Chapter 13

The play, which was called The Tyrant, was running in a city-centre theatre called The Black Box. The venue was new, small and out-of-the-way. Holly was first to arrive in its lobby and was joined shortly afterwards by Orla. The latter was wearing a shapeless pair of brown trousers and a too-tight mustard shirt that she had owned, by Holly’s reckoning, for at least five years. It was a warm evening, so she was carrying rather than wearing the cheap grey hoodie that was her near-constant companion. Her shoes were black and bulbous. They too had seen better days, although it was hard to believe that they had been much to write home about even when new. Holly felt terrible for noticing these details – especially with her record, fashion-wise – but her guilt was run neck-and-neck by her irritation. What was wrong with her? Had she failed to understand – the presence of three other people notwithstanding – that this was a date?

Neither of them said much about their previous meeting, beyond acknowledging that it had happened. They spent a couple of minutes on work-related chat before Holly decided to seize the opportunity and give Orla the gist of her mother’s news. The version of events that she supplied was even more truncated than the one she had given Aisling. It was perhaps for this reason – although it may well have been plain shock – that Orla didn’t seem to have much to say on the subject. She wished the potential couple well; that was the extent of it.

James and John arrived next. They gave a repeat performance of their arrival at the MegaBowl. James chatted away, declaring his enthusiasm for (amongst other things) going to plays, early autumn evenings, fun-size Milky Ways and jeans that fit just right. John, meanwhile, looked at his feet and occasionally cleared his throat. His attitude reminded Holly of something or someone. When she figured out what it was, she was so pleased with herself that she almost told everyone: he was like a child who’d been dragged out shopping by his mother and just when he thought the ordeal couldn’t get any worse, his mother had bumped into a friend. It wouldn’t have looked out of place, Holly thought, if he’d taken James by the hand and tried, uselessly, to haul him off in the direction of home.

When it became obvious that they were in danger of missing the start of the play, talk turned to Aisling’s tardiness problem and its possible psychological underpinnings. They had just decided to go in without her – they were the only ones left in the lobby – when she appeared. Holly could see at a glance why she was late this time. Her hair and make-up were perfect and she was dressed for somewhere a lot classier than a tiny theatre at the end of an alley in Temple Bar. The word for it, Holly supposed, was “co-ordinated”. She was wearing a cream-coloured trouser suit and was carrying a tiny metallic-looking purse that shimmered so vibrantly Holly half-expected to see a power cord trailing behind it. Her jewellery – small pearl ear-rings and a slender silver necklace – seemed to have been designed with this particular outfit, and possibly this particular lighting in mind. Even by her own lofty standards, she looked sensational. Despite her best intentions – she consciously reminded herself that she didn’t care about clothes – Holly felt herself shrink a little.

After greetings were exchanged and Aisling had made a vague swipe at blaming traffic for her late arrival, they presented their tickets and took their seats. This process was not as simple as it should have been. It didn’t occur to Holly until it was almost too late that Orla and John should be sitting next to each other. They wouldn’t be able to have much of a chat, granted, but that wasn’t the point. The physical proximity could do wonders for their boldness. Unfortunately, Orla was at the head of the little train they made as they went down the theatre aisle, while John trailed at the very back. Holly was directly behind Orla. Thinking quickly, she paused by the entrance to their row, ostensibly to switch her phone off (as if that couldn’t be done from her seat). Aisling was coming along behind her but she completely missed the point. Seeing no other alternative, Holly felt it necessary to give her a swift kick on the ankle as she passed. There was no power behind it, but the fright caused Aisling to issue a high-pitched “Jesus!”. Some of their fellow audience members had been tut-tutting and dirty-looking their late arrival as it was. Now there was a more general mumbling of discontent. It was only when Holly widened her eyes and jerked her head that Aisling cottoned on. Even then, she merely retreated back to Holly’s position where she stood stiffly with her arms by her side, looking slightly lost. Holly tried to rescue the situation by pretending that she was asking advice on how to deactivate her phone but this, she suspected, only served to make her look mentally defective. James, at least, twigged what was going on and made a slightly better fist of swapping places with John. But he was hardly subtle about it. He simply stopped dead in the hope that his friend would step past him. John drew level but then he stopped too, as if that was what was expected of him. At that point, James placed his hand in the small of his back and shoved him forward with such force that he very nearly lost his footing. He scampered into the row and took his seat beside Orla with some speed, fearing, Holly suspected, that further violence might be visited upon him if he didn’t. Aisling followed, as Holly had hoped she would. This meant that she and James were together. There was a pleasing symmetry to it, she thought – two potential couples on either side of a neutral observer. As they settled in, Holly realised that this was the closest she had ever been to James. She found herself angling her head towards him and taking a slow, subtle noseful of the air. This wasn’t something she was in the habit of doing; in fact, she couldn’t recall ever having done it before. He smelled like warm linen. She had no idea what she had expected, but somehow, this discovery delighted her. As the house lights went down, she thought, I’m sniffing around like a barnyard animal. What’s next? Marking territory? There was no doubt about it. She was losing the run of herself. Seconds later a man unicycled on to the stage carrying a Rubik’s Cube. And so began the worst entertainment-related evening of Holly’s entire existence.

