'I know you're right,' I said at last, 'but I feel incapable of truly knowing what I want. Oh, G.o.d, I'm so bored with myself. I want to run away and start all over again. I want to '

She stopped me. 'Well, you can't. Deal with what you have here. You don't have it bad, you know.'

'I know.'

'And besides,' she continued, 'you are are starting over again. You're finally chucking in your job and doing something new. Grow up. Stop being so melodramatic and just get on with it.' starting over again. You're finally chucking in your job and doing something new. Grow up. Stop being so melodramatic and just get on with it.'

'OK.'

That was it. There was no way now that I could talk to her about the thing I couldn't talk about. And she was right. It was was time I grew up and behaved like an adult. I knew I could be happy with Keith. I was even beginning to see that I could make him happy too. Life time I grew up and behaved like an adult. I knew I could be happy with Keith. I was even beginning to see that I could make him happy too. Life could could be simple. be simple.

Our main courses arrived and we spent the rest of lunch talking about former cla.s.smates. Many were married, and two were separated. The girl who had had a baby in Fifth Year had just had her fourth with the same guy, and the girl who had had a baby in Sixth Year had a high-powered job with the UN. There was one confirmed lesbian and one pending. (There was a story doing the rounds that she had left her husband for her husband's secretary but it was still only a rumour.) Of the three other girls who had done law with me, one was at home with the kids, one was travelling in South America and the other was starring in Fair City Fair City. Ironically, she was playing a lawyer.

Colette was the only one I was still in touch with, but she had a way of finding out about everybody else. It was always weird hearing about them because I couldn't picture them as anything other than the schoolgirls they used to be. How can somebody in a dull grey skirt and a black blazer do anything like work for the UN or appear on television? In a way I couldn't stop seeing myself as the c.o.c.ky schoolgirl who always thought she knew more than everybody else. Colette was right: it was time to get over my teenage angst angst and get on with being a grown-up. and get on with being a grown-up.

I hadn't been particularly happy in my teens, yet it seemed I wasn't able to let them go. I remember Mike saying to me one day that I should slow down and enjoy the innocence of schooldays. He'd said I had the rest of my life for everything else but I would never experience true simplicity again. I laughed in his face. Oh, hindsight, and all of that.

As we were swallowing the last of our wine, I suggested to Colette that we cry off the beauty parlour. I wasn't in the mood to prostrate myself on the beautician's table while she smathered my face with some gunk, all the time tut-tutting about too many late nights. And all to the painfully relaxing sound of the Pan pipes. I thought it might lead me to violence. Colette didn't mind; she said she might fall asleep anyway so it was better we did something active. I suggested clothes shopping. That big family wedding of Keith's was coming up and I still had nothing to wear. I needed to do him and all the Dohenys proud, so something cla.s.sy and expensive was called for. Colette agreed, and we headed towards some of the more up-market boutiques in the hope of finding something cla.s.sy and expensive at half price. It was while we were trudging from one to another that we pa.s.sed a bridal shop. We looked at each other at the same time with exactly the same idea.

'Well, you are getting married', she said, with a cheeky grin, 'and you know what? I think it might be time Brian and I renewed our vows.'

We rang the bell and asked to see what every bride desired for spring/summer.

It took longer than it should have for the girl to open the door. She was in her mid-twenties and wore an expression of superiority that was much too old for her. Her outfit was in keeping: a pale green pencil skirt and white blouse with pale green piping round the collar and sleeves. It was like something my mother would have worn in one of her frivolous moments. 'I'm sorry,' she said. 'Do you have an appointment?'

I was tempted to say that we had and turn the superior tables on her for her sloppiness but I wasn't thinking quickly enough. 'No,' I said, in a tone of grave dejection. 'Do we need one?'

'Well, it's usual to make one. We can get very busy and we like to be able to give our customers our full attention.'

The shop was empty.

'Could you possibly make an exception for us?' I asked, most insincerely. 'You have come highly recommended to us and we're only in Limerick for the day...'

She gave us an unsubtle sweep with her disapproving little eyes and decided that, well, maybe she could let us in. Colette and I have an unspoken principle: we never go into places that let us in only reluctantly, but we also surmised that we might have a bit of fun and it would be a shame to miss out on that for the sake of a principle.

