Page 25 of One Night on the Island

I touch my plastic cup against it.

She takes a sip of coffee and then flings the rest of it on the ground at the base of the steps.

‘I can’t drink that,’ she says, sucking her cheeks in with distaste. ‘Tastes like cat piss.’

I laugh under my breath and make a mental note that she takes sugar in her coffee.

We didn’t eat together this evening. I think we both wanted space after last night. Neither of us needs a nightly whiskey-and-confidences habit.

‘I could use a whiskey,’ she says, joining me at the kitchen table just after ten. ‘Want one?’

Well, okay. That went out of the window fast. I close my work down and shut the laptop. ‘Sure. As long as it’s within the rules and all.’

She doesn’t take offence, running her finger down the list on the fridge as she reaches a couple of glasses down from the cupboard. ‘Nope, I think we’re good. We’re in the common space.’

‘Cool.’

I watch her set the glasses on the table and pull the whiskey from among the bottles on the countertop. I feel familiar with her already and, truth be told, I kind of like the idea of an evening drinking partner. It’s less lonely.

‘Common space, huh?’

‘Like at uni,’ she says. ‘Work all day and then let loose in the kitchen in the evening.’

‘What did you study?’

She pours decent measures into both glasses. ‘English.’

‘Figures.’

‘Does it?’ she says, sliding into the chair opposite mine. ‘Am I so predictable?’

‘God, no,’ I laugh. ‘Women are a particular mystery to me, Cleo. I’m just going on your work and the fact that you … well, you just kind of scream English major.’

She rocks back on her chair and looks at me, amused. ‘I’m not sure how to take that.’

I look at her, unsure what I even mean myself. ‘You have this … I don’t know, this English thing going on.’

‘English thing?’ she says. ‘Just so you know, I’m leaving the table if you use the word “waif” in your next sentence, so tread carefully.’

‘You get that a lot then?’ I can’t say it’s a word I’d apply to her. Sure, she’s slight in build but she takes up a lot of physical space with her extravagant arm gestures and she crackles with emotion like one of those plasma spheres you see at science exhibitions. You sure know when she’s in the room.

‘It’s my sisters’ go-to way to describe me,’ she says.

‘Are you the youngest?’

She nods. ‘Of four. I have a brother too, Tom. He’s the eldest, not that you’d know it, he’s the biggest kid of all of us. Our parents had three babies in three years and then I came along four years later.’

‘Ah, so you’re very much the baby of the family.’

She sighs, resigned. ‘Even now, when I’m about to turn thirty.’

She doesn’t look thirty tonight. She could pass for one of those college students she talked about, sitting in our communal kitchen with her dark hair twisted up on top of her head and no make-up.

‘I was married with two kids by the time I turned thirty.’ We’d just moved out of the apartment into a real house, somewhere for our family to grow, a for ever roots kind of place for the boys. I try to push aside the memory of staggering over the threshold carrying Susie, pretending she was too heavy when in fact I’d never held anyone who fit so perfectly in my arms, or my life.

Cleo’s mouth twists and I realize I’ve said the wrong thing.

‘Isn’t everyone?’ She takes too big a slug of whiskey, coughing when it hits her windpipe.

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