Kiss me. I’m Irish.
The cell-phone is ringing as I cross the street.
“It’s me peach.” Olivia. “Just wanted to wish you a nice day. Are you happy to hear my voice?” she wants to know.
“You know I am.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m strolling along Chestnut Avenue.”
“Who’re you with?”
“I’m with no-one peach.” No sense telling her that Florida, whom she likes, even though she ‘touches you a bit too much for my liking’ is now single and wants to go out with us, or she might not like her very much any more.
“But I’m meeting up with Veronica shortly, at 103.”
“That tramp!” She says it with disdain.
“That tramp is a friend, peach, a very important business contact, and no threat to you. She’s harmless.”
“Gobshite. I’ve noticed the way she looks at you peach. She’d be throwing herself at you if I wasn’t in the way. A right slapper she is. Up to no good”
“Why do you say that love?” Here we go again.
“Woman’s intuition Alex… she’s biding her time. Trust me.”
“Gerrup outta dat. I’m not her type, and I told you why.”
“Maybe not now…” Her voice trails away, soft and vulnerable. “But things can change.” Doubt. “She wants more than just friendship.” Reassure me. I have the sweetest game in town.
“Your jealously is so…exciting. Such passion. I’d love to rush over there and gobble you up right now.”
She giggles into the phone, then whispers seductively low in that silky voice of hers. “My boss is away – I can finish up early…head home to a nice bath…cook us a lovely meal…! Yeah! It’ll be grand.”
Olivia is an incredible shag, and when she purrs like that, she wants it, till the cows come home, one of her many endearing qualities that drive me crazy, as does her cooking, but not in a good way, and let’s not forget, she’s Irish, potatoes are very dear to her heart. We eat tons of potatoes: chicken with potatoes, potatoes with steak, potatoes with fish, potatoes with pork, chips, mashed potatoes, baked potatoes, potatoes with mushy vegetables. Skins. Shepherd’s Pie. Potato Salad. Potatoes with potatoes. I’m so up to my feckin nose in potatoes I fear I’ll be shitting French Fries any day soon.
“Oh no love, don’t bother yourself, let’s just get some sushi. And a bottle of Moet! You can make dessert. Agreed?”
“I love you peach.”
“I love you too, spud.”
“Shut up you.”
Excerpt from current manuscript
click here for episode 2: Up for Grabs: Veronica’s Sexual Escapades