When the bar lights were turned on full and last orders were long finished, and a loud man wearing black began to patrol the bar shouting for them to leave, Richie’s hand moved to the small of Kitty’s back, one finger circling above the waist of her trousers, another creeping downward.
‘Let’s go back to your place,’ he said quietly.
‘No. We can’t, it’s booby-trapped,’ she giggled.
‘I like the sound of that …’ He groped her and they laughed.
‘Let’s go back to yours,’ she said, moving in to kiss him.
He was a long way away in Stoneybatter, and as the lights blurred past and she had to lower the window for some air, she did recall wondering why on earth he had been doing his dry-cleaning on the other side of the city.
If she’d had her notebook with her she would have made a note to ask him. Later, she wished she had.
‘Shit, I’m late.’
‘Late for what?’
‘Birdie.’
‘You’re still pissed.’
They both laughed and Kitty got a whiff of his morning breath and rolled away from him.
‘It’s a story I’m working on.’
‘I thought you weren’t working.’
‘I am, I just don’t know what the story is.’
She sat up and her head pounded so she lay back down again.
‘Are you feeling better today?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were crying about a stolen bike.’
Kitty groaned, then she threw the covers off and wandered around his bedroom looking for her underwear. ‘Where the hell are my knickers?’
He pinched his eyes closed, then opened them again suddenly. ‘The kitchen.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Shit, my head hurts.’
Kitty found her underwear and the rest of her clothes scattered around his tiny kitchen. She looked out the window. ‘Where are we again?’
‘Stoneybatter,’ he called groggily from the bedroom.
‘You know a guy named Dudley Foster?’
‘No, why?’
‘He’s on my list.’ She pulled her jeans on.
‘What list?’
‘My story.’
He appeared at the door in his underwear, and her vision of him now and the memory of how he looked last night were not one and the same. She felt slightly repulsed. She wondered if she should use his shower but then she was worried he’d want to join her and she just couldn’t go there again. Not now. Possibly not ever.
‘Want me to call you a taxi?’
‘Eh. Yes, please.’
He disappeared into his room to make the call and Kitty brushed her hair with a fork, wiped smudged mascara from under her eyes and stole the deodorant from the bathroom. The second apartment bedroom contained a desk with a computer, and pages scattered everywhere: the book. She heard the shower going and was about to go snooping into the novel when the intercom rang. It was the taxi driver, waiting downstairs. She went into Richie’s en-suite and knocked awkwardly on the door but he didn’t hear her. She pushed the door open and was faced with his naked self. Again, not something she could stomach that early in the morning with a dreadful hangover.
‘Taxi’s here,’ she said loudly.
He looked up suddenly and soap went into his eyes. She could tell it was stinging as he tried to wipe his lathered face.
‘Uh, I’d better go,’ she said, handing him a towel, but he couldn’t see as he was rubbing his eyes in a frantic effort to get the soap out. It wasn’t the coolest of looks.
‘Okay,’ he said, water dripping from his nose and mouth. ‘Thanks for … last night.’
‘Yeah, you too.’
The most awkward goodbye ever? Definitely in her top five. She stole a banana, let herself out of the apartment, and it was at least thirty minutes more before she stopped cringing.
It was a beautifully bright and hot sunny May Saturday. Anyone with any sense would not be sitting in traffic unless it was for something worthwhile like going to the beach or the park. Seaside villages would be overcrowded with sun-worshippers, their shops lined with queues for ice creams, any restaurant or café with so much as a chair outside would be the most popular place to be for the day. Instead of joining these people on the sand, or on the grass, or al fresco with her frappuccino, Kitty found herself in a smelly taxi wearing yesterday’s clothes, the faint smell of sweat drifting from her armpits when she lifted her arms. She kept her pits firmly clamped down by her side as she tried not to listen to football match commentary at full blast on the M50, her eyes straining to stay open in the sunlight, her head pounding, her mouth cotton wool from the wine, watching with absolute horror as the meter moved at what she questioned was a legal pace. She read the standard sticker on the window that told her that she and every other passenger was entitled to a journey in a clean, hygienic car and not to be pestered by the driver. The driver smelled like he hadn’t washed in a week, the car was filthy and she couldn’t hear herself think over the noise of the radio. Still, at least he wasn’t talking to her and that was something. She made a note of the phone number.
It was midday by the time she arrived at St Margaret’s Nursing Home, and she had promised Birdie she would be there at ten to follow up on their first interview. She had listened back to Birdie’s story so far and had some more in-depth questions to ask.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Kitty apologised to Molly, the first person she saw when she entered reception.
‘Hoo hoo,’ Molly chuckled at the sight of her. ‘Somebody had a good night.’
Kitty smiled coyly. ‘Do I look that bad?’
‘Not if he was worth it,’ Molly winked, coming around the other side of the desk. Her hair was still blue but her nails had been painted a luminous coral.
‘Is Birdie going to kill me?’
‘Birdie? Birdie wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless the fly is perhaps Freda, the hippie. She’s outside, teaching them a movement class. Last I saw they were pretending to be leaves.’
‘I don’t know her well enough but I can’t imagine Birdie doing that.’
‘You know her just fine. She’s not, but she’d probably rather be. She’s on the lawn with her family. Don’t