Once inside, we could see the second part of the 'we' she had mentioned: a woman, probably in her late forties, dressed in black and wearing the same withering expression as her young a.s.sociate. As it turned out, the pale green girl was the daughter of the shop owner and the woman in black was the owner's friend, who wished she owned the shop. They were no nicer to each other than they were to us.

We gave our respective stories I was to be married next August and wanted something a little different; Colette's ceremony was to be at Hallowe'en and she wanted something quickly. As we stood in the middle of the poky shop, I was briefly amazed, given my love of clothes and shopping, that I hadn't done this before. But once they started bringing out the dresses I realized that maybe, at a subconscious level, I had known all along what a horror it would be. Because I had asked for something different, I got the dresses that weren't white or off-white. There was a gold monstrosity with a bodice that would have strangled me, a beige creation that looked like a cup of cold coffee, and a red and white strappy number that resembled something one of the Ugly Sisters might have worn. There were dresses with blue bits and dresses with green bits (the bridesmaids' dresses could be ordered to match the blue bits and the green bits). They were all horrible. I couldn't imagine going to a fancy-dress party, let alone getting married, in any of them.

Colette was having more luck. They had last season's sample dresses on sale and she looked quite good in nearly all of them. There was a long, flowing chiffon dress that looked particularly dreamy, which I thought she should buy anyway. It was the kind of thing I could imagine wearing round the house when I felt blue. She wasn't tempted, though. She told the girl she'd keep it in mind but she still had a lot of looking to do. The two women glanced at each other as if they'd expected as much.

I was beginning to feel that this wasn't as much fun as I'd thought it would be, but since I was there, I thought I might as well try on one of the dresses. The gold was pushed forward. It took me for ever to get into it it was constructed of three bits that had to be wound intricately round each other and some very complicated lacing at the back but when it was on and I could view myself in the flatteringly lit and ever so slightly elongating mirror, I was glad I'd made the effort. I looked as hideous as I hoped it was possible for me to look. The gold drained my face of colour and even imparted to it a sickly shine. The shape did something frightening to my figure it made me look like a cross between a prep.u.b.escent girl and a woman in the late stages of pregnancy. Surely no bride, no matter how deranged, wanted to look like this?

'It's beautiful on you,' said the young girl, gravely. 'It's really different.'

'Yes,' I said, equally gravely. 'It's very different from the sort of thing I usually wear.'

'You're a picture,' Colette chimed in. 'Keith would die if he saw you.'

'Oh, is Keith your fiance?' the girl asked.

It was too tempting to say that, no, he wasn't my fiance, he was my fiance's brother, with whom I was having an affair. But I didn't. 'Yes,' I said, 'and he'd love to see me in this.'

Colette insisted I try another, even though I was rapidly losing my taste for this particular game, and pulled out a fake Vera w.a.n.g that was all satin and shiny bits and yards of material flowing in every direction. There was a veil to go with it, which rested neatly on my head and brushed lightly against my bare shoulders.

'You look gorgeous,' gasped Colette, when she saw me in the ensemble. 'You're absolutely stunning stunning.'

There wasn't a note of insincerity in her voice.

I did did look gorgeous. That was the amazing thing. I looked like those brides you see in magazines with their airbrushed smiles and their perfect hair and the to-die-for dress. Those brides who fill page after page of expensive glossy magazines so that young women in love can imagine how they'll look on their big day. Those brides who, not for one minute, not for one second, do you believe in. Those brides you know are faking it for the camera. look gorgeous. That was the amazing thing. I looked like those brides you see in magazines with their airbrushed smiles and their perfect hair and the to-die-for dress. Those brides who fill page after page of expensive glossy magazines so that young women in love can imagine how they'll look on their big day. Those brides who, not for one minute, not for one second, do you believe in. Those brides you know are faking it for the camera.

'Come on,' I said to Colette. 'Let's get out of here. I don't feel well.'

13.

It was the end of July and it had been raining all day. I hadn't anything to do, so I'd stayed at home watching, listening, feeling the rain. It was soothing. I had a lot to think about and the rain was a gentle accompaniment to my disjointed thoughts. I had the notion that if it didn't stop raining, I might never go out again. It seemed as good a way as any to spend the rest of my life.

