Joe wasn’t. Or, I don’t think he was. He didn’t turn on his stool, to join in with the group of men and women behind us. He didn’t offer anything on Ronald Reagan or the state of Irish rugby. He didn’t, as my father would have put it, butt in. But he was lighter, somehow – looser. He sat on his stool side-saddle and helped pass back pints and change. He joked with people he’d never seen before. He smiled at women. He was there, much more than I was or could be. I loved him for it, and I didn’t.
She was there. The woman we’d noticed earlier, the girl we’d find out played the cello – she was back. I saw her properly now. I realised first that I’d seen her before and I was a bit slow grabbing the fact that I’d seen her here, once, just three hours before. She – the sighting of her – seemed much more important. She felt long lost and suddenly found. I even thought I’d know her name.
She was beautiful. Something about her was beautiful. Gorgeous was our usual word but there was something about her: she wasn’t real; she was more than real, or less – too real.
She’d changed her clothes and done something with her hair. It had been in a ponytail earlier – I think – maybe even a bun. Now it was free and long, like a veil or a scarf. She was wearing a black leather jacket, a biker’s jacket. I hoped she’d look at me; she’d see me in the mirror, over her friend’s shoulder, and she’d smile. I’d smile back at her reflection. I’d turn in my stool and smile at her. Then something magic would happen. She’d come to me or I’d get off the stool without deciding to; I’d go over there and I’d make her laugh. I’d stop being drunk but the courage would stay with me. She just had to look. To smile.
But she didn’t do either. I remember nothing else. But we were there again the following Saturday.
* * *
—
—So she phoned you, I said.
He looked at me. He hesitated.
—Yes.
He seemed happy with the answer. We were back to facts, events.
—Not immediately, he said. —Not, like, that night or the next day.
—How long after?
—End of the week, he said.
—Friday?
—Thursday.
—I’d have guessed that, I said.
—Why – how?
—She’d phone you on Thursday, arrange something for Friday. End of the week. TGIF. That kind of shite.
—Don’t get fuckin’ snide, he said.
He meant it. He was hurt.
—Sorry, I said. —I was just imagining the start of something – an affair, I suppose. A fling.
—And have you ever had an oul’ fling, yourself, Davy? he asked.
The anger was gone. For the first time that evening he was curious. The question was defensive but he wanted to know the answer.
—No, I said. —I haven’t.
—Okay.
—What about you? I said. —Have you? Before –.
—Yeah, he said. —Yeah. Once – one. A woman in work. The Christmas party, believe it or not. All the fuckin’ clichés. A good while ago though – ten years. More. It was stupid.
—Did Trish find out?
—No, he said. —No, she didn’t. Thank God. It was –. Ah, Christ. She was unhappy.
—The woman?
—The woman – yeah. She was getting married.
—Jesus. And did she?
—Yeah, she did, he said. —But, no, it didn’t last long.
—The marriage?
—No, the fling, he said. —The whatever. I don’t know about the marriage – I’d have my doubts. But it was just, really – we needed some sort of a justification for the sex. I think. We couldn’t admit that we did it because we were drunk. Too old for that or something. So we met up again twice after Christmas. Three times – yeah, three. And we were drunk then as well. It was fuckin’ terrible, really. Jesus, when I think about it.
—Did she invite you to the wedding?
—No, he said. —God, no.
—Anyway.
—Yeah.
—She phoned you, I reminded him. —Your woman. After the parent–teacher meeting.
—Yeah. Yeah – she did.
He smiled now.
—She did.
—What’s her name? I asked. —She must have said it when she called – when you answered.
—Jessica.
Nothing happened. Nothing rolled in my head, clicked into place. I couldn’t remember her being called Jessica.
—How long did it take? I asked.
—What?
—To find out her name.
—You’re asking strange questions, he said.
The wrong questions, he meant. Her name didn’t matter.
—Just curious, I said. —These things can be awkward, I suppose. And you said it, yourself – you didn’t know her name. I’m always forgetting people’s names. Especially these days.
Six months before, the last time we met, we’d have had a laugh about the indignities of ageing, the list of daily humiliations. Especially these days. What I’d half intended telling him about this time was the sheer scale, the limitless variety of the surnames I had to deal with at work, and the first names too – never the Christian names, how the names accompanying the English accents had changed, or been added to, since I’d moved to England. I was good at it, in fact. I made sure I knew the names – Okeke, Igbinedion, Anikulapo-Kuti, Sargsyan, Dewab, Ali, Smith, Bautista, Chan. I enjoyed it. I made sure there was never the hesitation before the name, or a little question mark after it – Mr…Okeke? More important things, vital things I forgot – completely. But not at work, not the names. I made lists. I conquered the names and voted Remain. I’d intended – half intended – telling him that.
—Same here, he said. —It’s shocking. Head like a fuckin’ sieve. But yeah – she said, Hi, it’s Jessica.
—And you knew it was her.
—Yeah, he said. —I’d put George into the address book. Temporarily. Till I found out her name. If she phoned.
—And she did.
—She did.
—Where were you?
—At home, he said.
—What time?
—Nine? he said. —A bit later – half-nine. We were watching – actually.