Some Girls Do

Chapter Six




When Luca woke the next morning, he was momentarily baffled by the unfamiliar cosiness of his bed. Then he remembered where he was, as the events of the previous night came back to haunt him. Still, he couldn’t help smiling to himself as he took in his surroundings. He was toasty warm under the duvet in the little box room, the rain drumming heavily on the windows making him feel even more snug. He grabbed his watch from the nightstand and checked the time, surprised to see that it was just after ten. He didn’t usually sleep so late – but, then, he didn’t usually have such a comfortable bed.

At least Claire would have gone to work and he wouldn’t have to face her again. He threw back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face. Then he pulled on a sweatshirt and went out onto the landing. He called Claire’s name, just to be on the safe side, but there was no reply. The house was silent as he made his way downstairs, feeling like an intruder but glad to have the place to himself.

He felt a fresh stab of guilt about his behaviour the previous night when he found his clothes folded neatly on the kitchen table, his boots, stuffed with newspaper, underneath. There was a yellow Post-it note on top of the clothes. It read:


Help yourself to anything you want from the kitchen.

No need to lock anything when you leave. Claire


He looked towards the window and sighed, not looking forward to going back out there. The rain was still bucketing down, and he didn’t want to undo all the benefit of the previous night by getting soaked again. Surely it had to stop some time. He would hang out here for a while, and hopefully it would let up eventually. Then he would leave. Anyway, he reasoned, Claire wouldn’t be back until the evening, and it would make no difference to her if he left now or just before she came home. He figured that her bookshop would be open until at least six on a Saturday so there was plenty of time before he needed to clear out. In the meantime, he could enjoy the warmth and comfort of the house.

He opened the fridge, pleased to see how well stocked it was. He would make himself a proper cooked breakfast – bacon and eggs, lots of toast with lashings of butter. Then he would stand under the scalding shower for another half-hour or so. If it still hadn’t stopped raining, he might watch a bit of television, have some lunch and maybe even take an afternoon nap. He would leave around five, rain or no rain, and would be gone well before she got home. It would be like a little holiday.


At work, Claire was struggling to keep her eyes open.

‘You look rough,’ Tom had said, when she’d arrived. She had done her best with makeup and had bathed her eyes in lots of cold water, but she still looked like something out of Night of the Living Dead.

‘Thanks. I went to that party with Yvonne last night,’ she had told him by way of explanation.

Thankfully, Tom was satisfied with that, had smiled sympathetically and spent the rest of the morning plying her with tea and digestive biscuits. It was a good thing Yvonne wasn’t in today. She wouldn’t have been fobbed off so easily.

She felt worn out and frazzled, having had hardly a wink of sleep. Thanks to that bastard Luca, she had been awake most of the night, crying and fuming. That was what she got for trying to be nice to someone! She wished she had thrown him out instead of cowering in her room as if she was afraid of him. But she hadn’t had the heart – or, if she was honest with herself, the nerve. And that only infuriated her more. Why was she such a bloody wimp? Why couldn’t she be more like her alter ego? NiceGirl wouldn’t have had any problem kicking him out. But then NiceGirl probably wouldn’t have wanted to. She would have met him halfway, and she would have given as good as she got. Claire was no NiceGirl and she knew it.

Maybe Luca knew it too, she thought, horrified at the idea that perhaps he could sense her loneliness and inexperience. Did it cling to her like some kind of aura? Maybe he had felt sorry for her, she thought, with a mixture of shame and indignation.

What was worse, she couldn’t help wondering what it would have been like if she had let it happen. Pitiable as it was, it was the best offer she’d had in a long time – the only offer she’d had in a long time. She wasn’t likely to see him again, so what did it matter what he thought of her? It would have been good to get in a bit of practice too, in case anything happened with Mark. She felt a little tingle of excitement at the thought that she would be meeting him for real. But she was nervous about it, too, because she really wanted him to like her – the real her, not the person he knew online. She wondered if there would still be the same spark between them …


But she knew she mustn’t let her imagination run away with her. Mark probably had a girlfriend and, even if he didn’t, their online flirtation probably wouldn’t translate into real life. She spent far too much time living in a fantasy world. She needed to wise up and get real, literally. It probably would have been disastrous with Luca. He would be used to much more experienced, savvy girls. It would have been awkward and embarrassing, and she’d have felt hopelessly inadequate. Besides, her own self-respect meant there was no way she could have let anything happen with him – not when he saw it as some sort of transaction.

She should just put the whole sorry episode behind her. Maybe she could turn it into a sexy story for her blog. Luca would be gone tonight when she got home and she would have the house to herself again. She was looking forward to getting into her pyjamas and vegging out on the sofa with a takeaway. It was definitely a night for staying in by the fire, she thought, looking out of the window. The rain was still pouring down, rushing in rivers along the pavement. It was forecast to continue for the rest of the day, and there was already flooding in some parts of the city. She felt a pang of guilt as she thought of Luca going out into the downpour and returning to his cold, bleak flat. She couldn’t help thinking of the sad state of his boots when she had put them in the airing cupboard to dry. They were full of holes, the soles worn thin and one of them was completely separated from the upper. Still, he wasn’t her problem.