The best thing that could be said about the play was that it was short, but even that had its downside; there was no time for an intermission and Holly, for one, could have really used the break. By the time it was all over and they spilled out on to the street, she felt quite faint with anger and irritation. It was difficult to believe that someone had written such a thing, that other someones had agreed to act in it and that still others had paid to see it. Expletives tumbled around in her mind like socks in a drier but they refused to come together in anything resembling a coherent thought.

“Well,” James said cautiously, “That was . . . interesting. I think it was about how difficult modern life can be. Trying to be different things to different people, you know.”

“No doubt,” Aisling said. “But it was really more like a circus than a play. And there was way too much –”

“Juggling,” Orla agreed. “I know. Fair enough, she could juggle for Ireland, your one. But she sure as hell couldn’t rap. I’m almost afraid to ask but what did you think, Holly?”

Aisling giggled and ducked, her hands clamped across her ears. Holly fully intended to say something positive; this was a great chance to show what she could do. But when she moved her lips, the only sound that emerged was a small squeak.

“Ah, look,” Orla said nodding at Holly. “She’s been struck dumb.”

“I’ve seen this before,” Aisling noted. “We’d better get her into a pub. Gin and tonic, ‘stat’.”

They hurried into the first joint they passed and got themselves seated with little ceremony. Orla and John sat next to each other, Holly noted. They had no sooner given their order to a passing floor girl than the dissection proper began. A consensus quickly emerged: the play had been a bit of a mess but was not without its charms. The performances had been pretty good overall and there had been one or two thought-provoking moments. As she might have guessed, Holly was alone in believing that the thing had been irredeemably awful, soup to nuts. Naturally, she said no such thing and limited her contributions to occasionally nodding when someone else said something reasonably complimentary. Try as she might, she still couldn’t come up with a full-throated pleasantry of her own. It was beyond her.

Conversation soon turned to the character of Frederick. He was the one who had unicycled onto the stage with a Rubik’s Cube. While everyone had experienced problems juggling their various responsibilities (and in some cases with literally juggling), Frederick was the one who seemed to have the most going on. At various points throughout the evening, he had been obliged to hop around on one leg while balancing a teddy bear on his head, to roller-skate backwards in circles while speaking in backwards sentences, to build a house of cards on a lop-sided table while saying a decade of the rosary – the list went on and on (and on and on and on). Frederick was even more annoying than his colleagues, Holly thought, because the actor who played him had a horrible voice. Why, she wondered helplessly, would someone who made a noise like a faulty oboe get involved in acting in the first place? Hadn’t anyone ever pointed out to him that it was a bad idea? Did he have a cross-eyed sister who was determined to be a model? And there was no way that he’d put it on for the role. No one was that good, least of all this guy (he’d quite obviously forgotten his lines on at least two occasions). It was almost more than Holly could bear when James and the others described the character as “possibly overcooked”.A feeble whimper escaped her as – for want of something else to praise – they admired the actor’s haircut. Next, they turned to the play’s theme. Orla said she supposed it was all about how difficult it is to do more than one thing at once. Holly squirmed in her seat. It’s difficult to do more than one thing at once was something that toddlers knew. It was hardly the stuff of great art. What was next? Some days it’s cold and some days it’s warm? As the others chipped in with their forced, desperate compliments and feather-light quibbles, Holly finally centred herself and sat up straight.

