Dublin Noir - Ken Bruen [59]
“That’s not it. But Dublin? During Bank Holiday weekend? Are you barking mad? It’ll be swarmed with idiotic drunks looking for a shag.”
“And how’s that different from any London pub? Besides, I want something special. And you’ve always wanted to go to Dublin, I thought. At least, that’s what you say practically every other week.”
I often wondered why I was still friends with her. Family ties, perhaps; our mothers met in university and still rang each other every morning to discuss the latest community gossip and which of their friends’ children were misguided enough to break their parents’ hearts and marry outside of the faith. That’s why Deborah’s engagement to Sam had been such a coup; his family was well-respected, he was a financier with London’s oldest and finest, and best of all, he was Jewish. The community didn’t realize he was a complete and utter asshole and that he and Deborah only stayed together because she had good tits and he was well-hung, but I tried to keep those opinions to myself.
Most of the time, I remembered why we remained mates. Yes, she could be a bitch, but she was utterly loyal; once she’d decided you were one of her friends, that was that, and she’d do anything she possibly could for you. She was blunt, and often too harsh, but her advice cut to the quick and was nearly always right. She also had a freakishly good memory, especially about what her friends wanted and ought to do with themselves.
That’s why she was dead right about Dublin. I’d done Celtic studies at University College (to go with a more suitable biology major) and had spent a joyous summer after graduation traveling through Ireland. But for some inexplicable reason, I’d spent most of my time in and around Limerick, missing the capital city completely. In the two years since, I’d been chained to the lab at King’s so much I’d barely left the South Bank, let alone had time for a proper vacation. I was certainly due.
“You have me there,” I admitted. “So who else is coming?”
“Adele, Laura, Hannah, and Carol have said yes, though now that I think about it, I’m not so sure I should have invited Hannah. She’s been such a cow about Sam. Is she going to be any fun?”
I shrugged. Hannah was the only one of us with the guts to tell Deborah her—and our—true feelings about him. In a group, Sam was all sweetness and light, but any time he caught one of us alone, his hands started wandering and his speech turned filthy. The last time he’d tried something on me, I stamped my foot on his ankle until he finally screamed and left. That was six months ago.
“I’m sure Hannah is just trying to be helpful,” I said. “And you’d feel awful if you didn’t invite her.”
“You’re so right. This is so exciting! My last hurrah as a single woman and all my best friends will be with me. It’ll be fantastic!”
I said no more.
A month later, the six of us boarded a Ryanair plane and spent the hour-long flight catching up. It was the first time in a year we’d all been together, and as the noise level increased, I remembered why I’d always begged off: There was something about women in groups that made my skin crawl. One-on-one was fine, but en masse, I remembered these were Deborah’s friends, not mine; that she’d befriended each of them in primary school or uni or at work, and that I had little in common with them.
It was bad form to take out the crime novel I was only pages away from finishing, so I pretended to take part in the conversation. Thank God it was a short flight.
As I stared into space, I heard a snatch of conversation from behind me.
“Did you see Sam before you left?”
“No, Carol. He left a message saying he was stuck at work.”
“Typical, isn’t it?”
“I know, but he’s a very busy man, what could he do?”
Hannah cut in. “Too busy to say goodbye to his fiancée? Ridiculous.”
I tuned them out. I thought about what I would do when I finally reached Dublin. I had no desire to see the usual tourist crap, but didn’t expect anyone else to share my interest in lesser-known haunts. No doubt they’d spend most of their