“Fucking done with twenty ten,” people would tell me often, at the bar. “Fucking bring on twenty eleven. Death to this shit year.”
I was relieved to go home for a few days. Chris was out most of the time. Kev, still only sixteen, was in. We watched Buffy re-runs together on the Syfy channel, ate cheese from the fridge, found a rhythm that had not been there before. A person was beginning to emerge, or perhaps had been emerging for a long time. He was funny, I realised. Softly spoken, but dry.
“What’s your friend James doing, for Christmas?”
“At home, in Fermoy.”
“He’s gay, isn’t he?”
“You know he is.”
Kev went quiet. We carried on watching Buffy. James Marsters was furiously ranting about “the slayer” and what he would do to her, his bleached hair slicked back.
“Are you gay?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he answered, eventually.
“Well, if you are,” I said, feeling my big sisterhood very keenly, “you know that’s completely cool, right? You don’t need to hide it.”
“I know,” he said. And he did seem to know. “I’m still feeling it out.”
We didn’t talk much about it after that. I got the sense that he didn’t want to discuss it with his big sister, and I didn’t blame him. I had been checked out from his life for so long. But I was relieved he could talk about it. How he hadn’t lied, or buckled in on himself. He wasn’t going to end up leading Dr. Byrne’s double life, or have to lie like James felt he had to lie. Maybe it really was getting easier.
“I’m going to bed,” I said, and couldn’t help kissing him on the temple.
James picked me up on Stephen’s Day in his mum’s car. The dress code, he said, was semi-formal. I wore a plunge-neck black sequin dress that I had bought second-hand but was originally from French Connection.
“My God,” he said, beeping the horn in appreciation. “Rachel Murray, those legs go all the way up to your asshole!”
“Isn’t that where legs usually end?”
“It’s a figure of speech. Get in.”
He talked non-stop all the way to Fermoy, about his Christmas presents （a pile of books on screenwriting, Comme des Gar?ons aftershave, a Hollister hoodie that he planned on returning） and his sisters’ presents, and his mother’s plan to get a dog. I couldn’t tell if it was the days spent at home that had wound him up, but he seemed nervous.
When we got to the house, Nicola was handing out champagne flutes at the door with strawberries at the bottom of each. The kitchen island was filled with luxury hors d’oeuvres from Marks & Spencer, and I happily made my way around it, dipping crunchy prawn toasts into sweet chilli sauce. People filled the house quickly, and I enjoyed playing the role of Charming Young Woman who listens carefully and laughs easily.
I was surprised when I found Sabrina smoking outside with one of James’s sisters. Sabrina, who had moved to New York that summer, and who James once thought was me.
“Hello!” I said, already a couple of drinks deep, and going in to hug her. “Gosh, fancy seeing you again. Are you home for Christmas?”
“Rachel!” She hugged me back. “Yeah, yeah, got back in on the twenty-third. How are you?”
I wondered how James ever thought Sabrina and I looked alike. She was smaller than me, for one. She had a short blonde bob, whereas my hair was long, and more of a fair dishwater colour. Sabrina had a sharp little face, a pointy chin, quick eyes. My face was fuller. “Like a classical painting,” James said once, being kind.
The second thing that struck me was what Sabrina was doing here. We had hung around with her a little, when she worked with us, but we hung around with everyone who was vaguely our age. Our general consensus was that Sabrina was nice, if a little prissy. Truthfully, I had barely thought of her since she emigrated. Why on earth had she come out to Fermoy, miles away from anything, when Stephen’s Day was the biggest night in town of the year?
“How’s New York?” I asked, because what I really wanted to ask was Why are you here?
“Oh, you know. Freezing. But good. Americans are so friendly, I feel like there’s something on every night.”
“I always heard New Yorkers were rude.”
“You hear that, but they’re just rude compared to other Americans, I think. They’re friendly compared to Europeans.”
“People say Irish people are friendly. I don’t think we are. I think we’re just loud.”
“Right!”
We chattered on like this, and after a while I got a funny feeling that the dynamic was off. We had always been friendly, and still were, but I had the itching sense that we were a present and former wife, fighting for territory. I saw her eyes flitting around, and I got the urge to prove my place in James’s life by telling her that I had been to the house before as many times as I possibly could.
“Nicola breeds cats in that shed,” I said. “Nicola is his mum’s name.”
“I know. I met her on the way in.”
“She makes a great sandwich,” I said, too enthusiastically, re-stating my longevity in the Devlin household. “She made me a ham sandwich, once.”
Even though my reactions were strange, I knew my instincts were correct. There was something going on, with Sabrina at this party.
James came out into the garden with another tray of drinks. He smiled widely, showing all his teeth. A smile that I knew meant fuck and not yay.
“Hey, you two!” he said brightly.
“Hey!” we both said in unison.
Then I said, “You didn’t say Sabrina was coming!”
“Yeah!” he said. Then a pause. “Rachel, do you want to help me with drinks inside? The pensioners are getting through the sherry very quickly, and Mum has me on top-up duty.”
“Fine.”
There was a utility room off the kitchen and I followed James in there.
“What’s going on?”
“I’m moving to New York,” he said.
His face was so serious that I actually laughed.
“You’re not moving to New York,” I said. “This is not a thing. This cannot be a thing.”
“It can be, and is, a thing.”
I crouched down, and held on to my guts. Unable to believe how in a year where everything had changed, things had somehow managed to change again.
“I’m sorry.”
“This is what you’ve been so secretive about, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I need to go home. I need to call a taxi.”
“You can’t call a taxi.”
“I can.”
“You won’t get one, and even if you could, it would cost you fifty quid to get back to Douglas.”
“Well, I can’t stay here,” I said, already crying.
“Come on,” he said, holding my hand. “Follow me.”
My face was streaked with tears, and I didn’t want to see anyone. “No,” I said, hanging back.
“Come on. We’ll go for a walk.”
He led me through the house and out the front door, hands clenched, both our heads bowed, like a married couple on the verge of divorce. We walked down his parents’ driveway and through one field into another. Soon we were surrounded by nothing but grass and stars.