“It wasn’t a bad premise,” she said, choking on every syllable. All eyes turned to her. She realised that this was the first full sentence she had issued since they arrived. Delivering it had made her feel instantly exhausted.

“You’re back!” Aisling cried and raised her glass. “I was beginning to think you’d gone for good this time. Remember Runaway Bride, Orla? She didn’t speak for a full two hours after it. Go on then, Holly. Hit us.”

“It wasn’t a bad premise,” Holly said again.

Aisling’s nose twitched “What, that’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

Holly nodded and hid behind her drink. Everyone stared, even John who up to that point had been gazing at his own lap.

“Are you all right?” Orla asked.

Holly glanced up, but where she expected to see a cheeky grin, there was only a look of genuine concern. “I’m fine,” she said.

Orla nodded. “Okay. And you thought the play had . . . a decent premise?” She screwed her face up as she said it, as if the words themselves had a peculiar taste.

“Yes,” Holly said. “It wasn’t a bad premise.” Stop saying that! a voice in her head screamed. She hid behind her drink again. No one spoke for a moment. Then James said, “Let’s face it, the play wasn’t the best any of us has ever seen. But all experience is good, eh? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“Huh,” Holly said. “Try telling that to someone who lost a leg in a car accident.” There were audible gasps all round. She shrank a little, cursing herself to Hell. “I mean . . . I just hate that saying, that’s all.”

“One more for the list, so,” James said.

“Sorry?”

“Your list. Of things you hate. I’m saying, new addition. Do we ring a bell or something?”

He wasn’t trying to be nasty, Holly told herself. Not in the least. There was no need to get all upset.

“No, there’s no bell,” Aisling giggled. “But it’s a neat idea. We could all get little flags too. Ring a bell, wave a flag. Add a little festivity to the thing.”

“They’ll have to be small flags and bells,” Orla added. “Otherwise I can see us getting very tired.”

“Good one!” Holly said, trying to undo the damage. “That’s me told!”

Even she could tell that her voice sounded brittle and hollow. Orla’s look of concern returned. No one spoke. Time seemed to slow down.

“I’ve never seen a Shakespeare play,” John remarked after a few excruciating seconds had ticked by. “I mean, I had to read a couple at school like everyone else, but I’ve actually seen one performed.” Holly felt pathetically grateful to him for ending the silence. Then he added, “Have you, Orla?” and she realised that he hadn’t been trying to do her a favour; he was merely trying to get a conversation going with her friend. It worked too. Orla turned to face him properly, putting her shoulder to the group. Holly, James and Aisling took the hint and sent small looks to each other. Just as they had done the previous week, they had now effectively split into two factions.

Holly sipped on her drink, feeling quite sure that she had made no progress whatsoever. On her side of the divide, none of them seemed to have any stomach for continued discussion of the theatre – John and Orla had no such qualms – but no other topic presented itself. They busied themselves for a few moments with smiling inanely and trying to look like they weren’t eavesdropping on the other pair.

Then Aisling half-choked on her drink. “There’s Ronan,” she said, wiping her chin. “Isn’t it? It is. Oi! Ronan! Ronan!” She got to her feet and started waving so frantically that her hip jarred Orla, who spilled a fair portion of her wine all over John’s lap, much to their mutual horror.

