‘He is unique, beyond prince.’
The coffee came and Falls sampled it, said: ‘Yeah, it’s instant with froth.’ Then she leaned closer, added: ‘You know why I did, like, on the first date?’
‘’Cos you’re a wanton cow.’
‘That too. But when we came out of the dance, I felt faint.’
‘Lust, girl.’
‘And I sat on the pavement.’
Rosie made a face as she tasted her drink, telling Falls to continue.
‘Before I could, he whipped off his jacket and laid it on the path.’
‘So you sat on it and later you sat on his face.’
They roared, shamefully delighted, warmly scandalised. Rosie said: ‘Taste this,’ and pushed the slam across. Falls did, said: ‘It’s got booze in there, check the menu.’
Sure enough, in the small print, near illegible, was: ‘Pure Colombian beans, double hit of espresso, hint of Cointreau.’ Falls said: ‘I know what the Cointreau’s hinting.’
‘What’s that, then?’
‘Get bladdered. Did I tell you I dreamed of my dad?’
Later, wired on slammers, hopping on espresso, Falls showed her Eddie Dillon’s poem.
‘He wrote a poem for you?’
‘Yes.’ (shyly)
‘Is it any good?’
‘Who cares? ’Cos it’s for me, it’s brilliant.’
‘Give it here, girl!’
She did.
Benediction
Rosie’s lips moved as she read. For some reason, this touched Falls and she had to look away. Finally: ‘Wow, it’s deep.’
‘ ’Tis. That’s what he says, “tis”.’
‘Do you understand it?’
‘Course not. What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Oh, you lucky cow, I think I hate you!’
Virgin? What’s your problem. Whore? What’s your number. Naomi Wolf (Rocking Years)
Sent flowers every other day, she said: ‘I am blessed full. Not a cloud to be seen… almost. One or two tiny niggles, hardly worth consideration: one, he couldn’t take her to his flat; two, she couldn’t phone him. Weighted against the other gold, these were nothing — right?
Rightish! No point even sharing those with Rosie. Why bother? But: ‘Rosie, whatcha think about..?’ And Rosie: ‘Oh God, that’s very ominous.’
Falls was raging: ‘Ominous? When did you swallow a dictionary?’ That’s it, no more input from Ms Know-it- all.
The doorbell went and she felt her heart fly. At a guess, more roses. With a grin, she opened the door.
Not Interflora.
A bag lady. Well, next best thing. A middle-aged woman who could be kindest described as ‘frumpy’, and you’d be reaching. Her hair was dirt grey, and whatever shade it had been, that was long ago. Falls sighed. The homeless situation was even worse than the
The woman said: ‘Are you WPC Falls, the policewoman?’
Surprisingly soft voice. The new Irish cultured one of soft vowels and easy lilt, riddled with education.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Nora.’
Falls tried not to be testy, said: ‘I don’t wish to be rude, but you say it as if it should mean something. It doesn’t mean anything to me.’
The woman stepped forward, not menacingly, but more as if she didn’t want the world to hear, said: ‘Nora Dillon, Eddie’s wife.’
Falls had dressed for confrontation. The requisite Reeboks, sweatshirt and pants. She sat primly on her couch, letting Eddie hang himself. First, she’d considered sitting like Ellen Degenes. That sitcom laid-back deal, legs tucked under your butt, yoga-esque. Mainly cool, like tres. But it hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. Since Dyke City, when Ellen had come out of the closet, was she a role model? ‘We think not,’ said Middle America. So, Eddie arrived with red roses, Black Magic and a shit-eating grin. He’s even quoting some of his poetry. Like this:
