For a moment I wish I was home at my parents’. The familiar rooms of where I grew up. But as soon as the longing hits, it vanishes again.
There’s a lot of commotion and then silence. I’ve snuck back to the food table and see someone cough and clear his throat. A big redhead takes centre stage in the middle of the room. He holds a microphone and sings The Wolfe Tones’ ‘Streets of New York’ adapted with his own lyrics about his emigration to Australia.
This must be the famous Keano. He has the crowd enrapt, singing with an intensity and theatricality that seems too staged to me.
I grimace as he rolls into the third verse. He’s self-indulgent. I chomp on another mini-burger.
Keano finishes and gets great applause. The DJ immediately puts on a cheesy party record and I sigh with relief. There’s far too many Irish expats here. The night could easily turn into a session of singing after Keano’s performance.
Dolores hugs Keano and he looks at her in a way that confuses me. Is he trying it on with her? His chest is up and he has a cocky smile on his face. Dolores is being maternal with him but he’s trying to flirt, to impress her. His comments fall flat.
I drink enough prosecco to go along when one of Dolores’ colleagues pulls me onto the dancefloor. I notice the brightness of Keano’s red hair.
One of the Australians calls him a ranga, after orang-utan, and Keano does an imitation of a monkey, scratching under his arms and going ‘oooh oooh oooh’, then turns into a gorilla and bangs on his chest.
Dolores blows out the six and zero candles on her cake. People are so fond of her. Would my colleagues back home ever put something like this together for me? Maybe at my old school but only while I was there. After I quit, I attempted to stay in touch with four of the teachers I was closest to but that dwindled to one and even with him it was usually a stray comment on social media that kept us together. Can that even be considered a bond?
If I hosted something, who’d come? No one, probably. Paper plates with slices of birthday cake are passed around. I take one, then another, and decide to never throw a party.
Dolores goes on the microphone, making a speech in her wacky Irish-Australian accent. I think she sounds more Australian than Irish but the Aussies think it’s the other way round. She thanks the venue and everyone who put the event together. She’s honestly been surprised.
‘This scallywag niece of mine let nothing out,’ she says and points over, the spotlight of attention falling on me and my mouth stuffed with cake.
I swallow it down. Lick and wipe my lips with my forearm, give a quick wave and a smile to the crowd. My neck burns.
Dolores raises a glass. ‘To life.’
People clink bottles and glasses.
She turns to the DJ and gestures for more music.
The men in the room smile as Dolores talks and moves. Why doesn’t she have a man? All these bucks are clearly interested.
The DJ plays Abba. Everyone goes wild on the dancefloor. I grab another slice of cake and turn to see bright orange coming towards me, it’s like a fire blazing on his head. His skin is paper white up close, translucent nearly. He’s in a GAA jersey and light blue denims. A trail of laughter follows as he walks through the party. I clean my front teeth with my tongue, pull at some food lodged in my back teeth. I hoist the V of my cleavage up so it’s not too revealing but the weight of my breasts drags the dress down again.
‘You’re the niece?’
I nod.
‘I’m Keano. I meant to reply to your texts but, I don’t know, one of the times my phone was dead and the other time, I was training or somewhere.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘Howaya anyway?’ He puts his hand out and I shake it. It’s cool, dry. He gives me a once up-and-down. ‘You don’t look like Dolly at all.’
‘Who?’
He appraises my body again. ‘You and the Doll, ye don’t look alike.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Dolly? Dolores? She is your aunt, isn’t she?’
‘Oh, yeah. I never heard her called that before.’
‘Ye aren’t similar.’ His voice has an edge – disappointment or frustration?
‘I’m probably more like my father’s people. Did you just get back from the mines?’
His eyes have a glint that’s not friendly or comforting. It’s a hungry sort of look, a wild sort of look. As he drops his gaze to my chest, I feel like a huge piece of prime steak and that this lad hasn’t eaten in years.
‘Just out of hell, yes,’ he says, ravaging me again with a stare.
‘Why do you call it hell?’
‘Three weeks in. Cock fest. Clouds of flies in the air. Searing sun. Zero craic.’
‘Why do you do it?’ I eye up the buffet, which is being restocked by a waiter.
‘Money, Natalie girlshine. Money. Hard cold dollars. Thousands upon thousands of them. I’ve forty-six grand saved this year already. Do you want to see my bank account? I’ve online banking. I can show you it on the app. My balance. It’s fucking beautiful.’
He clicks some buttons on his phone.
‘I don’t want to see it. I believe you.’
Keano seems disappointed. ‘It’d only take a second to bring it up on screen.’
‘No, don’t bother.’ I wave it off.
Keano puts his phone in his pocket, gives me a hard look. ‘I heard something’s off in your room, Dolly told me, the air con isn’t working in the toilet, is that right?’
‘Yeah, but she said Bruce will call over and fix it. With organizing the party, he didn’t have the time yet.’
‘Bruce doesn’t know shit about shit,’ Keano says.
‘He works in construction.’
‘Believe me, girlshine, I’ll have it done more efficiently, with more zest and skill than old Brucey could do with all his wrinkly equipment.’
‘Are we talking about the same thing here?’ I lean back.
‘I’ll be around tomorrow when me hangover dissipates. 3:30 p.m. I have the code, will let myself in.’
‘Okay. Well. Thanks.’
‘Right, I better get to work on the aforementioned hangover. Do you want a drink?’
‘No, I’m grand. I might have a sausage.’
Keano strokes his cheek with the back of his fingers. He’s undeterred with his eyes. I fold my arms across my stomach, covering all the new layers. He winks and goes to the bar.
The party is in full swing but I’m drained and decide to book a taxi. I offer Dolores, Bruce and even Keano a lift, but everyone’s too busy in their merriment to join.
I receive a text that the taxi’s outside. I skull the rest of my prosecco and grab my handbag and scarf.
The car is a big white people carrier. I open the front door, tipsy from the alcohol. It’s spacious and calm inside.
‘Hello, Madam, Natalie Dillon, you go to Greenwoods?’
‘Can I sit in the front or do I have to sit in the back?’
‘You can sit wherever you like. What number in Greenwoods?’
The roomy leather seat squelches as it takes my weight. ‘It’s 72 or 74. Can’t remember. I’ll know when we’re there.’
The driver raises his eyebrows. His face is lit by the GPS navigation device mounted on the dashboard. ‘You don’t know where you live, Madam?’
‘I do. I always get mixed up on 72 or 74. I’ve been drinking too. Never helps.’
‘You drink?’ He checks all the mirrors as he pulls onto the main road.
My teeth chatter. He turns the air conditioning down a fraction.