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I look down at my tired trainers. “Me too.”
“So, what do you do?”
“I’m a student. I too like naps. Well, when I’m not on placement. They tend to frown on ducking into a spare cubicle for twenty minutes shut eye in the middle of a shift.”
“Cubicle…are you a…?”
“Student nurse, yes.”
“A very noble profession,” he says, tipping his glass towards me.
“I like taking care of people. I’m quite good at it, or so I’m told. Speaking of which, how are you feeling now?”
“Much better, thank you.” He gulps down another mouthful of whisky.
I frown. “You know, I’m not sure that’s medically indicated.”
He smiles. “You are awfully strict. I’m pretty sure it will do the trick.” He grimaces as he swallows. “Where are my manners? Would you like one?”
“Hmm, go on then. Thanks.”
He reaches to the table, pours a large measure from the bottle into a second glass and hands it to me.
I swirl the whisky, watching as it coats the glass. For all my nights in the student union, I’ve never been tempted by whisky. It has always seemed like a real grown-up drink, something consumed by old men after business dinners. The smoky scent of the heavy dark amber liquid in the glass is quite inviting, but also slightly alarming. After all, where there’s smoke…
“It is the best of stuff, I promise. Dad had it bottled for me when I was born. We’ve been waiting a long time to try it. I must say it was worth the wait. Cheers, er…?”
“Sera.”
“I’m Alistair. Cheers, Sera.”
“Cheers, Alistair.”
The measure of whisky is making its way over my tongue before my brain registers what he has just said. Alistair. Alistair Whyte. Alistair the rugby playing Great Whyte. The birthday boy whose party I am crashing.
Alistair looks at me, eyes wide. “Wow. I kind of thought you might sip it…didn’t really expect that. Impressive.”
Impressive indeed. Perhaps my time in the university union was not misspent after all. I’m feeling quite pleased with myself. The burning sensation stretching all the way down my throat is taking my mind off my current predicament and my watering eyes. I am doing it. I am not just a gate crasher; I am a whisky drinking hero gate crasher.
That is until the burning amber liquid hits my stomach. There it meets the portion of Aunt Molly’s cottage pie that I had for dinner, and it rapidly becomes evident that I do not have the ability to handle whisky that I thought I did.
I rush to the sink and in front of this handsome man I have just met and whose birthday party I have pretty much invited myself to, send both Aunt Molly’s cottage pie and the whisky his dad has been saving for twenty-one years splashing against the spotless white porcelain of the Belfast sink.
Alistair discreetly avers his eyes until I am somewhat recovered. Then he turns to me with a grin. He holds out the bottle. “Another?”
“No,” I growl.
“Go on. Try it. It is medicinal. Maybe just sip it this time though…”
I roll my eyes.
“Ok.”
He pats the bed, and I sit beside him as he pours another dram into my glass.
“Cheers,” he says with a grin.
“Cheers,” I mutter. I sip the amber poison. Instead of the expected burning, the tiny sliver of liquid warms my throat. The heat soothes my irritated stomach. I take another sip. And another. The taste is pleasantly earthy on my tongue, and I find myself starting to relax for the first time since entering the house.