The man Aisling was waving at was Ronan O’Dowd, an ex-boyfriend. Aisling’s relationships hardly ever ended well – she seemed to go out of her way to make sure that they didn’t – but her break-up with Ronan had been a rare exception. Not only was the actual split relatively civil, they had remained quite friendly. This made him utterly unique. He and Aisling weren’t exactly close, but they got together once in a while, usually (as far as Holly could tell) when one of them had something new in their lives that they wanted to boast about. Aisling hadn’t mentioned him for some time, which seemed to indicate that their semi-friendship was, at long last, petering out. Holly and Orla had certainly hoped so; they’d always hated his guts. Tonight, Ronan had a female in tow. She was tall – much taller than Ronan, who had the approximate dimensions of a fridge – and irritatingly pretty. Not as pretty as Aisling, Holly noted, but still way out of this clown’s league (How does he do it? she wondered absently). They approached slowly for extra drama, or rather Ronan did and she followed suit. To her credit, she had an impatient look on her face and seemed to be on the point of prodding him in the back and telling him to get a move on.

“Well, well, well, look who it isn’t,” Ronan said as he arrived. “It’s Charlie’s Angels.”

He’d always called them that when he and Aisling were together. It made Holly want to go for his throat with her teeth.

“Where have you been hiding?” Aisling said, leaning across the table to give him a peck on the cheek.

“I’ve been around and about,” Ronan said. “You know me, Aisling. Never stand still, that’s my motto.”

“Never trust a person who has a motto,” Holly said. “That’s my motto.” Everyone looked at her. She’d done it again. In her mind’s eye, she gave herself a good slap. If you can’t say something nice, she reminded herself.

He gazed right through her. “Hello. On your way back from another funeral, I see.” His companion gave him a not-very-inconspicuous elbow in the ribs. “I’m only joking,” he explained. “She has a thing for black. It goes with her soul.” He laughed at his own joke. He didn’t just smile or giggle; he laughed.

“I’m Michelle, by the way,” the mystery woman said. The girls nodded and said their names. Aisling gestured to James and John and supplied theirs too.

“Michelle is my special lady,” Ronan purred. He was obviously being ironic but it didn’t sit well with him, Holly thought. It was like watching George Bush pretending to make a gaffe.

“And how long has this been going on?” Aisling asked. She waggled her finger between them, her tone mock-disapproving.

“Just a few weeks,” Ronan said. “We met at the gym.”

A wide variety of slurs jockeyed for position in Holly’s mind. With a tremendous effort of will, she pushed them all aside.

“Good for you,” Aisling said. “And how is he treating you, Michelle?”

“Not as well as he should,” she said with a smile that was perfectly judged; it probably looked real enough to Ronan, but a woman would know that it had undertones. Holly decided that she liked her.

“What about you?” he said to Aisling. “Anything wild or wonderful?”

“Not a thing. Same old same old.”

Ronan nodded. Aisling nodded back. There was silence – lots of it.

Then Ronan beamed. “Have a guess,” he said to Michelle, “what Holly’s second name is?”

“Good God . . .” Holly said and took a gulp of her drink.

“I wouldn’t have a clue,” Michelle said. She was clearly embarrassed.

“Go on. Guess.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, but just g–”

“Smith.”

“Christmas!” he boomed. “Holly . . . Christmas. Isn’t that wild? It drives her nuts. Doesn’t it, Holly?”

“Things could be worse,” she said with a small shrug. “As I’m sure Michelle would agree.”

This little barb was quite justified, she felt; she was merely defending herself. Ronan tried to smile but didn’t quite pull it off. Michelle fared much better with her effort. Holly’s opinion of her rose still further. She sincerely hoped that she would do better for herself, and soon.

“Holly Christmas,” Ronan repeated. “I’ll never get over it.”

“My second name is Bond,” James said brightly. “What do you make of that? You know – James Bond, the celebrated spy. I’m sure you’ve heard the name before.”

Ronan peered at him. Holly knew that like all humourless people, he lived in fear of ridicule. She greatly enjoyed watching his eyebrows fall and rise as his tiny brain tried to work out whether or not he was being mocked.

“Funny,” he said, somewhat uncertainly.

“I’m not joking,” James assured him. “Would you like to see some ID?”

Ronan shook his head.

