The Living by Léan Cullinan

fella, then, Cate?’ Noreen said, leaning across from Elaine’s other side and tapping me on the forearm.
    As though a light-switch had been flicked, I had an audience. Fenian Mick, Elaine and Noreen were looking straight at me, and the others had noticed too. ‘Matthew?’ I said, and something caught in my throat; I had to stop to clear it. ‘He’s lovely,’ I went on, coming out of the cough, tossing off the verdict before I could hesitate, search for the right words.
    â€˜Dee says he’s a Brit,’ Noreen said, a little slurrily.
    â€˜Well, yeah, he’s from Bristol.’
    â€˜I can’t imagine you going with a Brit,’ said Noreen.
    There was a tiny, howling silence, then Fenian Mick said, ‘Trinity made her soft,’ and they all laughed. ‘And why not, sure, if she wants him?’ A memory swam into focus: Fenian Mick and Noreen having a massive rant about Queen Elizabeth’s visit to Trinity. They’d wanted to organize a protest, but it never came off.
    Fenian Mick slapped the table with the flat of his hand. ‘Now, come on, Cate, give us the low-down. Name, rank, serial number. All that craic.’
    â€˜Well, OK, he’s called Matthew, as I said, and he’s a new tenor in Carmina Urbana—’
    â€˜Oho! A choirboy? Say no more,’ said Elaine.
    â€˜And he’s a postgrad in UCD.’
    â€˜Ah, he must be all right, so,’ said Noreen. ‘Matthew what? Would we know him? What’s he doing?’
    â€˜Taylor,’ I said. ‘History.’
    â€˜Who’s his supervisor?’
    â€˜Professor Lawless.’
    â€˜Lawless? Are you serious?’ Fenian Mick guffawed. ‘Well, whatever about you , Cate, I can’t see John Lawless getting into bed with a Brit – he’s a total ’RA-head. God, I’d love to be a fly on the wall at those meetings.’
    â€˜He’s not writing on Republicanism, though, is he?’ Elaine asked.
    I hesitated. I knew how it would sound to them – how unlikely they’d be to accept the notion that a Brit could have anything useful to contribute on the topic.
    â€˜You should’ve brought him along tonight,’ said Noreen, ‘so we could all have a gawk at him.’
    â€˜Check him out, you mean?’ I felt uncomfortable now at the thought of what they’d all make of Matthew. Or he of them, come to that.
    â€˜Ah, no, you know what I mean,’ Noreen said.
    â€˜I didn’t think of asking him,’ I said. ‘We’re not really at that stage yet.’ I could feel myself closing in, a flower in the dark.
    â€˜Well, how long have you been seeing him?’ Noreen wasn’t letting it go.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ I said. ‘A few weeks, just.’ It was exactly five weeks tonight, I was well aware. Noreen made a dubious face, took another swig of her pint.
    I said, ‘I think he’d be a bit overwhelmed if I just brought him here and plonked him down in the middle of you lot, all at once.’
    â€˜Ah, that’s shite,’ said Noreen. She looked away, her lip curled in disgust.
    â€˜Look,’ said Denise, ‘the man’s entitled to be a bit scared of meeting a bunch of hooligans like us.’
    â€˜Exactly,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’
    â€˜But he has to be willing to meet your friends,’ Noreen insisted.
    â€˜There’s time for that,’ said Denise. ‘The key questions for the moment are: is he straight, does he wash, does he ring when he says he will?’
    â€˜All of the above, as far as I can tell,’ I said, regaining my poise to some extent.
    â€˜Well, that’s a good start,’ said Denise.
    â€˜Going on past form, you mean?’ I caught her eye, and we giggled. The messy darkness seemed to recede a little.
    â€˜Who’s for more drink?’ asked Fenian Mick, rising. I handed him the money for another G&T.
    Four drinks