hear music in the background on his end. She found herself desperately wanting to know what it was, but she couldn’t make it out. Something with a lot of guitars anyway.

“So . . .” he said then. “What was the other thing?”

She played dumb. “What other thing?”

“You sounded like you had something else to say. A minute ago.”

“Oh. Yeah. Kind of. Nothing important.”

“Go on.”

“I dunno, I just wanted some . . . advice, I suppose.”

“You’ve come to the right man. I’ve had a lot of compliments on my advising.”

“Okay. Good. It’s about my mother . . .”

She talked for five minutes without pause and said far more than she meant to. Her intention had been to give him the bare bones and then ask what he would do if he were in her shoes. This would mean providing a little background, obviously, but nothing too elaborate. She was surprised when she went into some detail about how her mother had been widowed before she’d given birth to her first child and hadn’t so much as looked at another man in all the intervening years. But this surprise was as nothing compared to the deep shock she felt when she heard herself discussing her own private theory about her name. It was a topic that she had broached only a handful of times with her nearest and dearest, let alone someone she barely knew. James seemed to sense this. Up until that point, he’d supplied an occasional “Hmm” or “I see”, just to prove he was still there, she guessed. But he was utterly silent as she explained that, in her opinion, the ridiculous joining of “Holly” and “Christmas” had been her distraught mother’s attempt to be, well, cheery; that it was nothing more than over-compensation in the face of horrific grief; that she probably now regretted it almost as much as Holly did. By the time she finally got around to describing her evening out with Charlie, she felt exhausted and ran through it at speed. The bottom line, she said, was that, okay, the guy wasn’t exactly evil, but he certainly wasn’t ideal either. And now she had to give him a review. What the hell was she supposed to say? She still hadn’t posed this question to Aisling and Orla. Part of the reason was that she knew their responses would be more long-winded than helpful. On the one hand this, but on the other hand that. You have to do X, but you mustn’t do Y. There was nothing long-winded about James’s reply. She had no choice, he said; she had to say she approved. It wasn’t as if her mother was contemplating marriage here. She was having an occasional dinner and night out at the cinema with this man. If Holly reported that she didn’t like him, there were only two possible outcomes. Either her mother would continue to see him anyway and there would be horrible tension between them all, or she would put a stop to it and hold a grudge against her daughter for ruining it. But if Holly told her to go for it, then she could more or less wash her hands of the whole thing. Her mother was a grown woman. Anything else that arose between her and this Charlie character was her own business. He delivered this assessment with a frankness that bordered on the blunt but was simultaneously measured and kind-hearted. Holly found it deliciously refreshing.

“Don’t hold back,” she said when he had finished. “Tell me what you really think.”

“Sorry, I just –”

“No, I’m joking, I’m joking. Nice to get clear advice for once. We girls don’t really do clear. We like to cover all bases.”

“Really? When I talk to my pals about this kind of stuff, I’m lucky to get one base covered.”

“Heh. Yeah. Yeah. ”

“You sound . . . hesitant.”

“Um.”

“Holly?”

“It’s just . . . You’re saying I should lie?”

“I wouldn’t put it like that. I’m saying there are times in life when you shouldn’t necessarily give your real opinion and this, if you ask me, is one of them.”

“Hmmm. I’m not really known for my ability to hold back my opinion.”

“So I’ve gathered. But maybe you should give it a go. You might be surprised at the results.”

Holly didn’t reply straight away. The words “So I’ve gathered” had set her teeth on edge and her heart pounding. But her initial anger faded away with an ease and speed that pleasantly surprised her. Coming from James, the sentiment sounded different, somehow.

“Maybe you’re right,” she heard herself saying. “OK, then. See you tomorrow, I suppose.”

“That you will. Anything else I can help you with?”

“No, James. That’s it for tonight.”

“OK. Goodnight, so.”

“Goodnight. And thanks.”

“You’re more than welcome. See ya.”

“Bye.”

She hung up. A huge smile had installed itself on her face. She felt faintly ridiculous and tried to wipe it away, but it wouldn’t budge.

“Hey, Claudio,” she cooed, reaching out for him. “What a handsome man you are!”

Claude allowed himself to be picked up but wriggled away, wide-eyed and mewling, when she hugged him close to her chest with more enthusiasm than he was used to.