You have a real coolness about you, he said to me. Doesn’t she?
Melissa nodded but not enthusiastically. My coolness, if I had any, had never moved her.
Thanks, I said.
And you can take a compliment, that’s good, he said. A lot of people will try to run themselves down, you’ve got the right attitude.
Yes, I’m quite the compliment-taker, I said.
At this point I could see him try to exchange a look with Melissa, who remained disinterested. He seemed almost on the point of winking at her but he didn’t. Then he turned back to me with a smirking expression.
Well, don’t get cocky, he said.
Nick and Bobbi rejoined us then. The novelist said something to Nick, and Nick replied with the word ‘man’， like: oh, sorry about that, man. I would later make fun of this affectation in an email. Bobbi leaned her head on Melissa’s shoulder.
When the novelist left the conversation, Melissa drained her wine glass and grinned at me.
You really charmed him, she said.
Is that sarcastic? I asked.
He was trying to flirt with you. He said you were cool.
I was very aware of Nick standing at my elbow, though I couldn’t see his expression. I knew how badly I wanted to remain in control of the conversation.
Yeah, men love telling me I’m cool, I said. They just want me to act like I’ve never heard it before.
Melissa really did laugh then. I was surprised I could make her laugh like that. I felt for a moment that I’d misjudged her and, in particular, her attitude toward me. Then I realised Nick was laughing also, and I lost interest in what Melissa felt.
Cruel, he said.
Don’t think you’re exempt, said Bobbi.
Oh, I’m definitely a bad guy, Nick said. That’s not why I’m laughing.
*
At the end of June I went to Ballina for a couple of days to visit my parents. My mother didn’t enforce these visits, but lately when we spoke on the phone she’d started saying things like: oh you’re alive, are you? Am I going to recognise you next time you come home, or will you have to put a flower in your lapel? Eventually I booked a train ticket. I sent her a text telling her when to expect me and signed off: in the spirit of filial duty, your loyal daughter.
Bobbi and my mother got along famously. Bobbi studied History and Politics, subjects my mother considered serious. Real subjects, she would say, with an eyebrow lifted at me. My mother was a kind of social democrat, and at this time I believe Bobbi identified herself as a communitarian anarchist. When my mother visited Dublin, they took mutual enjoyment in having minor arguments about the Spanish Civil War. Sometimes Bobbi would turn to me and say: Frances, you’re a communist, back me up. And my mother would laugh and say: that one! You may as well ask the teapot. She had never taken much interest in my social or personal life, an arrangement which suited us both, but when I broke up with Bobbi she described it as ‘a real shame’。
After she picked me up from the train on Saturday, we spent the afternoon in the garden. The grass had been cut and gave off a warm, allergenic smell. The sky was soft like cloth and birds ran over it in long threads. My mother was weeding and I was pretending to weed but actually just talking. I discovered an unforeseen enthusiasm for talking about all the editors and writers I had met in Dublin. I took my gloves off to wipe my forehead at one point and didn’t put them back on. I asked my mother if she wanted tea and she ignored me. Then I sat under the fuchsia bush plucking little fuchsias off the branches and talking about famous people again. The words just flew out of my mouth deliciously. I had no idea I had so much to say, or that I would enjoy saying it so much.
Eventually my mother stripped her gloves off and sat on a lawn chair. I was sitting with my legs crossed, examining the tips of my sneakers.
You seem very impressed with this woman Melissa, she said.
Do I?
She certainly introduces you to a lot of people.
She likes Bobbi more than she likes me, I said.
But her husband likes you.
I shrugged and said I didn’t know. Then I licked my thumb and started scrubbing at a little fleck of dirt on my sneaker.
And they’re rich, are they? said my mother.
I think so. The husband is from a wealthy background. And their house is really nice.
It’s not like you to get carried away with posh houses.
This comment stung me. I continued scrubbing my shoe as if I hadn’t noticed her tone.
I’m not getting carried away, I said. I’m just reporting what their house is like.
I have to say, it all sounds very odd to me. I don’t know what this woman is doing hanging around with college students at her age.