I was still wearing my pyjamas but I'd taken the time to shower and even put on a little makeup. My hair was in a style that looked much the same whether I was just out of bed or had spent an hour rubbing half of Boots through it. If someone called to the door unexpectedly I wouldn't have to pretend I wasn't there or make a mad dash to the bathroom. I didn't see why I couldn't continue like this for several days, whether it stopped raining or not. The phone was off the hook, but that had been an accident. My mobile was out of battery and my charger was somewhere under the couch or behind a chair. But n.o.body was likely to call.

Jean had moved out, although she was offering to come back for a little while. I was doing my utmost to a.s.sure her that there was no need. She was sharing a flat with a girl she used to work with and so far she was delighted. It was in a new development of luxury apartments with high ceilings and balconies facing the river. She was considering buying one if the opportunity arose. Her friend had been single for years, had no desire to be otherwise, and Jean found her easy company.

At the moment I couldn't conceive of sharing my s.p.a.ce with anyone. It was necessary that the air around me remained empty of other people's thoughts and opinions. Even the physical presence of another person would have been too much. I couldn't remember when I had last spent so much time on my own. Usually I can't wait to fill every available corner with noise. Perhaps this quiet was timely.

However, I was running out of food and I wasn't sure that my stomach was up to the sort of thing I could order in. All the cereal boxes were empty, the last consumed without milk. Bread was long gone. The last of it had been consumed with a side of mould, which I chose to ignore. Cheese, eggs, cold meat had disappeared in a rather tasty omelette the night before. There was some pasta but the only sauce was a year out of date. I'd have to make a decision on that soon. Two tins of tomato soup looked likely to be my lunch. When I remembered that I could enliven it with a dash of vodka, it seemed more appetizing. I was rather enjoying the sense of being under siege and testing myself to find out how long I could survive without the outside world. It was a game, though, and like so many other games, I was too old for playing.

Of course, there were good things to think about. Lucy had called over one evening and announced casually that she was pregnant. She wasn't in the least bit fazed by it. Even before she and Iris had decided they wanted to do it together, she had been happy to have the baby on her own. She was simply thrilled to be pregnant. The father was Luke, the sculptor, who had remained friends with Lucy after their sort of relationship sort of broke up, but he had no interest in being involved with the child. He told Lucy he was delighted if that was what she wanted, and sure, he'd probably like to see the baby when it was born, but he was thinking of going to Australia and he mightn't come back. Lucy knew that even someone as laid back and out of it as Luke might get himself sorted in a few years' time and want to be part of their baby's life, but she said she'd deal with that if and when the time came. 'And besides,' she had said, 'I'm not going to pretend to my child that she doesn't have a father. I'll tell her everything. In fact, it would be nice if he did want to be part of her life later on. I know Luke. He won't stay in Australia. Either he'll never go in the first place because he won't be able to find the money, or he'll go and be back within six months due to some minor crisis.'

When I asked Lucy how this fitted in with her being a lesbian, she smiled. 'Well,' she said, 'you know the way you have to be sure. It seemed that one of the ways to try to be sure was to sleep with a nice guy. After Luke, I was fairly sure I didn't want to sleep with any more men. I mean, whenever I slept with a guy before, I didn't think I might be gay, so I didn't think that was the problem. I just thought I wasn't all that into s.e.x... yet I knew I was.'

When I asked her why she hadn't used a condom she said she hadn't had one.

'Well, I hadn't needed one in ages and Luke isn't the kind of guy who carries them in his wallet. Yes, I know it was irresponsible, but I knew Luke was healthy and I didn't even think about getting pregnant.'

It didn't seem to matter how it had happened: Lucy and Iris were moving in together and they were having a baby. They were as happy as any expectant parents would be.

Mum and Dad were taking the news very well. Dad said it was always a blessing to have another grandchild and even if the father wasn't going to do the decent thing he would ensure that Lucy and the baby had every support they needed. Lucy knew he meant it. When we were growing up and Mum did her no-s.e.x-before-marriage routine and warned us of the evils of becoming pregnant without a husband, Dad took us aside afterwards and told us that, no matter what happened, we could always come home. Over the years Mum had softened; I had heard the lecture a lot less frequently than Jean and Marion, and now, when Lucy told her she was pregnant, she said that with six daughters, it was surprising there hadn't been more children born out of wedlock. We all agreed that she was delighted with the news. The fact that Lucy was moving into Iris's house went uncommented on.

