They hit the pub, found a quiet corner, then Rory filled her in.

‘I was in London,’ he said, ‘to meet a VID.’

‘VI - D?’

‘Very Important Director. And since the emerald isle is a mere hop, skip and jump away from the big smoke, I decided to hop on a plane, skip to Kilrowan and jump the bones of my trouble and strife.’

‘But all the London-Galway flights were cancelled!’

‘I flew to Knock from Stansted.’

‘Stansted? Ew.’

‘A man will go through hell and high water and even negotiate Stansted airport when an opportunity for sexual gratification presents itself – especially after a period of enforced celibacy. I’m booked into Ballynahinch. There’s a four poster.’

‘Goodie. Will we do the tying-up thing?’

‘Sure.’

Deirdre gave Rory a come-hitherish smile and swished her hair a bit.

He leaned back in his seat and studied her. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You certainly have had a makeover. Purply nails and all. New hair. And there’s something else different about you.’

‘I’ve lost weight?’ she asked, helpfully. She’d been running the beach nearly every day recently.

‘Maybe. Yeah. I dunno. It’s something about your expression. You look kinda plastic. Maybe it’s the make-up.’

It was the Botox, Deirdre knew. Some actresses had had to give up on Botox because of the atrophying effect it had on their facial expressions. She didn’t want to tell Rory that she’d had it done. She knew he wouldn’t approve. But Rory was no eejit.

‘You’ve done the Botox thing,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you?’

She gave him a mulish look.

‘What the fuck made you do that, Deirdre?’

‘I’m fed up of looking like shite,’ she said.

‘You don’t look like shite! Or rather – you didn’t until now. Your lovely mobile features have gone all stiff on me. How long before it wears off?’

‘A couple of months.’

‘Well, at least I know that by the time you come back to LA I’ll have my real wife back, not some Stepford lookalike.’

‘You don’t understand, Rory! It’s different for men. Women don’t like getting old. I don’t like getting old.’

‘You’ll never grow old, Deirdre,’ he said, ‘because you never grew up in the first place. What fucking childish impulse told you it would be a good idea to have some strain of a bovine disease injected into your face?’

Oh! This was horrible! What should have been a glorious reunion was turning into a domestic. ‘Stop it!’ she said. ‘Stop it, Rory! We’re fighting. We haven’t seen each other for weeks and we’re fighting.’

‘OK,’ he said, after a beat. ‘We’ll change the subject. We’ll talk about the weather instead.’ He turned to the window. ‘Oh, look! It’s started to lash rain! Rain in Ireland! How uncommon!’

It was, as he said, lashing rain outside. ‘Dammit,’ said Deirdre. ‘That means that all that time spent having my hair straightened will be wasted.’

‘Why?’

‘Because the rain makes your hair go all curly and shite.’

‘Oh, good,’ said Rory. ‘That straight, soignée look doesn’t suit you. Anyway, I’m looking forward to seeing your hair all tousled and gorgeous later. There’s a word for that style, isn’t there? What is it?’

‘A shag?’

He smiled at her. ‘I can always depend on you to come up with le mot juste. Hell. Finish your pint ASAP, sweetheart. I want us out of here. I have a sudden burning ambition to turn crimper and rearrange your hairstyle.’

 

© 2005 Kate Thompson