‘Jesus, look at this!’ Claire had found a video of floaty-frocked Kallie on a high stool with a guitar. ‘Let’s have a listen.’ But she cast a hunted look around the temple to gastronomy. ‘… And maybe not.’
‘Ahem.’ A polite cough from the waiter heralded the arrival of our I Dream of Blini course and both Quin and Claire morphed into photographers, taking dozens of photos of their food, then uploading them to Insta.
Briefly, I considered copying them before deciding that I couldn’t be bothered. Instagram was a pain. The only stuff I was ever enthusiastic about posting was pictures of Crunchie.
Much later, we’d just finished our Seabuckthorn Seven Ways （dehydrated, jellied, frozen, charred, puréed, stewed and ‘reversed’） when my phone rang. The disapproval of the entire restaurant hit me – who was the woman who let her phone ring during an intense gourmet experience?
‘LUKE’ flashed on my screen.
My heart almost jumped from my chest.
‘Another burst condom?’ Quin asked.
I got up, moving towards the door. ‘Sorry, lads, I better take this.’ Then, ‘Hello?’
‘Rachel? It’s Luke.’ Hearing his voice was still very strange. ‘Kallie told me about today. I’m sorry you were involved.’
Was he …？ He was blaming me, wasn’t he? Somehow it was my fault that his girlfriend had asked for my help.
‘Thank you for helping her out,’ he said. ‘It was decent of you.’
‘Is this sarcasm?’
‘No. It was decent of you.’
‘Oh. Okay.’ It took a few moments for my indignation to die down. ‘It’s fine.’
‘She shouldn’t have bothered you. There were other people who could have helped her.’
Was he telling me that she had been checking me out? Well, whatever. We’d met and nothing terrible had happened.
‘So, aaah … how’s your dad? Any luck with finding a carer?’
‘Not yet. He’s being an arse, probably on purpose –’
Suddenly Quin was at my side. ‘Everything okay? They’re about to serve the Fermented Hay.’
I nodded at him, then spoke into the phone. ‘I’ve to go.’
‘Enjoy your …’ Luke paused. ‘… fermented hay. And thank you. Again, not sarcasm.’
The rest of the night passed without incident, until right at the end when Claire was in the ladies, Quin was sorting the coats and, briefly, I was alone with Adam.
‘Rachel.’ There was something urgent in his tone. ‘Have you heard about Claire and me becoming swingers?’
‘Yes.’ I frowned. ‘But – it’s only theoretical?’
‘You know your sister, though. Once she gets an idea in her head …’ He sounded utterly miserable. ‘But maybe I’ll enjoy it.’
‘I take it you don’t want to …？’
He took a breath. ‘No, Rachel. I’m fine as I am. I like my life. I like my wife …’
31
Lying face down on my bed, I groaned with pleasure. ‘Who needs sex when Nick Quinlivan is massaging your sore calves.’
Behind me, Quin laughed. We’d been out in the hills, a twelve-K hike through streams and bracken, with ‘our hiking friends’ Taryn and Timothy.
Although at first glance you’d never have taken them for rugged outdoor types: Taryn, skinny, nerdy and frowny, looked as if a small child could snap her in two. Her partner Timothy, with his spectacles and pale, scholarly air, looked like an aristocratic boy from Victorian times who had a weak chest and was fated to die young.
The four of us had met two summers ago, during a weekend in Brigit’s. （They too ‘worked in IT’ with Brigit’s husband Colm.） When they heard that Quin and I were planning to climb Errisbeg the following day, they invited themselves along.
Privately, Quin was scandalized. ‘Who are these consumptive-looking randomers? No way will they keep up!’
But Brigit had a word with Quin: Taryn and Timothy were a lot fitter than they looked. And so it proved. Heading up the mountain, they had so much speed, stamina and enthusiasm that now and again Quin had to say, ‘Slow it down there, lads. Don’t forget about Rachel.’
They turned out to be delightful – they were open to life, to people, to experiences – and we had gelled in the loveliest way. ‘You think you’re too old to make new friends,’ Quin said subsequently. ‘Then you surprise yourself.’