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My sister called me from a hotel room in Amsterdam. That was how she opened the conversation. ‘I’m in a hotel room in Amsterdam.’ No, ‘hello.’ No, ‘how are you?’ Just a slurred, lost-weekend whisper down the line, while I sat in a room an ocean away, and tried to think of something to say
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On a special occasion, or sometimes just because the mood takes you, make linguine alla vongole. Stand over the simmering stove and try to get back to that summer on Capri. The slurp and sip as you ate. The clack of shells on porcelain. Oil and garlic oozing from your pores for days. You could…
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This was the energy in the room that day. The contagious energy of one hundred and eighteen girls all wanting the same thing. We sat there and thought of Jimmy Dillon and Sinéad Fahy together. Jimmy leaving his mark, staking his claim.
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‘Yeah, well… boys will be boys,’ he says. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘Just that you shouldn’t read anything into it.’
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He could sit here forever and be happy. He’s said that too. More than once. ‘Do you know what? I’m happy, so I am. Really, I am.’
