“So when are you seeing this possible Feathery Stroker again?” Jacqui asked.

“I said I’d give him a call when I was in the mood,” I said airily.

However, he rang me two days later, said his nerves couldn’t take the waiting for me to ring, and would I meet him for dinner that evening. Certainly not, I replied, he was a stalker and I had a life. Mind you, I could do the following night if he wanted…

Four nights after that dinner, we went to a jazz thing, but it wasn’t too bad, the musicians took breaks after every second song—or so it seemed—so there were plenty of opportunities to talk. Then around a week later, we went to some fondue yoke.

In the meantime I went on the date with Teenie’s friend (to the Cirque de Soleil, a terrible night, a circus is a circus, gussying it up with a French name changes nothing), and in theory I was open to all offers, but the only man I saw was Aidan. Nonexclusively, of course.

He always asked after everyone—Jacqui’s job, Shake’s air-guitar practice et al.—because even though he’d never met them, he knew so much about their lives. “It’s like The Young and the Restless, or something,” he said.

We never strayed into serious territory. I had questions—like why he hadn’t rung me when I’d first given him my card or why he’d said he’d wanted me but didn’t think he could have me. But I didn’t ask them because I didn’t want to know. Or rather, I didn’t want to know Yet.

On around our fourth or fifth date, he took a breath. “Don’t be scared but Leon and Dana want to meet you, like, properly. What do you think?”

I thought I’d rather remove my kidneys with a blunt spoon.

“We’ll see,” I said. “Funnily enough, Jacqui wants to meet you, too.”

He had a little think. “Okay.”

“Really? You don’t have to. I told her I wouldn’t ask because it might scare you away.”

“No, let’s go for it. You make her sound great, but will I like her?”

“Probably not.”

“What?”

“Because,” I said. “You know when two people are meeting for the first time and the other person—me—really wants them to like each other and they say, ‘You’ll love each other’? Their expectations are too high, so they end up being disappointed and hate each other. The key here is to lower expectations. So no, you won’t like her at all.”

The three of us will have dinner!” Jacqui declared.

We would not. What if she and Aidan didn’t hit it off? Two to three hours making light conversation while forcing food down tense throats—aaarrrgh!

A quick postwork drink would do; nice and easy and, above all, short. I decided on Logan Hall, a big, rackety midtown bar, noisy enough to cover up any dips in conversations. It would be packed with wage slaves kicking back and letting off steam.

On the designated night, I arrived first and fought my way through many tantalizing conversations—

“…she is so fired…”

“…a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in his sock, I swear it…”

“…under his desk, sucking him off…”

—and got a booth on the balcony. Jacqui was next to arrive, and eight minutes later, Aidan hadn’t yet appeared.

“He’s late.” Jacqui sounded approving.

“There he is.” He was downstairs, pushing his way through the throngs, looking a little lost. “We’re here,” I called.

He looked up, saw me, smiled like he really meant it, and mouthed, “Hey.”

“Christ, he’s gorgeous.” Jacqui sounded astonished, then recovered herself. “Which counts for nothing. You could have the best-looking man in the world but if he won’t eat the bar nuts because he’s got a Feathery Stroker fear of germs, it’s curtains.”

“He’ll eat the nuts,” I said shortly, then stopped because here he was.

He kissed me, slid in beside me, and nodded hello to Jacqui.

“Can I get you guys a drink?” A waitress was flinging down cocktail napkins, then placed a bowl of mixed nuts midtable.

“A saketini for me,” I said.

“Make it two,” said Jacqui.

“Sir?” The waitress looked at Aidan.

“I’ve no mind of my own,” he said. “Better make it three.”

I wondered what Jacqui would conclude from that. Were mixed drinks too girlie? Would it have been better if he’d had a beer?

“Have a nut.” Jacqui offered him the bowl.

“Hey, thanks.”

I smirked at Jacqui.

It was a great night. We all got on so well that we stayed for a second drink, then a third, then Aidan insisted on picking up the bill. Again, this worried me. Would a non–Feathery Stroker have insisted we split it three ways?

“Thank you,” I said. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, thanks,” Jacqui said, and I held my breath. If he said stuff about it being a pleasure to be out with two such lovely ladies, we were sunk. But he just said, “Welcome,” and surely this would count in his favor in the final Feathery Stroker shakedown?

“Better go to the ladies’ room,” Jacqui said. “Before the great migration home.”

“Good idea.” I followed her and asked, “Well? Feathery Stroker?”

“Him?” she exclaimed. “Definitely not.”

“Good.” I was pleased—delighted even—that Aidan had passed with such flying non–Feathery Stroker colors.

With warm admiration, she added, “I bet he’s a hard dog to keep on the porch,” and my smile wobbled just a little.

14

On Saturday afternoon, a taxi drew up outside chez Walsh. The door opened and a high-heeled spindly sandal appeared, followed by a tanned leg (slightly orange and streaky around the ankle), a short frayed denim skirt, a straining T-shirt that said MY BOYFRIEND IS OUT OF TOWN, and a fall of vanilla-striped hair. Claire had arrived.

“She’s forty,” Helen said, in alarm. “She looks like a tramp. She was never that bad before.”

“This is much more like it, better than that bloody Margaret,” Mum said, heading to the front door and welcoming Claire by calling out at the taxi, “Mutton dressed as lamb! Good girl yourself.”