I take a sip of my vodka and white and look in the mirror again. It helps. Narcissus must have been drunk when he fell in love with himself.
I go back out and consider finding Mam, but I don’t want to get caught up in her latest feud with Shirley. Mam wants to put the cake she made for James out on one of the tables but Shirley insists it should stay in the back as she already has a proper cake. Mam’s cake is impressive. The 2 is made entirely out of boiled potatoes and the 5 is made up of eight loaves of brown bread, the great loves of James’s life. In fairness, the potatoes were boiled today so they are fresh and Mam has kindly offered to attend the cake and peel a potato or cut a slice of bread on request. Shirley says it will start a food fight, disrupt the party, and destroy her pub.
Shirley and Mam never got on. Apart from Mam leading James up the garden path, there was always a strange sort of competition between them. Or jealousy. I don’t know. They both crave male attention and Shirley gets plenty of it being behind the bar. The clucking hen in her doesn’t take kindly to Mam sidling up to punters and distracting them until the night ends. There’s a running joke that closing time comes quicker when Mam is in.
I scan the crowd, looking for Billy. I study the faces of women with the intensity of a palm reader as if I can tell by their expressions whether they just do their bikini line, or if they are more of a landing strip or Brazilian type. I get to Alannah Burke and imagine she is all silicone underneath those high-waisted jeans. She started waxing the hair off her arms in fourth class.
I wonder if anyone else can sense that I’m naked down there. There is a morning shadow that I couldn’t get rid of, no matter how close I got with the razor. If any boy was to slip a hand under the cotton of my knickers, he may as well be stroking the stubble of a man’s chin.
* * *
And oh God, there he is.
The boy who stands at the back of mass.
* * *
I walk over to the old man section of the bar. I hope that he’s watching me. Maybe if I pretend he doesn’t exist, he’ll notice me.
“Heyyyy Debbie.” A drunken child stumbles toward me and puts his hand on my shoulder to steady himself. He’s one of the Condrons, I think. He must be about thirteen.
“Hi,” I say to his hand on my shoulder.
His ears are red with embarrassment but the drink has loosened his tongue. “Any chance of a shift?” he asks.
I remove his hand from my shoulder and say, “Come back to me when your balls have dropped.”
His posse of friends laugh and I feel myself blushing, so I walk away. My heart is beating faster than it should after a confrontation with a thirteen-year-old. Word has obviously gotten around to the younger generation that I would shift anything with a pulse. They just have to ask, or get their friend to ask.
I kiss boys out of curiosity. I can tell if it’s their first time. It usually is, even now that we’re eighteen. You’d be surprised. Some of them use me as a crash test dummy. Others think that they can grab a boob or put their hands down my pants, until I set them straight. I’m strictly PG. I’ve had one request to replicate the upside-down Spiderman kiss. Another guy messaged me when it was raining one break-time to meet him behind the prefab and we kissed in the rain. He had awful chewing-gum breath and thanked me profusely afterward. I was worried that he’d ask again and I wouldn’t have the heart to say no. That’s the thing. Once you start saying yes, it’s very hard to say no. I’ve kissed so many boys that I don’t fancy just because I feel sorry for them. I facilitate a moment where their fantasy drops into reality. It’s sad though, because reality is so wet and disappointing. I’m not the fantasy girl they have in mind. I’ve only ever had one fantasy and he stands at the back of mass.
Some of the guys are really sweet. Tom Murphy took off his glasses before he kissed me—folded them and put them on the windowsill at an angle so that it felt like they were watching us. He held my hand and traced the side of my face before he went in. We were fourteen. That was probably my favorite kiss. I’ve never kissed a boy that I actually fancy. I don’t know what that would feel like.