“I love having an unusual name,” James went on in the same breezey tone. “I think it’s a hoot. Holly does too, mind you. She just doesn’t like to admit it.” He shot a quick look in John Lennon’s direction. Holly understood this to mean: Would you like to join in?. John gave his head the tiniest of shakes. This was probably for the best, Holly decided. It would be over-egging the pudding. James immediately returned his attention to Ronan. “What’s your own surname, by the way?”

Ronan swallowed. “O’Dowd.”

James smiled. “Ronan . . . O’Dowd.” Holly wasn’t quite sure how he did it, but he managed to make it sound pathetic. “Well . . . that’s nice too.”

“Yeah,” Ronan said, recovering just a little of his swagger. “I get by. Anyway, listen – we have to get going. We’re meeting some people and we’re late as it is.”

Aisling went in for another cheek-peck. “It was great to see you,” she said, unconvincingly.

“You too,” Ronan said.

“Nice to have met you all,” Michelle said and – somewhat unnecessarily, because she hadn’t moved an inch – waved from the elbow.

“Yeah, see you, Michelle,” Holly added before giving her boyfriend the briefest of glances. “Ronan.”

The others raised hands and mumbled farewells. Ronan made one more attempt at a grin, then turned on his heels and left much more quickly than he’d arrived. Michelle walked behind him – quite a bit behind, Holly was pleased to notice.

“Christ, that was a bit awkward,” Aisling said as soon as they were gone.

“Well, what the hell did you call him over for?” Holly snapped and then immediately softened her tone. “They were on their way out. They would have just wafted on by.”

“I dunno,” Aisling shrugged. “I just got the feeling that he’d been ignoring me lately. He hasn’t called in ages.”

“Had you called him?”

“No.”

“Well, then. You don’t really want to be friends with him. It’s just a bit of a novelty, having an ex-boyfriend who doesn’t wish you dead because you handed his heart to him in a little bag.”

“Ah,” James said. “An ex. I was wondering.”

“In fairness to her,” Holly went on, “not all of her exes are as obnoxious as he is.”

“Ronan isn’t obnoxious,” Aisling countered. “He’s just a bit . . . ”

“. . . of a tool?” said Holly.

“I was going to say ‘insecure’.”

“Anyway,” Holly said quickly – the tool comment had just slipped out – “thank you, James, for leaping to my defence.” Her fingers clenched. Now she was sounding impossibly wet. Had she no control of herself whatsoever? “On the name thing. He takes the piss every time we meet.”

James nodded, then caught John’s attention by throwing a beer-mat at him. “Wouldn’t have killed you to back me up there, Mr Walrus,” he said.

John made a gesture of indifference.

“While you’ve got your shining armour on,” Aisling said, “maybe you could pop over to my office and sort something out for me.”

“Oops,” Holly muttered. “Forgot to ask. How’s that going?”

Aisling gave her a look. “Yeah, cheers. I could be spending my fifth night tied to an altar in his secret lair for all the attention you’ve paid.”

“What’s this all about?” James asked.

Aisling told him all about Kieran, making an extra-special effort (it seemed to Holly) not to sound conceited and irrational. Orla only paid attention up to the point where the word “stalker” was mentioned; thereafter, she re-engaged John in their private tête-à-tête. James, on the other hand, listened carefully. His eyes grew ever wider as the story progressed and when she came to the revelation about her desk-drawer discovery, seemed to take over the top half of his face.

“Wow,” he said. “That’s not good.”

She shook her head. “Nope. Tell you the truth, James, I’ve been a bit upset about it.”

“So what’s the latest?” Holly asked.

“Nothing’s happened since,” Aisling said. Somehow, she managed to deliver this piece of non-news as if it was the climax of a spooky story.

Holly drained her drink. “Grand, so.”

Aisling shook her head and gave James a sad little glance as if to say, You see what I have to put up with.

“I’d hardly call it ‘grand’,” he said. “This sounds serious to me. You’ve told your boss, I presume, Aisling?”

Her head drooped. “No. I don’t know, I just . . . I suppose I’m kind of embarrassed. I’m afraid of sounding paranoid.”

