What the hell do I wear to a story-telling thing? Something comfortable, probably. But I need the protection of nice clothes.
There’s a skirt in my wardrobe I’ve never worn, a flared navy crêpe with – very best things ever – pockets in the sides. It’s another of Bronagh’s finds, and it’s genuinely from the fifties, you can tell from the cut, which works well on a woman of my shortness.
I try the skirt with a black blouse patterned with cartoony cats and decide that I’ll do. But the blouse fastens at the back and I can’t reach to get my zip all the way up. I’m not even going to think about Hugh, so I step on to the landing and call, ‘Zip!’
Neeve emerges from her bedroom. ‘Where are you off to in your dead person’s threads?’
‘Out. To a story-telling thing. In town.’
‘You are?’ She does the zip.
‘You know about it?’
‘Yeah. The Google kids and those types like it. They’re all overworked and stressed and, unlike Irish people, they haven’t embraced the relaxing effect of heavy drinking.’ Something terrible seems to occur to her. She clutches my arm. ‘You’re not going on your own?’
‘No, with Alastair.’
‘Work Alastair? Ah, he’s cool.’
I remember now that when the girls had waitressed at the party to launch Hatch, Alastair had tipped them lavishly.
‘Seeing as it’s him you’re going with,’ Neeve says, ‘you’re allowed to enjoy yourself.’
In the lobby of the Kingsley Hotel, in faded jeans and a soft, loose, collarless shirt, Alastair looks younger and hipper, scruffier than his work persona. Yesterday he was clean-shaven but today he has enough chin-hair to almost qualify as a beard. How? Miracle-Gro?
Up the stairs we go and over to a door-girl, who’s wearing the biggest denim jacket I’ve ever seen – it’s easily the size of a shed.
While I’m still fumbling at my bag, Alastair has paid for us both and is hustling me into the room.
‘Stop rushing me!’ I locate a tenner. ‘Here.’
‘My shout.’
‘I don’t want it to be your shout. Take the money.’
‘Calm down, Amy. Really.’
‘Okay. I’ll buy the hot chocolate.’
‘The hot chocolate is included.’
It’s a big, cosy room, the floor scattered with beanbags, hammocks and low couches. The lighting is dim and rosy, and there are snuggly throws strewn about. Lots of people are here already – nearly every man has a beard and a man-bun, and the women are the height of millennial fashion, which is to say they look like they’d got dressed this morning in the first things they found on someone else’s bedroom floor: too-big jackets over dayglo crop-tops and high-waisted acid-wash jeans or shapeless jumpers almost as long as the shiny pleated mini-skirts they purport to cover.
I watch them with envy – I was there for grunge the first time round: the look didn’t work for me then and it wouldn’t work for me now.
Everyone seems to be moving about, stepping over bodies and administering enthusiastic hugs.
Alastair scans the room, says, ‘Over there.’ We pick our way through soft furnishings to an island made from floor cushions, a beanbag, a low table and a nightlight. A girl flaps towards us, wearing what seems to be an entire convent’s worth of black pinafore, and dispenses hot chocolate.
Alastair sits cross-legged on one of the floor cushions and carefully I lower myself to the beanbag. My skirt is too short for this lark – yes, I’m wearing tights, but anyone on gusset-watch would be quids in. Then I realize I’ll have to stand up again to go to the bar. ‘What do you want to drink?’
‘There’s no bar.’
‘What? No alcohol?’ I want to go home. This isn’t for me at all. I’m too old, too set in my ways, too sober …
‘Try your hot chocolate.’
I take a sip. And now my tongue is burnt. ‘So, come here, about Mrs EverDry, I was thinking –’
‘We’re not talking about work.’
‘Well, then, what will we talk about?’
‘Non-work stuff.’
‘You mean personal stuff? I’ll need a drink.’
‘Okay. I’ll go downstairs to the bar.’ He gets to his feet with such lithe grace that a girl standing nearby stares hard at him. ‘What do you want?’
‘Vodka and tonic.’
Left on my own, sprawled on the beanbag, I feel like a bit of an eejit. I try to let a little smile play around my lips, so that I don’t look as uncomfortable as I feel, but it’s no good so I get out my phone and look at emails.
‘Hi.’ A man is staring down at me. He looks slightly messianic – long hair, beard, intense eyes. His age? Impossible to tell, these days, with young men and their beards, right? But somewhere between nineteen and thirty-seven.
‘Can I join you?’
I freeze. What’s the etiquette here? ‘You can, I guess. But –’ And, thank God, here comes Alastair, carrying two glasses.
Messiah Boy follows my stare. ‘You’re with someone? That’s cool. Great top.’
‘Which? Oh, mine? Thank you.’
‘Are they cats?’
‘Yes.’
His clothes are very weird – acid-washed skinnies, sheepskin slippers, sports socks and a shrunken fisherman-style sweater, pilled and bally and the funny thing is that it might have come from a charity shop or it could just as easily have cost seven hundred euro from Dries van Noten.
He retreats to a nearby hammock, where he swings back and forth and eyes me a little insolently.
‘What’s going on?’ Alastair gives me my vodka. ‘Did you get hit on?’
‘I don’t know.’ I take a swig of my drink, which is pleasingly strong, and say, ‘Maybe he was just being friendly. Is this a double?’
‘I thought I’d save myself a second trip downstairs.’
I look around. The room has filled up a lot, and people are lying everywhere. ‘This looks like the setting for an orgy.’
‘It doesn’t,’ says Alastair.
‘How do you know?’
He gives a little smile.
‘Have you really been to an orgy?’ I ask.
‘Why? Would you like to come to one?’
‘I would fecking not,’ I say hotly.
‘You sure?’ He finds this funny. ‘How can you know until you’ve tried it?’
‘Because,’ I take another swig of my drink, ‘to be honest, it’s not sex, per se, that floats my boat. I like romance, I like passion, I like the feels you get when a man says, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” Or “You’re in my head the whole time.” You know?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘See, I’d never be bothered with a lesbian thing. I don’t want sex to be equal – Jesus, this vodka is making me chatty. I like to be dominated in bed, not like spanked dominated, just ordinary dominated. I like to be flung on a bed and for a man to say, “I’ve waited so long to do this,” and I love the weight of a man pressing down on me.’
Alastair’s gone very still. ‘Vanilla.’
‘Totally. I’m ashamed, Alastair, that I’ve no interest in multiples or anal or bondage. What I like is waiting. I like sexual tension. I like being desired. But I’m shy in bed. I’d never do …’ I watch closely for his reaction ‘… reverse cowgirl.’
‘Hmm, yeah.’ He’s thoughtful. ‘I can’t really see it.’
And now I’m offended.
A young woman has parked herself on the end of Alastair’s couch. I lower my voice and lean in to him. ‘Is she on her own?’
‘Stop projecting.’
‘I’ve been married for a long time,’ I hiss. ‘I’m transitioning as fast as I can.’
‘And even if someone arrives here on their own,’ he says, ‘they may not leave on their own. And whatever happens, they’ll hear a nice story and get hot chocolate. Here’s Grigori.’
A huge man, tall and heavy-set, is crossing the room. He’s got a curly beard and wears a linen tunic, a tapestry waistcoat and baggy linen trousers, tucked into leather boots.
‘Oh! He looks just like a story-teller!’ I’m delighted.