Chapter Three
Cormac changes into a shirt and heads out. I turn on the kettle. I know Mum, Tommy and Sheila will want another cup of tea, but I head back to ask for orders anyway. I pause outside the living-room door as Mum raises her voice.
‘Leave it, Tommy!’
I grip the handle.
‘I know, I know. But, Aoife, what’s he playing at?’
‘It’s not my business any more. I can’t deal with him.’
‘There was always something wrong with him. I told you not to marry him. We—’
‘Tommy!’ Sheila snaps. ‘Not the time.’ Her voice softens. ‘Do you even know where he is?’ No reply. Sheila sighs. ‘What happened? Why can’t you tell us?’
There’s a pause. I lean in, pressing my ear against the door. I jump back as it creaks open, but they already know I’m there. Chairs shift. Mum turns away, rubbing her throat, and Sheila’s smile is way too big.
I force my mouth to work. ‘Tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ says Sheila.
‘Aye,’ says Tommy, his face red. ‘And here, maybe a few biscuits from the bread bin. The fancy ones. Treat yourself.’ He laughs a bit too loudly.
Mum is blinking rapidly.
‘Coming up.’ I close the door behind me and rush back to the kitchen.
I clutch the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white. I try to breathe away the simmering anger as the kettle boils. I should demand she tell me what she knows. I’m pissed at him too, but he’s my dad. I have a right to know what’s happened.
Ugh.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s best I don’t.
Dad left us. He’s gone. He chose to leave.
I have to move on.
The kettle clicks and I make the tea. I smile politely as I bring it in. The adults are now talking about house prices.
‘Want to join us, love?’ Sheila asks.
And join their grinning, fake faces?
‘No, thanks.’
‘Maybe you should get some rest,’ Mum says. ‘It’s been a long day.’
A little surge of rebellion heats my chest. ‘Actually, I’m going out with Cormac. He’s invited me to a party.’
‘Oh, are you sure that’s a good—’
‘See you later.’
I walk out before she can stop me.
By the time I get to the party, I’ve either missed the food or nobody can be bothered working out how to turn on the elaborate barbecue in the back garden.
The sugary smell of cider and soft drinks hangs in the air. Cormac gives me a hug and walks me around the garden, introducing me to people as he goes.
‘This is Michael. Aye, the one from England. Nah, nah, he’s all right.’
My cheeks burn and I shake off the impulse to apologise for being part English.
Cormac grabs a can of beer from a bucket and offers it to me.
‘Oh, no, thanks.’
Cormac rolls his eyes. ‘Would you prefer a glass of our finest Merlot, sir?’
‘I don’t really drink.’
He blinks. I’m about to make up a lie about having a virus but maybe I should chill.
‘I will have one actually.’
Cormac smiles widely, seemingly relieved that I’m normal enough to drink. He grins as we clink our drinks together.
‘Welcome home, cuz.’
My shoulders release. I’m determined to relax. ‘Cheers.’
The beer is warm and very bitter. I don’t really enjoy drinking.
When you grow up seeing what it can do, it can put you off.
Still, it’s considered weird not to drink.
Some people always want to know why you aren’t, and it’s too soon for me to lie about having a virus.
Also, why would I come to a party if I had a virus?
I implore my brain to take a break from the hypervigilant overthinking.
No chance.
Cormac seems genuinely happy to have me here, and after the day I’ve had I want nothing more than to feel, just for once, like a regular teenager. No missing Dad, no whispered conversations and absolutely no mysterious and inexplicable blackouts.
Please be normal and blend in.
‘Why did you change your mind?’
‘Oh, needed to get out of the house.’
Cormac nods ‘Total craic vac sometimes.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah.’
‘C-dog!’
Cormac turns. Walking towards us is a guy so goodlooking that I’m momentarily pissed off at the unfairness of his obviously attractive parents getting together.
Lean, cropped hair and dimples – like actual little perfect dimples – on his tanned, stubbly and spot-free face.
He smiles. It’s a cheeky smile, of course.
And, yes, there we go, as he raises his arms (with the T-shirt sleeves rolled up) to hug Cormac, I see his toned biceps.
I’m sweating.
I hate him.
I love him.
‘Paul, remember my cousin Michael?’
Paul flashes me a smile ‘All right? From England, aye?’
I make a squeaking sound and close my eyes.
Kill me.
I swallow and try again. ‘Yes.’
‘Yeah, I remember you. We used to knock about years ago, when you came to stay.’
Why does that make me blush? ‘Oh, right. Yeah. Cool.’ Then I giggle. I actually giggle.
For fuck’s sake, Michael.
Paul frowns. ‘Right, well, see you in a bit.’
He heads off and Cormac raises an eyebrow. ‘Are you broken?’