Holly waited to see if she would add anything else. Double entendres? Wife doesn’t understand him? She didn’t.

“That’s understandable,” James said. “But still. You can’t let him get away with that sort of carry-on.”

Holly looked around for someone to order more drinks from but there was no one. “I’m going to the bar,” she announced. “Same again all round?”

Aisling and James nodded. Holly practically had to wave her arms about to get Orla and John’s attention. They seemed to have made a lot of progress very quickly. Both wore dopey grins as they agreed that, yes indeed, fresh drinks would be a fine thing. It seemed that on this score at least, the night was going to be a success. While she was waiting to be served at the bar, Holly took stock. It was beginning to dawn on her that she’d spent too much time concentrating on being pleasant – a task at which she had almost entirely failed, in any case – and nothing like enough on actual flirting. It was time to buckle down and get to it. Now, flirting – how did that go again? She bit her lip and frowned. She’d read countless magazine articles on the subject over the years, of course, but because she’d always thought that they were written by morons for morons, she’d never really paid much attention. Physical contact was an obvious one, but that wasn’t going to happen. She’d trailed behind as they’d taken their seats and, despite her frantic jostling, had wound up on the opposite side of the table to James. There was no way she could casually brush his wrist, say, without first getting to her feet and reaching across like a drowning victim going for a rope. She’d had as much physical contact as she was going to get in the theatre, she feared, and that hadn’t amounted to much (once or twice, while rubbing her forehead in an attempt to ease the tension, she had poked him in the arm with her elbow). Eye contact was another good bet, but that was not without its problems either. She’d been trying to maintain same all night and had discovered that it wasn’t easy. James was the eye-contact type to begin with. Any attempt to match him eyeball for eyeball soon began to feel less like a sexy dalliance than a staring contest. Get touchy-feely, make eye contact . . . There was a third big one, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t remember what it was.

She glanced back at the table – and froze. The sensation that swept over her (from the ground up, it seemed) was both confusing and disturbing. She felt a deep conviction that something was wrong, but it was not immediately obvious what it was. Her eyelids slowly closed and opened, closed and opened. There was nothing unusual about the scene. It was just as she’d left it. Orla and John. James and Aisling. And then it hit her. They looked like two couples. She could put it no other way. It was more a gut feeling than a coherent thought. Was it the way they were sitting? The angle of their heads? The gestures they were using? Their expressions? She couldn’t put her finger on it. But she couldn’t help but see a two-word phrase flashing in her head: Double Date. Over her shoulder, a barman gruffly asked if she was just standing there for the hell of it or did she want a drink or what. She turned and gave him the order in a slow monotone, dimly aware that in any other circumstances she would be eviscerating him for his rudeness. She took a deep breath and leaned against the bar for support. What was going on here? Why did she feel so upset? So what if James and Aisling looked like a couple? Big deal. They weren’t. And then her conscious mind reached the conclusion that her subconscious had apparently already embraced. They looked like a couple because, just like Orla and John, they were on their way to being one. She risked another glance at the table. As if on cue, James said something and shook his head in disbelief. Aisling threw her head back and laughed, then rocked forward again. As she did so, she grabbed his forearm, patted it once, twice, three times – Stop it, you’re killing me – and then withdrew her hand. Holly’s knees wobbled. The barman returned with the drinks. She paid him and made a triangle of the glasses between her hands. The walk back seemed to take several minutes. James jumped up from his seat as she approached and took the drinks from her. She went back to the bar to get the other two and her change.

“Cheer up,” the barman said as he slapped the coins into a beer puddle by her outstretched hand. “It might never happen.”

This snapped her out of her funk. “Get yourself some deodorant,” she said as she made a big deal of picking up the money. “You smell like a chimp’s crotch.”

She turned on her heels and went back to the table.

“I’ve been doing my damsel-in-distress bit,” Aisling informed Holly as she gave Orla and John their drinks (they barely looked up).

“Is that right?” Holly said. As if things weren’t bad enough already, she misjudged the height of her seat; it was more of a falling-down than a sitting-down.

