CHAPTER 63
“I don’t really drink,” I said, after the glass of wine had been poured and passed to me.
Emelia looked at me and did a fake double take. “And why ever not?” she asked.
“Well, it’s kind of embarrassing, really,” I said.
Both Mike and Emelia looked at me expectantly now.
I sighed. “I go red,” I said.
“Red?” Mike asked.
“Yes—very.”
They both looked at me blankly, as if they didn’t understand, so I elaborated.
“It’s like a mini allergic reaction. So I try and avoid it, especially when in public and especially on first dates; it can get quite embarrassing.”
Mike and Emelia looked at each other and then looked back at me. “What do you mean,red?” Emelia asked, with a smile.
“Bright red. Tomato red,” I qualified. “But not an even red—that would be okay. I go blotchy.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Just my face,” I said. I was embarrassed just talking about it.
Mike and Emelia then shared a smile.
“This, I’ve got to see.” Emelia walked over to me and gently pushed the glass to my lips.
“No. Really. It’s totally embarrassing and I look ridiculous and you’ll all just laugh at me—”
“You’re among friends. We won’t judge you, as long as you don’t judge my bad singing after I’ve had two glasses.” We shared a small smile and I lowered my lips to the glass. I took a sniff. God, I missed wine. The smell, the taste, the whole experience.
“Your friends must love watching you go red when you go out for drinks. It’s like a party trick,” Emelia said casually, but the statement struck me hard.
“I don’t really go out drinking much . . . with friends,” I said quietly.
“True. Neither do we, really. We’re more home drinkers. Dinner parties at home, you know. I think we’re all getting older.”
“Mmm . . .” I mumbled. “I meant more the ‘with friends’ part.” I said this so quietly that I wasn’t even sure they heard it.
“What do you mean?” she asked, turning to look at me properly now.
I shrugged. “I don’t really, well, have many friends.”
“I suppose you’re so busy writing that you don’t get to see them that much,” Emelia said.
“No, not really. I mean . . . I just don’t have many, you know,friends.”
Emelia blinked at me. “What do you mean, you don’t have many friends?”
I took another sip of wine—a rather large one, and immediately started feeling the effects. When you don’t drink, two sips is enough to send you on your merry way. “I’m not so good at making them, I guess,” I said.
Emelia looked at me expectantly, as if she needed more information.
I took another quick sip and started rambling a little. “I kind of moved around a lot when I was young. I was never in one place for long enough to make any friends, I suppose. Besides, wherever I went, I didn’t really fit in—well, not until Imademyself fit in. And then, I suppose, when you’re pretending to fit in, you don’t really make friends, because you don’t actually have anything in common with anyone. Or something like that.” I took another sip. My tongue was loosening. I never spoke to anyone about these kinds of things, and now it was all just flowing out of me. “I’m probably just bad at making any kind of meaningful connections with anyone. It’s like if you’ve never learned to cook and then suddenly someone asks you to cook something, you’ll probably be bad at it, even if you have a recipe!” I concluded, after another gulp of wine. “Mind you, I don’t even think I was ever given a recipe. Or I was given the wrong one. It’s like I’m trying to cook coq au vin, but someone gave me a pizza recipe.”
