‘She’s very nice, very loud and very sensitive about her age. Apparently this is her forty-second birthday but I reckon it’s more like her fiftieth. I’m forty and she’s waaaaaay ahead of me in the ageing department.’
Kerry makes a miaowing sound and playfully slaps him on the back of the head. He turns round and purrs. God, those two are sickening.
‘And she’s an actress? How do you know her?’ I ask, glancing at Kerry’s jeans and trainers and wondering if I should have dressed down. ‘Have you been secretly treading the boards?’
‘No. I used to go out with her daughter Hannah,’ he replies. ‘A few years ago now.’ He roots around for some money in his Diesel jeans. Kerry glares at the back of his head, clearly annoyed by this revelation.
‘Did you now, Kieran? So essentially we’re going to your ex-mother-in-law’s party? Will there be a big fuck-off reunion between you and Hannah?’
Kieran sighs. ‘We were never that serious, Kerry, and I’ve seen her since we split. She’s just a mate. Behave yourself.’
The taxi pulls into Woodlands Drive and stops outside number three. Kerry gets out first, quickly followed by me, while Kieran pays the driver. She fixes the bow on the pink champagne they’ve brought for Beth.
‘You OK?’ I ask her quietly.
She smiles and whispers, ‘I love it when he tells me to behave – it’s so masterful. Anyway, I’ve seen Hannah before – she looks like Gary Busey AND she still lives with her mum. Nothing to worry about.’
I laugh as Kieran exits the taxi and we all make our way into the flat.
I can hear the party from the stairwell as we climb the stone stairs to the third floor. The door is ajar so we let ourselves in and are immediately greeted by an unenthusiastic dog, pounding music and the sound of a woman shrieking with laughter.
Kieran grins. ‘That’s Beth. Come on, I’ll introduce you.’
Beth Hope, real name Elizabeth Dick (changed ten years ago for obvious reasons), is a petite brunette actress who shares a spacious three-bedroom tenement flat with her blonde daughter Hannah and their astoundingly lazy greyhound, Harry. Although I didn’t recognize the name, her face is instantly identifiable; she’s one of those actresses that pops up everywhere, from bit parts on soap operas to adverts for car insurance, and although I want to yell, ‘I KNOW YOU! YOU PLAYED THAT ABUSIVE MARKET TRADER ON EASTENDERS! I WATCHED THAT! YOU WERE MUCH LARGER THEN’ I bite my tongue and shake her hand politely, thanking her for inviting me.
‘Thank you all for coming! Girls, take that bottle into the kitchen and grab yourselves a drink. Kieran – how the hell are you? Have you seen that dreadful light installation at the CCA? Hannah’s just taking coats to the spare room; she’ll be back in a second. CAN SOMEONE GET HARRY OFF THE COUCH, PLEASE?’
Kerry and I walk out of the living room and across the brightly lit hall. There are a small number of guests in the kitchen, most of them propped up against the black fitted worktops, with a few sitting at the kitchen table, swigging from plastic wine glasses and beer bottles. Kerry places the pink champagne beside the other twenty-two bottles of birthday fizz and lifts an open one, pouring us both a glass.
‘I told you!’ she announces quietly. ‘It’s always the same at these things. We’ll see Kieran in a couple of hours when he remembers he actually came here with us.’
‘Doesn’t that bother you?’ I ask, looking around for some orange juice to add to my horribly dry cava. Two women leave their seats at the table and we grab them, knowing we’ll be here for a while.
‘Not really. His close friends are lovely and fun, but his wider circle of artistic bores leaves me cold a lot of the time.’
‘You two really are so different,’ I remark. ‘And for someone who hates creative types, you’re dating a graphic designer and your best mate is a writer. You can’t hate them that much.’
‘It’s the pretentiousness I hate!’ She laughs. ‘That wankerish air of superiority that seems to cling to some people who’ve read some tricky books or think having a three-hour conversation about the position of a light bulb is acceptable. They’re just not silly enough for me and I’m probably too uninspiring for them. I’ll never be anyone’s muse.’
After three glasses of wine we finally decide to mingle a little, making our way towards the music blasting from the living room. My sensible head is telling me that any minute the police will show up because of the noise, but my feet appear to be dancing already.
I spot Kieran talking to Hannah, and Beth is getting twirled around the dance floor by a younger man in a trilby. Harry the dog is still claiming his rightful place on the couch, but I have the feeling it won’t be long before someone gets pissed and sits on him. Surprisingly, Kerry doesn’t make a beeline for Kieran, choosing instead to start a conversation with a guy hanging out beside Beth’s antique display cabinet. I stand alone for a moment, taking it all in. Kieran waves me over.
‘Hannah, this is Cat.’
I shake Hannah’s hand but all I can think of is Gary. Fucking. Busey. Of course Hannah looks nothing like Gary Busey. Well, maybe the teeth, but oh shit, I want to laugh.
‘Hannah is a very talented artist,’ Kieran informs me. ‘Most of the paintings in here are her work.’
I look around the living-room walls at the splodgy modern art while Hannah beams and waits for praise. The last time I was forced to lie about art was when Grace brought home her Primary Two art book, filled with handprints and stick men . . . only Grace’s were better.
‘Amazing,’ I reply. ‘I’ve never seen anything quite like them.’
‘Thank you, Cat. I try to capture the brutality and honesty of my life in my work. It’s cathartic, but I do sometimes wonder why I put myself through it. Oh, look, there’s Lynne. Forgive me – I must say hello.’
Hannah flounces off and I glance at Kieran, who’s trying very, very hard not to lose it. I’m not so controlled.
‘HA HA, you shit! You totally set me up. Whoever the hell Lynne is, she just saved me from being horribly rude to a terrible artist. I thought you liked all this arty stuff?’