* * *
The music stops and the DJ calls James up for twenty-five kisses. James went on a holiday to America for his twenty-first birthday, and Mam always mourned the fact that he didn’t have a proper twenty-first. He’s probably the first person in history to have a twenty-first themed twenty-fifth birthday party. A line of girls forms and I consider joining but it would be weird to kiss James, even on the cheek. A couple of the lads from the hurling team are straddling him. We’re getting to twenty-three, twenty-four. James stands up and calls Mam up for his twenty-fifth kiss.
Sweet Sensations
I log into Facebook and creep on Xanthe’s page again. Xanthe Woods (2,345 Friends). I have 71. And I’m really pushing the boat out. I’m accepting requests from people I haven’t spoken to since primary school. Hairdressers. Personal trainers. I even accepted an organization called God’s Power the other day in an effort to bump up the numbers. It’s stressful having it right there in brackets, next to my name.
Xanthe seems to have no trouble with the task of curating her online identity. Her profile picture is not a pixelated zoomed-in version of her happy head—no, no. Xanthe is not so basic. She has chosen a black-and-white portrait of a bird taking flight. I flick back through previous profile pictures. The back of her head against a blue sky. An overhead shot of her sitting cross-legged in the grass reading Middlemarch with a daisy tucked behind her ear.
She probably does this all the time. She meets someone a few times in real life, stalks them online, and virtually begs them to be her friend. I imagine her trying to casually wrangle surnames out of people as soon as she is introduced to them.
I get a message notification and my heart hops up my throat. I wish I could be cooler about this. It’s from Xanthe:
Hey Debbie! A few of us are heading for drinks tonight if you want to join. You’re welcome to stay at mine if it’s a hassle for you to get home. No pressure! Speak soon X
Does she mean X as in a kiss or X as in look-at-this-iconic-way-I-can-abbreviate-my-name? I write back:
Sounds great! Where do you live?
* * *
Xanthe lives in an apartment on James Street above a sex shop called Sweet Sensations. The shop advertises itself as an Adult Store and Cinema. I try not to imagine what the cinema looks like. Before I get there she warns me about a homeless man who has set up camp in the doorway of the apartments. I’m relieved that he’s not there when I arrive. I don’t know how to work the buzzer so I message her: Hey! I’m outside. A few minutes later she pushes open the heavy green door. She’s in a dressing gown, her hair still wet from the shower.
“Hey! So glad you could come!” She grins at me to fill the space where we’re supposed to hug.
“Thanks for having me, are you sure it’s OK for me to stay?”
“Of course! The couch is really comfy. I hope it’s OK for you.”
“Of course, thanks so much.” I look around the dirty cream walls and scuffed brown carpet. “I don’t know why I thought you lived in Halls.”
“Oh, I wish. No, my dad bought this apartment when there wasn’t a sex shop underneath it. He thought it would be an investment.”
“Your dad’s a landlord?”
“Haha, he’d love that. Makes him sound like a medieval villain. This is the only property he owns, apart from our family home. He’s a doctor. Actually he’s working in the A&E across the road tonight.”
“Cool.” I smile politely.
“Yeah. Sorry we have to take the stairs. The lift is broken.”
“Not at all, I’m so unfit. Need the exercise.”
We reach a corridor of doors. It’s obvious from the noise which one is hers. The door is held open by a stiletto. I’m relieved at the sight of it. I was unsure whether we were wearing heels or flats.
There are four girls squeezed into a bedroom in various states of getting ready. I recog
nize Orla, the roommate. Griffin is in the corner curating the music playlist. They don’t acknowledge my entrance. The space is small. You couldn’t swing a cat in it, Billy would say. A tiny kitchenette, a couch that faces out toward the window, and a balcony that seems more suited to a prison.
Xanthe throws out both hands. “Mi casa es su casa.”
“Can I guess which room belongs to you?”
“Go on.”
I point to the one nearest the bathroom with a massive crocheted blanket covering the bed.
“Is it that obvious?” Xanthe asks.
“Yeah,” I say. She follows me into the room. There are books piled up along the wall. Incense sticks, a ceramic elephant, and an old-fashioned camera lie on her bedside locker. “Is that a Rolleiflex?” I ask.
