‘Why do you think he dated these girls?’ Laura asks, trying to sound disinterested.
‘Because Solomon is so uninteresting himself,’ he says, and there’s a hardness in his voice.
Being with Rory, bizarrely, makes her feel connected to Solomon. They’re alike, for a start. Rory’s hair is short and tight, and he’s shorter in height, his features are less defined, but he’s like a miniature version of Solomon. He’s mousier, more baby-faced, while Solomon is stronger, harder, has sharper edges, everything is more intense – his movement, his stance, especially his eyes. Rory’s posture is casual, his eyes rarely rest on hers, they’re always looking around. They sparkle, they have a glimmer, a playful shine that reveals his inner spark and his mischievous nature, but they don’t settle on anything for too long, nor does his concentration. That makes him an interesting person to be around. He talks while looking at something else, usually the thing he’s talking about, because most of what he says is about somebody who’s near them. He does funny voices, pretends to do the voices of the couple sitting nearby. He makes up their conversation until Laura’s stomach hurts so much from the laughter that she has to tell him to stop.
He’s a carpenter, and while she pictures him in a romantic setting carving furniture, just as his dad had for Marie on her birthday, he says it’s nothing like that.
‘Mostly it’s moving around building sites or businesses, doing exactly what they tell you to do, fulfilling a brief,’ he says, bored. ‘To be honest,’ he gives her big eyes and leans in as if sharing a secret, ‘I hate my job. The others don’t know. I couldn’t tell Dad, it would break his heart, I’m the only one who went into the same trade. All the others flew the coop. I’m the one that got left behind,’ he admits, with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
Laura feels he’s being honest, perhaps for the first time since they sat down. She feels she can identify with him in a way. Despite his confidence and his overflowing personality, he’s lost in there.
He finishes his fourth bottle of beer and she can tell he’s restless. She’s so comfortable here, particularly after the two glasses of wine, and she’d gladly stay but he’s fidgeting in his chair, which makes it hard for her to relax.
‘Rory I’m sorry I can’t buy you a drink, I haven’t got a cent to my name.’
He looks surprised.
‘I can’t even get on a bus, even if I did have somewhere to go. I have nothing,’ she says and realises as she says it how much this terrifies her. ‘At least at the cottage I could live off the land, I could forage, I grew my own fruit and vegetables, I had a cupboard filled with preserved foods, pickled foods, dried fruits, enough to get me through the winter when the options were small. I could survive without Tom’s supplies if I had to, but here, in the city, I can do nothing for myself.’ The irony of being surrounded by everything you could ever dream of and wish for and none of it attainable.
Rory’s eyes suddenly light up.
‘That’s where you’re wrong, my dear Lyrebird. You are the most famous person in the world right now.’ And though she tries to laugh this off as ridiculous, he is adamant. ‘I’m going to show you how to forage city-style.’
Foraging in the city includes going into an exclusive club with a twenty-euro entrance fee and not having to pay anything at all because Rory presented Lyrebird to the security guards as if she was a ticket herself. Foraging in the club was finding the right people to talk to who would buy them drinks, and welcome them to their table.
At midnight, when Laura feels herself stumble when talking to a man who reaches out and grabs her arm and continues talking as if nothing happened, with his arm still on her, she snaps out of her bubble of contentment. Excusing herself and freeing herself from his grip, the ground swirls as she makes her way to the toilet. As she goes, everything seems to get louder, the thumping music is in her head, in her chest, bodies bump her, seem closer together than they were. She’s aware of the lack of space when before she felt fine. Once inside the toilets, the music fades and becomes a mere thud in her chest. Her ears are blocked, like they felt on the plane, and need to pop. There is a long queue ahead of her. Things feel very far away, yet she is here. She feels like she is behind herself. Everything moves quickly, her eyes registering everything they fall upon. Girl’s shoe, cut ankle, smudged tan, wet floor, sink, soggy tissues. The hand-drier fires up beside her and she jumps, startled, she holds her hands to her ears and looks down. At her own boots. Drink stains on her boots, splashes of beer and wine and who knows what. She closes her eyes. The hand-drier stops and she removes her hands and looks up. The girl in front of her is looking at her, she recognises her. Laura wonders if she should say something. The girl says something but the hand-drier fires up and Laura blocks her ears again.