his head. “Not a good name.”
“No,” she said, still cringing.
“Forget him.”
“Good idea.”
“We can’t have Conors going about the place. Conors are barred from this establishment now. Conors are now the outcasts of society.”
“I feel better already,” she said, laughing, and strangely enough, she realized, it was true.
“Very glad to hear it,” James said with a solemn nod.
“And you?” Her voice jumped high on the question, worrying about the territory into which it might be pulling her, but she had to ask; it was only polite to ask, after he had shown an interest in her love life, her whatever it was.
“What about me?”
“Any nice German girl?”
His eyebrows shot up. “No,” he said firmly. “No nice German girl.”
“No not-nice German girl?”
“No not-nice German girl either.”
“Oh, but you’ll have to do something about that, ” she said, trying to borrow the teasing tone he had used on her. “I mean, when you go back,” she added, hurriedly.
“We’ll see,” he said, sounding bored of the subject.
“Oh, come on.”
He looked at her sharply. “Come on what?”
She stammered. “I mean, meet someone. You know. German girls, I mean. They’re good-looking, aren’t they? Blond.” She took a breath. “Some of them, like.”
He sighed. “That they are, Catherine. That they are.”
“So.”
“So,” he shrugged, and he stubbed his cigarette out. “So here we are,” he said, looking at her. He took a deep breath, and Catherine’s mouth went dry.
“I…”
“Both of us lonely,” James burst into song. “Longing for…something…”
And now what the fuck was happening? What was she supposed to do with this? She spluttered out a laugh, just for the sake of getting some other sound out into the room, something other than his weirdly passionate—what was that, a baritone? No, a baritone was lower, gruffer; his must be a tenor voice.
“You can’t really sing,” she said, which was not actually true, but she had needed to say something to break the tension, the mortification of him singing at her; she needed him to stop. What was he doing? What was she doing? Her mother would kill her— kill her—if she could see her right now, if she could know how she had spent the last hour.
“The summer,” he was saying now, having stopped with the singing, at least, but what was he saying about the summer? Catherine blinked at him.
“What?”
“I said, what are you doing with yourself for the summer?”
“Oh,” she said, relieved. “Going home. Back to Longford. I’m meant to have got a job.”
“ Meant to?”
She sighed, remembering that she still had not made that phone call. “I was going to ask the editor of the local newspaper for a job.”
He looked impressed. “Oh.”
“I’ve been writing a bit for the college paper.”
“About what?”
“Art,” she said, feeling almost triumphant as she saw the effect this had on him; he pursed his lips as though conceding something. “And literature.”
“Literature,” he said mockingly, and the heat rushed back to her face, but in the next instant, he was nodding approvingly. “Very good. Very good, Catherine. So that’s what you want to do?”
“I think so.”
“Do you write anything else?”
She swallowed. “Poetry,” she said, and instantly regretted it; his eyes had lit up with something, and she was pretty sure it was scorn. “I mean, it’s shit, obviously.”
He frowned. “Why obviously?”
“Never mind.”
He was regarding her steadily. “I think it’s a very good thing that you write poetry. A very good thing indeed.”
She squirmed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous about it?”
“ It’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous. My point is, I’m meant to have called up the editor of the local paper at home, I’m meant to have done it six months ago, and I told my mother that I would, and I never did it.” She took a breath. “And now I’m
“No,” she said, still cringing.
“Forget him.”
“Good idea.”
“We can’t have Conors going about the place. Conors are barred from this establishment now. Conors are now the outcasts of society.”
“I feel better already,” she said, laughing, and strangely enough, she realized, it was true.
“Very glad to hear it,” James said with a solemn nod.
“And you?” Her voice jumped high on the question, worrying about the territory into which it might be pulling her, but she had to ask; it was only polite to ask, after he had shown an interest in her love life, her whatever it was.
“What about me?”
“Any nice German girl?”
His eyebrows shot up. “No,” he said firmly. “No nice German girl.”
“No not-nice German girl?”
“No not-nice German girl either.”
“Oh, but you’ll have to do something about that, ” she said, trying to borrow the teasing tone he had used on her. “I mean, when you go back,” she added, hurriedly.
“We’ll see,” he said, sounding bored of the subject.
“Oh, come on.”
He looked at her sharply. “Come on what?”
She stammered. “I mean, meet someone. You know. German girls, I mean. They’re good-looking, aren’t they? Blond.” She took a breath. “Some of them, like.”
He sighed. “That they are, Catherine. That they are.”
“So.”
“So,” he shrugged, and he stubbed his cigarette out. “So here we are,” he said, looking at her. He took a deep breath, and Catherine’s mouth went dry.
“I…”
“Both of us lonely,” James burst into song. “Longing for…something…”
And now what the fuck was happening? What was she supposed to do with this? She spluttered out a laugh, just for the sake of getting some other sound out into the room, something other than his weirdly passionate—what was that, a baritone? No, a baritone was lower, gruffer; his must be a tenor voice.
“You can’t really sing,” she said, which was not actually true, but she had needed to say something to break the tension, the mortification of him singing at her; she needed him to stop. What was he doing? What was she doing? Her mother would kill her— kill her—if she could see her right now, if she could know how she had spent the last hour.
“The summer,” he was saying now, having stopped with the singing, at least, but what was he saying about the summer? Catherine blinked at him.
“What?”
“I said, what are you doing with yourself for the summer?”
“Oh,” she said, relieved. “Going home. Back to Longford. I’m meant to have got a job.”
“ Meant to?”
She sighed, remembering that she still had not made that phone call. “I was going to ask the editor of the local newspaper for a job.”
He looked impressed. “Oh.”
“I’ve been writing a bit for the college paper.”
“About what?”
“Art,” she said, feeling almost triumphant as she saw the effect this had on him; he pursed his lips as though conceding something. “And literature.”
“Literature,” he said mockingly, and the heat rushed back to her face, but in the next instant, he was nodding approvingly. “Very good. Very good, Catherine. So that’s what you want to do?”
“I think so.”
“Do you write anything else?”
She swallowed. “Poetry,” she said, and instantly regretted it; his eyes had lit up with something, and she was pretty sure it was scorn. “I mean, it’s shit, obviously.”
He frowned. “Why obviously?”
“Never mind.”
He was regarding her steadily. “I think it’s a very good thing that you write poetry. A very good thing indeed.”
She squirmed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“What’s ridiculous about it?”
“ It’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous. My point is, I’m meant to have called up the editor of the local paper at home, I’m meant to have done it six months ago, and I told my mother that I would, and I never did it.” She took a breath. “And now I’m
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