“Yeah, I got it for my twenty-first.”
She picks it up and points it at me. I instinctively put my hand up to my face, feeling like a criminal coming out of court. “You’re twenty-one?” I ask.
“Mmm-hmm, I did an art course in NCAD before settling down to do another arts course. I’ve the life of Reilly, me.” For the first time since I’ve met her, she seems uncomfortable.
“That’s class,” I say. I’m a bit relieved. She’s so good at starting college because she’s done it before.
“What are you drinking? I can offer you warm Polish beer from Aldi?”
“Oh no it’s grand, I have a three-euro bottle of Lidl wine which I imagine is going to go down like water.”
“Well, we’ve run out of glasses, but there are mugs in the press there.”
“Sounds ideal,” I say.
* * *
It’s only when I take off my coat that the other girls clock me.
“Nice jumpsuit,” the most intimidating one says, looking me up and down before returning to the mirror to finish the flick of her liquid eyeliner.
“Thanks, it’s my mam’s.”
“Cute.”
She looks at Xanthe in the mirror. “Are we going legs in or out?”
Xanthe shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet.”
This is the reason I wore a jumpsuit. It’s balanced in the middle of the legs in and out spectrum. Going legs in means going casual, wearing a pair of jeans and a nice top. Legs out requires more effort, shaving your legs, tanning, and putting on a dress.
“Charlotte Rampling,” says Griffin, his head cocked to one side. He’s staring at me. I feel a splotchy red wave spread across my chest and neck. “With a touch of Belle Dingle from Emmerdale.”
“Stop it, Griff, you ghoul,” Xanthe says.
“You look a bit like Harry Styles,” I tell him. Xanthe laughs.
“I’ll take that as an insult.”
“Where are we going tonight?” I ask.
“Workmans.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s along the quays.”
“Sounds like it’s in a quarry.”
The intimidating girl sits down beside me and crosses her legs. “So are you from a farm farm?”
“As opposed to a not a farm farm?”
From her expression, I gather that she has decided to like me.
* * *
I’m drinking wine out of a child’s sippy cup that a previous tenant left behind. It’s bright pink and has Little Miss Princess on it. Three sippy cups of wine in and I’ve gone full-blown culchie. I’ve made a drum out of the windowsill and taught everyone how to sing “Don’t Forget Your Shovel” by Christy Moore.
Xanthe has changed into tight red leather trousers—the type that would look ridiculous on a normal person—and a plain white T-shirt. A silver elephant dangles from her neck. She’s wearing a pair of Converse. The other girls have been drinking in their pajamas until now. They have their hair and makeup done, they were just waiting for Xanthe to dictate their outfit choice. Within half an hour the girls take turns to go into the bathroom to change into black leather trousers, T-shirts, and flats. I feel ridiculous wearing heels.
Xanthe appears not to notice the power she wields. She’s sitting on Griffin’s knee drinking her Polish beer.
“So, are you two together?” I ask. Everyone bursts out laughing. Griffin reaches out and grasps my hand. “You’re so new, I love you.”
“You’ve no gays out in the sticks?” one of the girls asks.
“What? But you’re so handsome,” I say.
“I know.” Xanthe ruffles his curls. “The girls are always asking me how many drinks it would take to turn him straight.”
“Vultures, the lot of ye,” Griffin says.
I’m unreasonably angry with both of them—at Xanthe for setting the casual dress code and at Griffin because I thought he was flirting with me. I was sure he was flirting with me and now I feel duped.
“You know, I thought your name was Santy when we met,” I say to Xanthe. “As in Santa Claus.”
“Oh my God, that is the perfect name for you,” Griffin says, jigging Xanthe on his knee. “Our very own Santy.”
I get up to refill my sippy cup and Xanthe opens out her arms and pats her lap. “Come here and sit on Santy’s knee.” I oblige and she wraps her arms around my waist. I feel Griffin’s arms on my back and I start the sing-song again.
