I turn to face him, although he keeps his eyes ahead.
“I haven’t seen her like that for a while. I don’t want to disappoint her.”
There’s a dose of bitterness in his tone which gets to me more than I expected.
“I’m sure you’ll find a way to get out of this situation without hurting anyone.”
I don’t know whether he’s noticed the bitterness in my own voice. I heard it, though – loud, clear, and inappropriate.
“After all, it’s just a dinner, right?” he asks me.
“Exactly.”
“It’s not like I’m announcing our engagement. Two people can date for a little while before going their separate ways.”
“Absolutely.”
Now he’s the one to fall silent; it’s a heavy silence which absorbs all our breaths.
“She liked you,” he adds, then. His voice is resigned. “She really liked you.”
“I liked her a lot, too.”
“I shouldn’t be lying to her like this.”
No, you shouldn’t. But who am I to judge?
“I shouldn’t be lying to anybody.”
I agree with this, too, but he doesn’t need to hear it from me.
“I’ll think of something,” he says, rubbing his hand over his face.
I don’t know whether he’s talking to me or to himself, so I sit in silence until we get there. Because I have no idea whether this whole thing will end well or whether someone will inevitably have to pay.
11Eric
My grandmother lives in a huge, lonely house in the Howth hills, just outside Dublin. I’ve spent so much time in this place – the happiest moments of my life. I like coming back every now and then, although I don’t visit as often as I should.
It’s here that it all began: my passion for cooking. My grandmother was the one who encouraged me, who pushed me. She stood by me when I decided to throw my life away to follow my dream.
“Oh, wow,” Sean exclaims as my grandmother’s butler – yes, I know, an actual butler – welcomes us inside. He takes our coats and disappears, leaving us in the reception room – as my grandmother calls it – while he goes to tell her we’re here.
“Maybe I should’ve worn that suit tonight, too.”
“It’s not as bad as it looks.”
Sean looks around. I realise that the chandelier on the ceiling, the grandfather clock chiming by the fireplace, and the portraits of my ancestors hanging on the wall might seem intimidating. But it’s not what he thinks.
I’m not what he thinks.
“I have nothing to do with all this,” I say, as if I felt the need to justify my roots, my family, the way I decided to live my life.
Sean smiles then, and, as if he could read my mind, says: “I wasn’t judging. I would never.”
I don’t understand why he’s always so nice to me – because I can’t say I’ve been particularly nice to him. To be honest, I’ve been a bit of a dick. But it wasn’t because of him; it was the stress of the whole situation.
“I’m used to it.”