The day dragged on. It was quiet, the rain keeping most people away, and those customers who did turn up were narky and difficult. Claire dragged herself through until six in a haze of caffeine.

‘Any plans for tonight?’ Tom asked as they closed up.

‘No, just bath and bed,’ she said wearily. ‘On second thoughts, maybe just bed. I don’t think I have the energy for a bath.’

‘Well, enjoy!’

‘Thanks. You too.’ Almost there, she told herself as she made her way to the car, thinking longingly of her sofa and TV. But first she had to visit her mother.


‘Hello!’ Espie beamed when Claire walked into her private room at the nursing home in Blackrock. It was large and bright, pleasant enough as these places went. Great efforts had gone into making it cheery and welcoming, more like a hotel room than a hospital room. But there was no disguising the pall of sickness and infirmity that hung over the place.

Her mother was sitting up in bed, and Claire felt fleetingly reassured by how well she looked. But she knew her mother’s robust appearance was just a cruel illusion. Even now it was sometimes hard to remember how ill she was when she seemed so unchanged in every way. Illness was supposed to alter people beyond recognition, but Espie Kennedy was as plump and rosy-cheeked as ever – except that now her complexion owed more to steroid flush than good health. She still had a mischievous glint in her eye, though, and a curve to her lips, which seemed always on the brink of laughter.

‘So how are you feeling?’

‘Fine. Bored, but fine. I missed you yesterday.’

‘I went to that party with Yvonne from work, remember?’ Claire said, as she took off her coat and sat in the chair by her mother’s bed. ‘I told you about it.’

‘Did you? I think that bloody anaesthetic’s knocked everything out of my head.’

‘Oh, sorry. I thought you knew. You must have been expecting me,’ Claire said, immediately feeling guilty.

‘It’s fine. I’d much rather you were out enjoying yourself. You don’t have to come every day. I know you’re tired after work.’

‘Did you have any other visitors yesterday?’

‘No.’ Espie sighed, putting on a childish pout. ‘I was bored out of my gigantic incontinence pants. No inner resources, that’s my problem.’

God, Claire thought. Couldn’t one of her brothers have made an effort, just once? She had purposely told them that she wouldn’t be able to make it yesterday in the hope that one of them would visit. Why did everything always fall to her?

‘I thought maybe Ronan or Neil would come in.’

‘Oh, they’re far too busy on weekdays. They have jobs, you know.’

‘True,’ Claire said. ‘Unlike the rest of us.’

Neil was a senior executive in a major insurance company and behaved as if he were the only person in the family who had to work, which let him out of all social and family obligations. Ronan, who was a solicitor, was well meaning but scatty, relying on his wife, Liz, to organise his life. Claire sighed. She should have known they wouldn’t come.

‘And let’s not forget they’re very busy with the children,’ her mother said, a mischievous glint in her eye.

‘Like Michelle would ever let us forget.’ Claire rolled her eyes. Neil’s wife was just as self-important as her husband and acted like she was the only woman in the world who had ever given birth.

‘Anyway, don’t worry about me,’ Espie said. ‘At least I’ll be home in a few weeks. It’s the lifers in here I feel sorry for. Poor bastards. They treat them like children. They can’t make any decisions for themselves, and they have no privacy. Today someone brought in a dog for them to pet as a treat. If I ever get to that stage, just shoot me.’

‘Okay.’ Claire smiled. ‘I’ll put a gun on the shopping list.’

‘So, tell me about the party last night. Was it fun?’

Claire shrugged. ‘It was okay.’ Her mother would probably have enjoyed it more than Claire had. Espie loved company, and had an insatiable appetite for meeting new people.

‘Come on, I want details. Entertain me. Did you meet any nice men?’

‘Mum.’

‘You can’t be mean to me when I’m laid up in hospital. You have to indulge me. You’ve a lot to learn about visiting the sick, young lady.’

‘I’m not being mean to you. There’s nothing much to tell, that’s all.’

‘Make something up, then.’

‘Well, let’s see … There were turquoise cocktails to match the furniture.’

‘Did you make that up?’

‘No, that’s true.’

‘Ooh, very glamorous. What did they taste like?’

‘I don’t know. I was driving, so I just had water.’

‘Honestly! You’re hopeless.’ Espie shook her head ruefully.

‘I know I’m a sad disappointment to you,’ Claire said on a yawn.

‘You’re knackered,’ her mother said. ‘You should get on home.’