Fellas
“Jesus Christ, please wake up.”
My eyelashes are stuck together. I peel one open with a finger. I’m naked in a bed I don’t recognize, being jostled awake by a stranger.
“Morning,” I murmur.
“Thank Christ for that. Listen, I’m really sorry but I have to go.”
“OK bye.”
“I can’t leave you here.”
“Where’s Santy?”
“Who?”
“Santy,” I say, frowning.
He crouches down beside the bed and looks at me. “I have to meet my mother for lunch and I can’t leave you in my bed.”
“Oh.”
“So I would appreciate if you got some clothes on.”
“All right.” I feel around the bed for my underwear.
“They’re over here,” he says, reaching down the side of the bed and flinging my knickers in my face.
“Do you have any flats I can borrow?” I ask.
“I don’t.”
“I can’t wear heels at this hour.”
“You’re going to have to.”
“You’re a hurler,” I remember.
“Yes,” he says impatiently.
“You play county.”
“I played for the minors, once upon a time.”
“What size hurl do you use?”
“A 32.”
“That’s small.”
“It is.”
“Where do you play?”
“I won’t play anywhere if I’m late to meet my mother. She’ll break my legs.”
“Are you giving her your dirty clothes to wash?”
He smiles at this. “I am, actually.”
“I think it’s too early in our relationship to meet the parents,” I say.
“Definitely,” he agrees.
* * *
There is no awkward kiss goodbye. He gives me directions to the train station. My pride prevents me from asking why we’re not taking the same form of transport. He produces car keys from his pocket, clicks open the doors of his TDI Golf, and drives off in the direction of town.
People look at me with amusement as I clip-clop toward the station. I feel the thrill of being bold. Dark. Edgy. A divil. Then I remember something Griffin said last night when I tripped and fell down the stairs of the pub. “The lower the self-esteem, the higher the heel.” He must have thought I was too hammered to hear. The pang went right through the haze of my drunkenness.
* * *
I rest my head against the vibrating window of the train back into town. I look at my phone. Eleven missed calls. A message from Xanthe.
You OK, Debs?
Santy. Woke up in Drumcondra with a county hurler. On the way to yours now.
Haha you’re some w
oman. I’ve the kettle on.
I feel the power of the story formulating in my head. Meeting the guy out—I think I used him as something to lean against more than anything else. Kissing him meant staying upright. Losing Xanthe and Griffin. Hot chip burning the roof of my mouth. Spending ages sitting on a curb and walking blue-black streets in the rain to find a taxi that would take us back to his. Playing an uncoordinated indoor hurling match with his housemates in their sitting room. Tumbling into bed and resting my head on his warm chest and not thinking about anything, not being afraid of going to sleep.
* * *
It’s just Xanthe in the apartment when I get there. She’s sitting up in bed with two pillows behind her back like a patient in a hospital.
“It smells like boy in here.”
“Griff is hardly a boy.”
“He slept here last night?”
“We passed out in bed together. We may have kissed. It doesn’t matter. He’s gay.”
“How gay is he though? Honestly?”
“Very.” She sighs. “I’ve always had a thing for him. And then he came out to me, and I felt kind of relieved. Like, it’s not me, it’s my gender. Is that stupid?”
“I think he’s a bit of a prick to be honest.”
“I know.” She laughs. “You made that clear straightaway.”
“Oh fuck, did I?”
“Yes, Debbie. He knows you think he’s ridiculous in his expensively ripped jeans.”
I shrug. “Well, he got me back last night.”
“What did he say this time?”
“He made fun of me for wearing heels. Said something about how having low self-esteem means wearing higher heels.”
Xanthe frowns. “I wouldn’t mind that at all. Griff is a funny one. He gets jealous sometimes.”
“Of what?”
“You’re an attractive girl who guys fancy. Griff tends to fall for straight guys. It took a long time for him to accept his own sexuality. He’s still in the process of trying to accept it.”
“Oh.”
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