The Living by Léan Cullinan Read Free Book Online Page A

the relative merits of drunk-but-wet or sober-but-dry, there was no contest: I’d drive. I donned the long, emerald-green shift dress that I’d worn to last year’s Trinity Ball, concealed, powdered, painted, and set off.
    The flat was in Ballsbridge, at the top of a tall Victorian house. Donal, the host, let me in and welcomed me upstairs with as much pride as if he owned the whole house. Linda, his wife, met us at the door of the flat and showed me where to put my coat.
    We’d sung at their wedding last April – a musical extravaganza in Linda’s native County Kilkenny – but apart from that I didn’t know the two of them very well. In the spare bedroom, I added my coat to an already impressive pile.
    â€˜Come on through,’ said Linda, crossing the tiny hallway and gesturing for me to follow.
    The sitting room was large, with a bite cut out of one corner for a kitchen. Music pulsed from an iPod dock in the corner. The room was already quite full of people, of whom maybe a third were from the choir. No Matthew. I checked out the new faces. Old habits die hard.
    â€˜Great flat – so central,’ I said to Linda. I heard myself deliver the line, like someone years older and several notches more sophisticated.
    â€˜Well, this is it. Couldn’t be better, really. Anyway, help yourself to drinks! Nibbles!’ She waved me to a table on which bowls of snacks and a large selection of bottles were arrayed. I poured a glass of fizzy orange, which messed with my chronology again, making me feel simultaneously too old and too young.
    Over by the fireplace I saw Tom and Diane. I started towards them, and Tom spotted me. ‘The bould Mizz Houlihan herself! Ave , Cate-o!’ he exclaimed, with a florid beam. He was at his most ebullient, clearly in all-out party mode. He put an arm round me. ‘And how’s my favourite alto?’
    â€˜You’re such an uncle, Tom,’ I said, giving him a gentle dig in the ribs and nodding a greeting at Diane.
    â€˜You hear that, Diane? Cate has me down as avuncular.’
    â€˜Course you are, Tom,’ said Diane. ‘You are the quintessential uncle.’
    â€˜I’m not, actually. My sister is a bit old for kids at this stage. I’m a father, mind you. Will that do?’
    I did my best to mask my surprise, but Tom was plainly on tome. ‘I am. I’ve two teenage sons. I don’t see much of them these days.’ He sighed brightly and squared his shoulders. ‘Come here, you were saying,’ he prompted Diane.
    â€˜Oh yes, well, I sent the list of names off to Belfast last week, and they’ve given us the go-ahead, so we’re all set.’
    â€˜And tell me, our Mr Taylor is definitely doing that gig, isn’t he?’
    â€˜He is indeed,’ said Diane. ‘No offence to your good self, Tom, but we need him!’
    â€˜Oh, I concur,’ said Tom. He looked around. ‘Where is he anyway?’ He raised his glass. ‘I’m allowing myself one ogle per drink.’
    Diane giggled. ‘Tom, you’re shameless.’
    â€˜I am,’ he agreed. ‘Honestly, you’d think I was single, the way I go on.’ He sighed. ‘In any case, the gentleman in question appears regrettably straight.’ He smirked at me. I gave him a glare.
    The two of them began to talk about music. I couldn’t listen. Matthew was here – somewhere in this flat. I finished my drink and excused myself, moving back out to the hallway like a tiger on the prowl. What I’d do when I found him, I wasn’t quite sure.
    There weren’t many places he could be, and my first guess proved correct. A splinter group had formed in the quieter environs of the spare bedroom. Val was in a low chair by the bed, where Joan and a few other choir people had pushed the coats back to make space to sit. Matthew and Linda stood under the blazing light bulb, drinks in hand.
    The women seemed