‘Riiight,’ said Ali. ‘I’m so sorry, darl. I still feel like that was all my fault.’ Ali had, after all, had the wine already open when Liv had arrived home from a disastrous party at Emer Breen’s house. The fifty-something Emer was an eminent member of the sociology faculty in DCU and was ‘the spit of Connie Britton’ according to Liv, who immediately fell for her. They began dating around Halloween but in secret as Emer was very concerned about appearances and had only recently divorced from her wife, also on the faculty. Liv didn’t mind them being low-key but then Emer had barely contacted Liv over the Christmas holidays and at this party, a week earlier, Emer had pretty much ignored her and then ended things when Liv cornered her in the utility room.
‘No, no,’ Liv continued her lament. ‘I’m twenty-five years old, I should have known it wasn’t a good idea to mix Solpadeine and wine.’
‘Yeah, I’d say it’s a pretty significant red flag to be, like, actually dissolving it in the wine,’ said Ali, remembering trying to get the phone off a very sloppy Liv in their living room.
‘Why did I tell her I loved her?’ Liv moaned.
Ali felt helpless. At the next set of lights, she pulled Liv into a hug, patting her head. Liv kept her shiny dark hair cropped short and partially shaved on one side. It suited her dark skin and liquid eyes. Liv’s mum was Indian, which Ali’d envied as long as they’d been friends – Liv was gorgeous.
As Liv drove on, Ali remembered the dipshits in their year who’d put on a ridiculous Apu fromTheSimpsonsaccent whenever she’d raised her hand in class. It was probably because they all fancied her but it wasn’t easy being made to feel different, especially as a teenager. Liv once came in with her mehndi still on her hands after a cousin’s wedding and Simon Verdon had said horrible, ignorant things about Liv being dirty. Ali had always been quick with vicious put-downs, which shut them up, and Liv was far too proud to show how much it got to her.
That was the Liv–Ali dynamic all over, really. Ali could always be relied on for an emotional outburst and the ever-restrained Liv would hold back, reserving action until after she’d made about a million pro–con lists. This was why it felt strange to Ali to be consoling Liv about something stupid she’d done herself – it was usually the other way around. Though it wasn’t stupid to fall in love – it was Emer Breen’s fault for screwing around with her student and then freaking out and back-tracking.
‘It’d be bad enough just sitting in a room with her after I sent her that WhatsApp recording of the St Vincent song we used to love.’ Liv flinched at the memory. ‘But it’s gonna be an even bigger shitshow because the first chapters of my thesis are due in three months and I’m supposed to finalise the title today. You know, the thesis title that I haven’t even nailed the wording of. So maybe just murder-suicide us both right now, please.’
This had been a plan B between Ali and Liv ever since they’d first sat beside each other in Ms Devally’s form room on the first day of First Year and Ali had dropped a tampon which Liv, in her haste to pick it up, accidentally kicked into the middle aisle of the class.
‘Oh Jesus, you can just murder-suicide us right now,’ she’d muttered to Ali, who had unexpectedly broken into peals of laughter. Then Ali had sauntered casually right out in front of Sam Waters and Dave Keeling, the hottest guys (though admittedly they were thirteen at the time) in class 1DY, and retrieved the glowing white bastion of teenage embarrassment as the whole room watched in varying states of disgust, disbelief and, in Liv’s case, pure unadulterated awe.
‘I would genuinely be happier with a death pact than having coffee with Mini right now,’ Ali sighed as Liv pulled up around the corner from the gallery and put the handbrake on. ‘Look, you didn’t do anything wrong, Liv.’ Ali turned to hold her friend’s gaze. ‘Emer is the one who should be embarrassed. And she’s crazy to let a young hot bitch like yourself get away.’
Liv tried to laugh. ‘You better go – Mini will be waiting.’ Like clockwork, Ali’s phone roared to life with ‘Mini Calling’.
Ali grabbed her bag and hopped out of the car.
‘If you come across an idea for a sociology thesis title on your travels, send it my way,’ called Liv as she pulled away from the kerb.
The phone was still ringing. I’m two fucking minutes away, thought Ali, but when there was no let-up, she finally hit the green key and Mini Riordan’s forceful voice burst forth, per usual already mid-flow.
Mini didn’t really do conversational preambles – she preferred launching straight into the third or fourth sentence in any given conversation. ‘Hi,’ another person might attempt to open with, but Mini would already be miles down the conversational road, bitching about some idiot journo who’d gotten an artist’s name wrong or some such. It had a destabilising effect on whoever was on the receiving end. Ali suspected this was precisely Mini’s intention, as it meant keeping everyone on the back foot – most especially her one and only daughter.
‘I’ve got to get to my next appointment by 9 a.m., Alessandra, and I cannot—’
‘I am literally walking through the doors,’ Ali shouted over her, startling the older man behind the coat desk. ‘And I’m not even late yet!’ she added.
‘Well, I appreciate that,’ Mini replied. ‘It was more of an anticipatory “where are you”, I suppose! I’m down by the counter. Please hurry on now – we need to discuss a few developments.’
3
Shelly Devine was trying to stifle a giggle as she filmed a video of her husband sleeping, tangled in Egyptian cotton sheets in their huge bed. He moaned lightly and turned over as Shelly hopped up to get a better angle.
‘What are you doing?’ he muttered groggily.
‘Oooohh, someone didn’t get home till late last night …’ said Shelly, narrating her video.
‘What the fuck! Take me off your fucking Instagram,’ Dan roared, realising what she was doing.
‘Relax – it’s a video on the internet.’
‘No, it’s not, it’s our lives all over the internet.’ He’d turned away, pulling the sheet around him. ‘I really am getting tired of the whole SHELLY thing. It’s embarrassing. You’re embarrassing me and you’re embarrassing yourself.’
‘Dan!’ Shelly didn’t know what to say. She was just trying to be playful, to get a bit of fun back into the equation. Though, truthfully, her social media analyst, Amy, had told her to include more of her husband on her Insta. (‘The plebs like the whole hot-husband thing so try and do more stuff with Dan in it, especially topless Dan,’ Amy’d advised, obviously thinking of the poolside snap of Dan in Speedos that had garnered 13K likes the previous summer.)
Dan rolled back over, checked the time on his own phone, got up and started getting ready. ‘I handle huge deals all day in work – how can I expect people to take me seriously when my wife is filming me doing funny noises for Georgie or trying to fix the dishwasher?’
‘Don’t be silly – no one is thinking about it like that,’ Shelly said soothingly and reached out to him, her gorgeous Mr Devine.
‘And I fucking hate that “Mr Devine” bullshit. You sound pathetic. If anyone knew the absolute BS you and Amy cook up in your “office” while I’m paying a full-time fucking babysitter for Georgie, making up a fake Instagram account for me so that I can leave sycophantic comments on your pictures, ugh.’ He shook his head. ‘How many followers does @DivineMrDevine have now?’ he asked stonily.