Claire was shattered, but she felt sorry for her mother cooped up all day with no one to talk to. ‘No, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I can stay a bit longer. Do you want to play cards or something?’

Her mother hoisted herself up a bit in the bed, wincing. ‘Well, maybe just a quick game to keep our hands in. We don’t want to get rusty. There’s a deck in the locker.’

Several rounds of gin rummy later, Claire got up to go.

‘Claire,’ her mother said, as she put on her coat, ‘you know I was just kidding, don’t you – about shooting me?’

‘Of course! But I wouldn’t mention it in front of Michelle, if I were you. She doesn’t have our sense of humour.’

‘God, no! She’d take me up on it, wouldn’t she?’

‘In a heartbeat.’



Claire was almost crying with exhaustion as she walked up the path to her house. She would just go straight to bed and draw the curtains on this wearisome day. She’d feel brighter in the morning after a good night’s sleep. And tomorrow was Sunday so she could have a nice long lie-in.

She went straight to the kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle. She was pleased to see that her impromptu guest had at least cleaned up after himself. Feeling a little more energised now that she was at home, she made tea and took it through to the living room, thinking she might unwind in front of the TV before bed. She flicked on the light and stopped in her tracks – because there on the sofa lay Luca, fast asleep, emitting a low rhythmic growl as he snored.

‘Oh, shit.’ Was there no end to the bloodiness of this day? Why was he still here? Maybe she’d just go straight to bed after all. She could pretend she hadn’t seen him. She was too tired to deal with him right now. With any luck he’d be gone in the morning when she came down. But even as she started to back out of the door, he stirred.


Luca woke to find a dark-haired girl with hazel eyes staring down at him. She was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place her. He glanced around the room, but he couldn’t place that either. Presumably he’d shagged her the previous night and this was her place. It was the only explanation he could come up with, though he had no recollection of kissing her wide, beautiful mouth. But why was he on the sofa, and why were they both fully dressed? And why was she looking at him with such … horror? Then he remembered: food; warmth; a soft bed. Claire – that was her name and this was her house. She was looking at him like that because he wasn’t supposed to be here. He had meant to leave while she was at work, but he’d just lain down on the sofa to shut his eyes for a few minutes … F*ck!

He sat up quickly, rubbing his eyes. ‘Hi. Sorry – I must have fallen asleep. I didn’t mean to …’

She watched him in silence and he could see she was trying to hide how upset she was at finding him still there. But it was clear she wanted him gone. He didn’t blame her.

He sprang off the sofa. ‘Look, I’ll get out of your way,’ he said, moving to the door. ‘Sorry – and thanks for the bed last night. And the dinner.’

‘That’s okay.’ She followed him into the hall. He found his jacket on the coat-stand and she stood watching him as he pulled it on. ‘Will your electricity be back on?’ she asked, her eyes darting from him to the door, which was being rattled by wind and rain.

‘No, but it’s fine. I’ll get it sorted.’

She chewed her lip, and he could tell she was tussling with herself, longing to be rid of him and trying to tamp down the better part of her nature that hadn’t allowed her to kick him out into the rain. He wasn’t sure which side he wanted to win.

‘You’ll get soaked again,’ she said, with a resigned little sigh. He reckoned the better part of her nature probably won out every time.

‘Look, it’s not your problem,’ he said, buttoning up his jacket determinedly. He had to let her off the hook. She had been kind to him and she didn’t deserve to be lumbered with him any longer. She looked exhausted and he could tell she just wanted to be alone.

She followed him to the door. ‘It’s late, and … you’re welcome to stay again if you want to. I mean, unless you have somewhere else to go.’

He opened the door and looked out at the rain. He couldn’t bring himself to go out into it when he had a better offer. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked her.

She nodded.

‘Thank you,’ he said, closing the door. ‘I promise I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow. I’ll leave first thing in the morning.’

‘Well, you know where everything is. Help yourself to anything you want,’ she said, as he removed his jacket and hung it back on the coat-stand. ‘I was going straight to bed anyway.’

Shit! Why couldn’t he have had the decency to brave a bit of rain and leave her alone? Now she was going to spend the night hiding in her room because of his stupidity last night.

As she turned to the stairs, he stopped her with a hand on her elbow. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about last night, about trying to—’

‘It’s okay,’ she said, not turning to look at him.

‘No, it’s not okay,’ he said, more sharply than he’d meant to. But she shouldn’t let him off so easily. ‘I behaved like a total dick, and I’m really sorry.’ He needed her to know that his apology was genuine.

She looked at him and nodded.

‘Please don’t feel you have to go and hide in your room to avoid me. I’m not a complete savage. I know I didn’t show much evidence of it last night, but I can behave like a civilised human being if I have to. If you really can’t stand to be around me, I’ll go to my – er, to the guest room.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s not that. I was planning to go straight to bed because I’m knackered.’

