He’s recently moved back to Dublin after twenty years in New York and wanted to meet someone.’
‘Very promising,’ I said.
‘I thought so too. When Martin rang I asked him the usual questions – is he married? Recently divorced? Gay? Scarred by a fire that left him with only half a face? Ugly? Bad breath? Et cetera.’
‘So, you covered your angles.’
‘You have to, believe me. I’ve met enough freaks. It turned out that Jake had never been married, is not gay and has normal-smelling breath. So I decided to throw caution to the wind and go for it.’
‘I’m not surprised. He sounded good on paper.’
‘Exactly!’ Sally thumped her fist on the bar. ‘So then I Googled him and he’s also really good-looking, so I started to get my hopes up, which is a really bad idea. He’s handsome and he’s lived away for years so he was new and interesting.’
‘Seemed perfect.’
‘That’s what I thought. So I emailed him, keeping it light and breezy, and he emailed straight back, and he was funny and flirty. We had some banter back and forth. At this stage I’m thinking, He’s too good to be true – which, of course, he was.’
‘But how could you know? It was all looking so positive.’
‘I know, and I spent a bloody fortune getting my legs and bikini-line waxed – there’s the definition of hope – my hair blow-dried, a manicure and a pedicure. I put on my sexiest underwear and this dress, which you always say brings out my eyes.’
‘It does. You look drop-dead gorgeous.’
‘Waste of bloody money …’
Sally explained that when she went to meet Jake in Brooks, a wine bar, she’d had butterflies in her stomach for the first time in ages.
‘There she is!’ an American voice boomed.
Jake was swaying on a bar stool. He had clearly been there a while. Maybe he was just nervous. She walked over and shook his hand.
‘Come on, babe, you can do better than that,’ he said, kissing her on the lips. The alcohol fumes nearly knocked her out.
‘Relax there, Jake. It’s only seven o’clock,’ she said, pulling back.
‘What’ll you have? Gin? Wine? Whiskey?’
‘A glass of white wine would be great.’ Sally sat up beside him and crossed her legs.
‘Nice pins.’ Jake grinned. ‘You’re in good shape for an older woman.’
‘I’m forty-three, not sixty,’ Sally retorted.
‘My last girlfriend was twenty-two.’
‘Bully for you.’ Sally took a large sip of wine.
‘Did Martin tell you I lived in New York for twenty years?’
‘Yes, but I think I would have guessed from your strong American accent.’
‘It’s the best goddamn city in the world.’
‘So how are you finding being back?’
‘The weather’s shit, the women are dogs – present company excluded – and the service is crap.’
‘You’re settling in well, then.’
Oblivious to her comment, Jake summoned the barman. ‘Hey, buddy, I’m waiting on a Jack Daniel’s and Coke. Are you fucking brewing the stuff out back or what?’
Sally was mortified. Everyone was looking at them and she could see people shaking their heads and whispering, ‘Ignorant American.’
‘Why don’t you tone it down a bit? The whole angry-New-York thing is a bit over to the top.’
Jake thumped the bar with his fist. ‘That’s the problem with Irish people. You’re all so fucking meek and mild. Bad service is not accepted in the US. If you order a drink, it comes right up. Here, you could be waiting all day while the barman chats to his friend or disappears for a fucking cigarette. If you don’t complain, you’ll never change it.’
‘I think you’re wrong. Irish people – of which you are one, in case you forgot – aren’t meek and mild. We’re just not aggressive and belligerent. To us, meeting someone for a drink is more about the conversation you’re having than the speed at which the drink is served.’
‘Why can’t you have both – good service and good conversation?’
‘You can. The service here
‘Very promising,’ I said.
‘I thought so too. When Martin rang I asked him the usual questions – is he married? Recently divorced? Gay? Scarred by a fire that left him with only half a face? Ugly? Bad breath? Et cetera.’
‘So, you covered your angles.’
‘You have to, believe me. I’ve met enough freaks. It turned out that Jake had never been married, is not gay and has normal-smelling breath. So I decided to throw caution to the wind and go for it.’
‘I’m not surprised. He sounded good on paper.’
‘Exactly!’ Sally thumped her fist on the bar. ‘So then I Googled him and he’s also really good-looking, so I started to get my hopes up, which is a really bad idea. He’s handsome and he’s lived away for years so he was new and interesting.’
‘Seemed perfect.’
‘That’s what I thought. So I emailed him, keeping it light and breezy, and he emailed straight back, and he was funny and flirty. We had some banter back and forth. At this stage I’m thinking, He’s too good to be true – which, of course, he was.’
‘But how could you know? It was all looking so positive.’
‘I know, and I spent a bloody fortune getting my legs and bikini-line waxed – there’s the definition of hope – my hair blow-dried, a manicure and a pedicure. I put on my sexiest underwear and this dress, which you always say brings out my eyes.’
‘It does. You look drop-dead gorgeous.’
‘Waste of bloody money …’
Sally explained that when she went to meet Jake in Brooks, a wine bar, she’d had butterflies in her stomach for the first time in ages.
‘There she is!’ an American voice boomed.
Jake was swaying on a bar stool. He had clearly been there a while. Maybe he was just nervous. She walked over and shook his hand.
‘Come on, babe, you can do better than that,’ he said, kissing her on the lips. The alcohol fumes nearly knocked her out.
‘Relax there, Jake. It’s only seven o’clock,’ she said, pulling back.
‘What’ll you have? Gin? Wine? Whiskey?’
‘A glass of white wine would be great.’ Sally sat up beside him and crossed her legs.
‘Nice pins.’ Jake grinned. ‘You’re in good shape for an older woman.’
‘I’m forty-three, not sixty,’ Sally retorted.
‘My last girlfriend was twenty-two.’
‘Bully for you.’ Sally took a large sip of wine.
‘Did Martin tell you I lived in New York for twenty years?’
‘Yes, but I think I would have guessed from your strong American accent.’
‘It’s the best goddamn city in the world.’
‘So how are you finding being back?’
‘The weather’s shit, the women are dogs – present company excluded – and the service is crap.’
‘You’re settling in well, then.’
Oblivious to her comment, Jake summoned the barman. ‘Hey, buddy, I’m waiting on a Jack Daniel’s and Coke. Are you fucking brewing the stuff out back or what?’
Sally was mortified. Everyone was looking at them and she could see people shaking their heads and whispering, ‘Ignorant American.’
‘Why don’t you tone it down a bit? The whole angry-New-York thing is a bit over to the top.’
Jake thumped the bar with his fist. ‘That’s the problem with Irish people. You’re all so fucking meek and mild. Bad service is not accepted in the US. If you order a drink, it comes right up. Here, you could be waiting all day while the barman chats to his friend or disappears for a fucking cigarette. If you don’t complain, you’ll never change it.’
‘I think you’re wrong. Irish people – of which you are one, in case you forgot – aren’t meek and mild. We’re just not aggressive and belligerent. To us, meeting someone for a drink is more about the conversation you’re having than the speed at which the drink is served.’
‘Why can’t you have both – good service and good conversation?’
‘You can. The service here
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