large intricate butterfly takes up his entire hand. He has a tiny king of hearts symbol over his ring finger. Obviously fancies himself a lothario.
He has the smallest star on his little finger. It actually looks like a Jewish star. He’s not Jewish, right? I don’t think I’ve ever met someone Irish and Jewish. Plus, I’m pretty sure they’re forbidden from getting tattoos.
‘What do they all mean?’
He looks up, bunching his eyebrows together.
I point to his arms. ‘Your tattoos I mean.’
‘Oh. That would be telling.’
O…kay. So he’s not a sharer. Why would someone get tattoos that everyone can see and then refuse to talk about them? Sounds like attention seeking if you ask me.
His other arm has some kind of quote on it above a beautiful illustration of mountains and a lake. It kind of looks like our lake actually, but then I suppose they do all look the same. A big dove and its open wings cover his wrist and part of his hand. He has a single rose down his index finger, and he has some sort of words written down the sides of the others.
‘What do they say?’ I ask, pointing to between his fingers.
He glares at me, but parts his fingers so I can read Peace, Respect, Loyalty and Love.
‘Wow, that’s deep, bro,’ I joke in a ridiculous impression of a stoned surfer.
He stares back at me blankly. I think he’s angry.
‘So, why did your dad chuck you out?’ I can’t help but ask him, trying to change the subject.
I hate that I’m nosy enough to ask.
He crosses his arms over his chest, his brows pulled in. ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’
He looks adorably stubborn with his arms folded tight across his chest.
Damn me for wanting to dig, but I do.
‘That’s probably what a spy would say.’ I hope that by antagonising him he’ll answer.
He tilts his head. ‘Are all of the English as nosey as you?’
‘Are all the Irish as evasive as you?’ I counter back.
We stare toe to toe with each other, both of us fiercely glaring. My chest heaves from the anger he creates in me. It’s moment like this I hate that he’s practically seen me naked.
His face dissolves into a smile, like he finds my anger amusing.
‘Anyway, people keep asking if you’ve got the sports channels.’
Ugh, he’s so cryptic.
I look at the old TV on the wall. ‘I don’t even know if that thing works.’
He nods towards it. ‘I can check it out for you, but I know if you want to get sports channels in here it’ll cost you about two thousand a month.’
‘Two fucking grand?’ I raise my voice. ‘You must have that wrong, bloody hell!’
He shakes his head. ‘Afraid not.’ He walks off to collect some glasses from the end of the bar left by his little fan club.
‘But…’ I notice the elderly man behind the bar and turn to listen to what he has to say.
‘But what?’ I ask in clear desperation when he doesn’t impart his advice straight away. Clooney could be onto something with getting sports channels. Encourage more people in. But we could never afford that.
‘Well.’ He clasps his pint of bitter, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘If you get it installed in the flat and then funnel it through, you’ll just pay the regular amount.’
Ooh, I like this idea.
‘Is that allowed?’ I whisper back, careful not to be overheard by Clooney.
He sips his bitter. ‘Do you care? People want the sports. It’ll bring them in.’ He looks around. ‘And God knows you need it.’
I think about it. He’s right. If we carry on like this we’re not even going to be able to pay the electric bill.
‘Okay. How do I go about doing it?’
‘I’ll speak to my son. He’ll fit it for you. Nice looking lad too.’ He winks.
I grimace. Oh dear. I hope he doesn’t think by him doing this favour I’m now engaged to be married to his son. Is that how it works around here? You trade a favour and then you’re betrothed?
I quickly scribble my number down on the back of a beer mat and then shoo him away when I spot Clooney coming back behind the bar.
He squints his eyes between us both. ‘Everything okay?’ He asks, a hint of a smirk playing on the edge of his lips.
Okay, play it cool, Phoebe.
‘Yes, of course it is. Would you just chill out and leave me alone?’ I huff before flouncing away from him.
What is it about