to go as a hanger-on. She thought it would be more mature to let him go on his own with the lads.
Murrayfield was a great outing, Michael said. They always loved the years when Ireland played in Cardiff Arms Park and in Murrayfield. Two great weekends—win, lose, or draw. So Katy thought she would not try to intrude into his culture, his traditions. But it seemed a long, lonely weekend while he was gone. Katy hadn’t realized how fond she had grown of this man.
She found the time hanging heavily on her hands, and she wrote a long, long letter to her friend. She knew that Eileen would not be in Edinburgh. Apart from anything else the thought of so many Irish deceivers arriving on package deals would keep her firmly where she was. Katy wrote about how great it was to have discovered real love at last. She said that she hadn’t intended to tell it all, but there was something about the fact that her true love and her dear best friend were in the same land that made her want to write.
Michael didn’t ring on Monday when he got back, but Katy didn’t mind because the plane was probably late and he had to rush to work. She was startled, however, when he didn’t phone on Monday evening. By Tuesday she was really alarmed and rang him at work. He was with a client, Katy was told. She had never been told that before when she rang the solicitor’s office. She had always been put through, even for a couple of seconds.
On Tuesday night she called to his flat, and his flatmate said that he had been called away but would definitely be getting in touch with her on Wednesday.
Hurt and frightened, Katy went home. She hardly slept that night and had a headache on the Wednesday morning when she went to pick up the letter on the mat from her friend Eileen.
Katy sat on the stairs and read how Eileen had gone suddenly to the great match. She had got a ticket at the last moment and it seemed a waste not to go. She had met this really nice guy.
Now Katy was not to think, Oh dear, here we go again. This man was truly different. He had been very up-front. He did have a sort of relationship going on in Dublin and he was going to sort it out with the girl there. No lies, no double-dealing. He was a solicitor, after all. He was called Michael.
Oh,
please
believe that this is the real thing, Eileen begged her friend in closely written pages. This time at last it was going to work out.
And as Katy sat on the stairs and her own life seemed to end, she knew that for Eileen, who had never liked rugby, who had said that solicitors were dull, it very arguably was the Real Thing at last.
Living Well
When I heard that he had left my friend Orla, I began to panic. She loved him so much, trusted him, believed everything he said.
You couldn’t tell Orla that Eddie was a man who moved on. She would say that, of course, that had been the way in the past, but not now. Now he had found what he had been looking for everywhere—and thank the Lord he had gone on looking until he eventually found her.
He had moved into her flat four years ago. With all his gear. They made the spare guest bedroom into a dressing room—nobody had as many clothes as Eddie. Orla got a carpenter to make a big closet, with a hanging rail the length of the room and a little angled shelf for his shoes. She had an ironing board in this room and a full-length mirror so that he could admire himself.
She put a new shelf in the bathroom for his various colognes and aftershave products. She changed the furniture around in the sitting room to accommodate his exercise bicycle—Eddie liked to cycle as he watched television. She removed some of her marvelous paintings from the walls to put up his posters, and her own CDs and tapes were stacked out of sight, while Eddie’s were all displayed.
As Orla’s friends, we rarely went to see her at the flat anymore. Even I, who have the reputation of knowing the right thing to do, or being overbossy, as my enemies might put it, didn’t
Murrayfield was a great outing, Michael said. They always loved the years when Ireland played in Cardiff Arms Park and in Murrayfield. Two great weekends—win, lose, or draw. So Katy thought she would not try to intrude into his culture, his traditions. But it seemed a long, lonely weekend while he was gone. Katy hadn’t realized how fond she had grown of this man.
She found the time hanging heavily on her hands, and she wrote a long, long letter to her friend. She knew that Eileen would not be in Edinburgh. Apart from anything else the thought of so many Irish deceivers arriving on package deals would keep her firmly where she was. Katy wrote about how great it was to have discovered real love at last. She said that she hadn’t intended to tell it all, but there was something about the fact that her true love and her dear best friend were in the same land that made her want to write.
Michael didn’t ring on Monday when he got back, but Katy didn’t mind because the plane was probably late and he had to rush to work. She was startled, however, when he didn’t phone on Monday evening. By Tuesday she was really alarmed and rang him at work. He was with a client, Katy was told. She had never been told that before when she rang the solicitor’s office. She had always been put through, even for a couple of seconds.
On Tuesday night she called to his flat, and his flatmate said that he had been called away but would definitely be getting in touch with her on Wednesday.
Hurt and frightened, Katy went home. She hardly slept that night and had a headache on the Wednesday morning when she went to pick up the letter on the mat from her friend Eileen.
Katy sat on the stairs and read how Eileen had gone suddenly to the great match. She had got a ticket at the last moment and it seemed a waste not to go. She had met this really nice guy.
Now Katy was not to think, Oh dear, here we go again. This man was truly different. He had been very up-front. He did have a sort of relationship going on in Dublin and he was going to sort it out with the girl there. No lies, no double-dealing. He was a solicitor, after all. He was called Michael.
Oh,
please
believe that this is the real thing, Eileen begged her friend in closely written pages. This time at last it was going to work out.
And as Katy sat on the stairs and her own life seemed to end, she knew that for Eileen, who had never liked rugby, who had said that solicitors were dull, it very arguably was the Real Thing at last.
Living Well
When I heard that he had left my friend Orla, I began to panic. She loved him so much, trusted him, believed everything he said.
You couldn’t tell Orla that Eddie was a man who moved on. She would say that, of course, that had been the way in the past, but not now. Now he had found what he had been looking for everywhere—and thank the Lord he had gone on looking until he eventually found her.
He had moved into her flat four years ago. With all his gear. They made the spare guest bedroom into a dressing room—nobody had as many clothes as Eddie. Orla got a carpenter to make a big closet, with a hanging rail the length of the room and a little angled shelf for his shoes. She had an ironing board in this room and a full-length mirror so that he could admire himself.
She put a new shelf in the bathroom for his various colognes and aftershave products. She changed the furniture around in the sitting room to accommodate his exercise bicycle—Eddie liked to cycle as he watched television. She removed some of her marvelous paintings from the walls to put up his posters, and her own CDs and tapes were stacked out of sight, while Eddie’s were all displayed.
As Orla’s friends, we rarely went to see her at the flat anymore. Even I, who have the reputation of knowing the right thing to do, or being overbossy, as my enemies might put it, didn’t
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