Tender by Belinda McKeon

that.”
    Catherine had been nervous around him at first, but had taken her cue from Amy and Lorraine, and now she talked to him the same way they did, in bored-sounding monosyllables that provided only the barest minimum of information. Duffy had been pleased to see Catherine move into the room which had been occupied by James; he had not, he had told them, liked to see a “young fella” living in among girls, and he had not, anyway, liked the look of this particular young fella.
    “And he couldn’t find work in Dublin?” he had said, when Amy and Lorraine told him that James had gone to Berlin. “Well, and I suppose he couldn’t. The getup of him. I doubt one like him will get on any better out there, either.”
    “Prick,” Amy had mouthed to Catherine across the room.
    Now James was checking the rent box for cigarettes; he found none there but came across a packet of Marlboro on the bookshelf. He lit up and took the armchair, kicking his Docs off.
    “It’s good to be back here, I have to say.”
    Catherine, settling on the couch opposite him, nodded. “I know the girls will be glad to have you home.”
    “Can’t wait to see them.”
    It surprised her, the little twinge of jealousy she felt hearing him talk about Amy and Lorraine this way; she had only just met him, for Christ’s sake. And yet she knew what it was, why it made her feel somehow wistful, hearing him talk that way: she herself had drifted away from her schoolfriends, the girls who had been her closest confidantes not even a year ago, and she often envied Amy and Lorraine the way they had remained so close. And now here was James, someone else they had remained close with, and beside the three of them—even though Amy and Lorraine were not yet here, even though it was just her and James—she felt her outsider status very keenly.
    “Berlin must have been cool, was it?” she said, wanting to change the subject.
    “Cool,” he said, imitating her. “Yeah, it was grand.”
    “And did you like your job?”
    He smirked. “You sound like one of my aunts.”
    “Very funny.”
    James gestured over to Catherine for the ashtray, which was on the floor under the couch. “Ah, no,” he said, as she passed it over to him. “I did. Old Malachy is as odd as bejaysus. But the work is interesting. Certainly a lot more interesting than anything I’d have a chance of getting here.”
    “How did you get the job?”
    He shrugged. “I wrote to him.”
    “Wow.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “Well.”
    “And what do you do?”
    “I assist, Catherine,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “Which means I do everything. Well, Malachy presses the shutter. Most of the time.”
    “Amy says he’s pretty famous. I haven’t—”
    He glanced at her. “You haven’t heard of Malachy?”
    She shook her head, the blush pricking her cheeks again. Why had she said that? She should have kept her mouth shut and just let him talk; there had been no need to expose her own ignorance like that. But James looked delighted; he was laughing to himself.
    “Poor ol’ Malachy would take to his bed for a week if he heard that. He thinks he’s on every college curriculum going.” He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled a thin plume. “There was a piece of his in a group show at IMMA this year, with Wolfgang Tillmans. You didn’t see that?”
    She shook her head. “I’m always meaning to go to more stuff at IMMA.”
    “Oh, well. And he had a thing at MoMA too, though I presume you didn’t see that?”
    Catherine opened her mouth to reply, but he talked over her.
    “And in September we start getting ready for a big show in Madrid, at the Museo Nacional, and then I think Rome, then Tokyo.” He frowned. “No. Tokyo first. Tokyo in February. That’ll be a fucking nightmare.”
    “Do you get to go to all these places?”
    “Oh, no. I’m just a studio assistant. He has special slaves to go traveling with him.”
    “That’d be amazing .”
    James winced. “I’d take