“Yeah. About Kieran. James is up for bumping into him in a dark alley somewhere. He’s such a sweetheart.”

Holly raised an eyebrow at him. “Really? I’m surprised. I didn’t have you down as the physical type.”

He frowned, or at least pretended to. “I never said anything about a dark alley, to be fair. I just said that someone should have a word with this guy. Actually, now that I think about it, I didn’t even say it should be me.”

Aisling reacted to this as if was some devastating Wildean quip. She roared with laughter and although she didn’t go for a forearm pat this time, she did shake her head and say, “James, James, James, you’re gas.”

Say their name as often as possible, Holly fumed to herself. That was the third one. Get touchy-feely, make eye contact and say their name as often as possible. She didn’t want to look directly at Aisling, but she was sorely tempted to tell her that she’d forgotten to add her trademark hair-flip. And this “sweetheart” business . . . She’d called him that during their phone conversation the other day too. The one in which she’d asked Holly if there was anything on the horizon between herself and James; the one in which Holly had said no – she wasn’t interested.

“Are you all right, Holly?” James asked. “You look a bit miserable.”

“But then again, don’t I always?” she said with a little exhalation that even she recognised as sickeningly self-pitying.

“No. Of course you don’t. Did something happen at the bar?”

She leaped at this unexpected opportunity. “Yeah. Well, sort of. Barman was a bit of a cretin, that’s all.”

For half a second, she allowed herself to hope that James might offer to “have a word” with him too. He didn’t.

“Holly has the worst luck with cretins,” Aisling said. “Service industry cretins, especially. She made a waiter quit on the spot once. Made him cry too.”

“That’s a total exaggeration,” Holly said.

The incident in question had taken place a few years previously. They’d been out for a cheap and cheerful Friday-night pizza, just the two of them. Their waiter cocked up both starters and both mains, then began rolling his eyes and mumbling obscenities when they politely pointed out the mistakes. The final straw came with the bill. It seemed suspiciously heavy and, upon closer inspection, turned out to include the sum of thirty-odd euros for a bottle of sparkling water. Holly’s recollection was that Aisling had been just as angry as she was and hence just as responsible for the waiter’s sudden, tearful, furious and tremendously loud exit. Not that either of them was fully to blame, really. An apologetic manager had come over to explain that the guy had recently broken up with his girlfriend and had been showing up to work either late or drunk for a week. If he hadn’t walked out, there was little doubt that he would shortly have been escorted out. The way Holly remembered it, she and Aisling had felt bad about their role in the end of his waiting career and had asked the manager to give the guy another chance if he ever showed up again. In the version of events that Aisling presented to James, however, the waiter had “been under a bit of stress”, admittedly, but regardless of his mental state could not possibly have been expected to survive the “torrent of abuse” that Holly – acting alone, apparently – had heaped upon him.

When it became clear that she was getting turned over, Holly decided not to interrupt. She would keep her powder dry and issue a firm rebuttal when it was all over. But as the story dragged on, she decided that she couldn’t be bothered. What was the point? What good would it do her in the long run? When Aisling decided to give a man a shot at the title, there was only ever one outcome. So it was already too late. In fairness to him, James didn’t seem to think of it as a story about Holly at all. He was more interested in the poor waiter and his tragic romance. It was a response that just half an hour previously would have had Holly swooning. Now it made her feel even worse. She looked to her right and saw that Orla and John both had their phones out. They were swapping numbers. She looked back at Aisling and James. They were leaning towards each other now, gazes locked. A sense of panic swept over her. What was she supposed to do, just sit there and watch them edging ever closer together, pausing occasionally to give her a dirty look or, worse, a moment or two of pity attention? Four’s company, she thought, five’s a crowd.

“Listen,” she said, so loudly that all four of them jerked their heads in her direction. “I’m getting a splitting headache. I think I’ll just put myself in a taxi and head on home.”

There was some perfunctory interrogation. Was she sure? This was very sudden. Would she be all right on her own? Had she any tablets in her bag? Then the questions just stopped coming. Before she had time to second-guess her hasty decision, she was waving goodbye over her shoulder.