She did look exhausted – not just washed out physically but emotionally too. She was clearly on the verge of tears.

‘Bad day?’ he asked gently.

‘Pretty shitty.’

‘Not helped by coming home and finding me still here,’ he said, smiling wryly. He noticed she didn’t deny it. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘I’m too tired to even think about getting anything. But you help yourself to whatever you want.’

‘Why don’t I make us both something? You cooked for me last night, so it’s the least I can do. That is, if you’d like …’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I have in, though.’

‘How does scrambled eggs on toast sound? Not very exciting, but I happen to know you have the ingredients.’

‘It sounds perfect.’ She smiled.

‘Cool. You were drinking tea when you found me. Why don’t you go and finish it, and I’ll bring the food in when it’s ready?’

‘Okay. Thanks.’


‘This is really nice,’ Claire said later, as they sat side by side on the sofa with plates of scrambled eggs and toast, and big mugs of tea. ‘Thank you.’

‘Are you usually this late getting home from work?’

‘No. I went to visit my mother on the way home. She’s in a nursing home at the moment.’

‘Oh. When you said she was away, I assumed holidays.’

‘She had a hip replacement last week, and she’s in convalescent care now.’

‘But she’s okay?’

‘As okay as she ever is.’

He looked at her questioningly.

‘The operation went well. But she has a lot of ongoing health problems. She has a very dodgy heart so we constantly lurch from one crisis to the next.’ Her eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and her jaw tightened as if she was trying hard not to cry.

‘Is that why you still live with her?’

She nodded. ‘She’s quite incapacitated with arthritis, and between that and her heart condition, it’s not really safe for her to live alone.’

‘What about your dad?’

‘He died when I was two. But he hadn’t been on the scene for years before that. Mum raised us on her own, really.’

‘Us?’

I have two older brothers. They’re both married with children.’


‘No sisters?’

‘No.’ She sighed wistfully. ‘I’d love to have a sister. So, how about you? You said you grew up near Yvonne, so you’re from Dalkey originally?’

‘Yeah. Well, not originally. I was adopted.’

‘From Romania.’ She nodded.

‘Yeah.’ He could see the questions in her eyes, and could tell she was struggling with herself not to ask them. He was glad. He didn’t really want to talk about it. Then it occurred to him that maybe she didn’t need to ask because she already knew the whole story. He hated the thought that she might know all about him. ‘Who told you I was from Romania?’

‘That guy Philip mentioned it.’

‘I bet he did.’

‘So what will you do about your electricity?’ she asked.

‘I’ll figure something out.’

‘Wouldn’t your parents help?’

‘I wouldn’t ask them to.’

‘Oh. Well, why don’t you get a job?’

‘Doing what?’

‘I don’t know. Anything. Just to pay the bills.’

‘I’m an artist. It’s not a very transferable skill.’

‘Well, I’m sure there are plenty of other things you could do. I mean, if you can’t make a living as an artist …’

Oh Christ, not this again. He’d had enough of being harangued over the years – by his parents; by random girls, who decided they would like to be with him if only he were different; by well-meaning friends who wanted to make him their pet project and sort out his life. This was why he didn’t want a girlfriend. They were always trying to change you, to mould you into the person they wanted you to be.

‘I mean, I write but—’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I can just say, “I’m a writer,” and give up work to sit around writing all day.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I have bills to pay. I have my mother depending on me.’

‘Well, I don’t have anyone depending on me. If I’m broke, it doesn’t affect anyone but me. Besides, I don’t “sit around all day”. I work hard. Do you work at your writing?’

‘Yes,’ she said, bristling. ‘But it doesn’t pay the bills, and I don’t think it makes me too special to have an ordinary meaningless job.’

‘Neither do I!’ he protested. She obviously thought he was really up himself. ‘I don’t think working’s beneath me, or any crap like that – though I’ve been told I’m unemployable on numerous occasions, and at this stage I’m inclined to believe it.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I do bits and pieces when I can – casual work that won’t interfere with my painting.’

‘Like what?’

‘I do some framing occasionally for a friend who owns a gallery. And there are a couple of Polish girls in my building who work as cleaners. They pass on jobs to me sometimes when they have an overload.’

‘Cleaning?’ She raised a sceptical eyebrow, no doubt remembering his flat.

‘Yeah, I’m not very good at it,’ he said, with a soft chuckle. ‘The only things I’m really good at are painting and shagging, and I haven’t figured out how to make money from either yet.’


When Claire got up the next morning, Luca had gone. On the kitchen table, he had left an A4 sheet of paper, with a pencil sketch of a bunch of flowers and a message: ‘Thanks for last night – and the night before. Sorry they’re not real. Luca.’ Claire smiled at the drawing, touched by the sweetness of the gesture. Then she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet, as if to mark the end of her acquaintance with Luca. At least it had finished on a good note.