I tut. ‘No, I just don’t remember him.’
Cormac shrugs. ‘You would’ve met loads of my mates back then. Paul’s good craic. His ma and da go away all the time too, so we’re here loads.’
A guy with huge arms and a bold attempt at a moustache slaps Cormac on the back.
‘All right, Jimmy.’
‘Bout ye. This the cousin?’
I give a little wave. ‘Hi, I’m Michael.’
Jimmy finds this interaction hilarious for some reason, and Cormac seems delighted. I’m beginning to wonder if my cousin invited me here as some sort of performance art piece.
Roll up, roll up. Come see the Englishman. Don’t make eye contact or he’ll steal your land.
‘Hey, Cormac. Where’s the loo?’
‘Loo!’ Jimmy is roaring now.
Cormac laughs too. He’s clearly a little drunk.
I try to keep my voice steady. ‘The toilet. Where is it?’
‘Through the kitchen, on the left.’ He looks past me. ‘Jimmy, put that down, you headcase!’
I don’t feel compelled to see what the great comedian Jimmy is holding up.
My socialisation experiment has failed and I’ve no intention of coming back.
I move past people and head into the kitchen.
A girl with black hair and glasses making a cup of tea gives me the tiniest of nods as I set my beer on the table.
I actually do need the bathroom before I go, so I head to the door and push it open.
‘Eh, what the fuck!’
I spring back and close the door. The heat that surges up my chest muffles most of my hurried apology.
‘Someone’s in there,’ says the girl, stirring her tea and grinning.
The chain flushes behind the door and my mouth drops as I turn to her. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
She shrugs. ‘Thought they’d’ve locked the door. Tea?’
The bathroom door opens and Paul is standing there. ‘All right, you trying to join me?’
‘What? No. Sorry, I—’
Get me out of here.
He grins, that charming wolfish grin, and, yes, his stupid bloody dimples are back. ‘Chill, I’m only sleggin’. You need another beer.’
‘Oh, right. No, I’m good. I should probably go actually. Long day.’
Paul shakes his head. ‘You need to relax, mate. Grab a drink. Get to know your neighbours.’ He laughs and I blush again.
‘Yeah, sure. OK. Thank you.’
‘No worries.’ As he moves past me, I catch his cedarwood aftershave. ‘Lock the door when you’re in there.’ He grins again and I head into the relative safety of the bathroom, checking three times that the door is locked.
I perch on the end of the bath and exhale.
Today has been a lot. If I was being sensible, I would go home.
Except, home isn’t really home any more.
It’s an air mattress in a house full of whispering relatives.
If I go home now, I’ll be greeted by one of Mum’s sympathetic looks that she saves for whenever I present the evidence of my horribly poor social skills.
I can’t bear another ‘It will get easier’ conversation. Mostly because I don’t believe her. I find it so difficult to connect with people. Especially groups of people. Especially groups of lads. Especially groups of lads that find the way I talk hilarious.
The truth is that I’m not sure I want to connect. That’s the thing I’ve never really been able to say to Mum. I like the idea of having lots of friends. I can see the appeal and I can also recognise that, objectively, it’s the normal way to be. But I find people hard. Or maybe they find me hard.
Paul’s cute though.
And straight. He is clearly straight. Stop.
I stand up and look at myself in the mirror, one of my top-five least-favourite activities in the known universe.
Red hair, freckles and scrawny arms. Not a bicep in sight.
I roll my shoulders back and attempt a smile.
I don’t like my smile; the corners of my mouth turn up too much.
A kid in primary school once said I looked like the Grinch.
Screw you, Becky Parker.
There’s a knock on the door.
‘One minute.’
I stare at my reflection, trying to summon a smidgen of confidence. This is a fresh start, I remind myself. People here don’t know me. I don’t have to be weird. I will stay and have another beer. Because I want to. Not because Paul suggested it.
My reflection rolls his eyes at this poorly structured self-deception.
I avoid any interaction with Jimmy, who’s waiting outside the bathroom, and make my way to the garden. There’s a song playing that I recognise and I’m only getting a few looks now. Perhaps I’m not that interesting and can just blend in. The dream!
‘Michael!’
Cormac is sitting at a patio table with the girl from the kitchen. She sips at her tea, smirking.
‘Right, this is Meg.’ Cormac wiggles his eyebrows dramatically. ‘Who I told you about.’
Ah, fuck. Of course it is.
Meg extends her hand. Her short nails are painted different colours. ‘Nice to meet you, Michael.’
Am I meant to shake her hand? I do so, clumsily. ‘Um, yeah. You too.’ I force the words out through a suddenly dry mouth.
‘Sit down, would you?’ says Cormac, grinning widely.