And then there was Iris. Of all my brothers-in-law, only Mike could rival her for looks or conversation. Lucy was keen that we meet her formally and that Iris meet us and realize we weren't all latent h.o.m.ophobes preoccupied with doing up our kitchens. (They had b.u.mped into Ruth in town.) So I volunteered to play host to the select few Lucy, Iris, Jean, Marion and me. Keith said he'd leave us girls alone for the evening he had to work late anyway and he'd spend the night at his place.

I was quite pleased to be doing the party thing as it had been ages since I'd entertained at home. Keith and I had kept meaning to have dinner parties where we would mingle our friends over some good food and wine, but we'd never got round to it. We could never decide which friends would go with which. I think each of us was privately afraid it would be a disaster. It was easier to order a takeaway and talk about it.

I was, therefore, in the mood to make a bit of a fuss. There was no worry with the liquor part of the evening, I knew I wouldn't disappoint there, but I wasn't much of a cook. People kept telling me that all you needed were good ingredients and a simple recipe, but somehow that wasn't enough to turn me into a domestic G.o.ddess. I did have one idea but I wasn't sure if it was entirely above board. However, by the evening before the proposed dinner I'd had no further ideas, so I decided to risk it. I rang Mike to ask for his help.

He was at home. If he hadn't been I'd have put the phone down without leaving a message. It was one thing to be cheeky in person, quite another to leave a cheeky message.

When he answered I almost hung up. Mike was very busy and our family was always pulling and dragging out of him. But he'd said we could still be friends. And friends called on one another when they needed help. I could probably muddle through on my own, but it wouldn't be half as good and it was certainly cheeky to ask him to help prepare a meal I couldn't invite him to. Or could I? No, it wasn't my place. I was only the nominal host. It was Lucy's party and, besides, they would probably prefer if it was just the girls. Oh, what the h.e.l.l? I thought. I'll just ask him.

'Hi there!' I said cheerily. 'It's Kate.'

'Oh, hi, Kate.'

'Yeah... Listen, Mike, I was wondering if I could ask you a favour?'

'Sure, no problem.'

I went straight for it. 'I'm having Lucy and the girls over tomorrow night so we can introduce Iris to the good part of the family. Now, I know she wouldn't want me to go to any trouble but I kind of want to. The only problem is I don't know how to make anything other than spaghetti Bolognese and the only '

'I'll give you a hand,' he said. 'I'm nothing great myself now either, but we'll pull something together. Have you got a paper and pencil there? I'll give you a shopping list for tomorrow. Are you ready? OK, start with...'

I grabbed a Biro and an old envelope and scribbled furiously.

I had to visit four different shops to get everything on Mike's list he was very particular about where the ingredients came from but by four o'clock the next afternoon I had everything ready. He was punctual. He had brought a few things of his own fresh basil from his garden, some particularly good olive oil, a few utensils that he said would make everything easier and a pile of CDs 'I know how bad your CD collection is. We'll need something to work to.'

He looked really good. The fine weather and all the time he was spending out of doors had given him a colour, which was well set off by his blue jeans and a pale blue T-shirt. His hair was longer than it had been in ages, and because he had taken holidays to work on the house, he had more than a few days' growth in his beard. Yes, he would definitely be snapped up quickly...

'I hope you've got your ap.r.o.n on under there,' I said, rather foolishly, as I opened the door to him.

'In my back pocket,' he said, ignoring the feeble joke.

'Listen,' I said, 'I really do appreciate this. I know it's a bit much asking you to help out, especially when '

'Stop apologizing. I like this sort of thing. I haven't been doing much cooking lately, so it's nice to have the excuse.'

'You'll have to have a big house-warming party when you've finished your house.'

'You betcha. Now, to work,' and he ushered me into the kitchenette where he surveyed my shopping. 'Excellent! Now, the first thing to make is the marinade for the chicken...'

We worked steadily all afternoon; he explained what he had in mind and made suggestions as to how we should proceed. I could see that he was being careful not to take over he might have had some notion that I was territorial about my kitchen but all I wanted was to take his instructions and do my best to get it right. He was a patient teacher; when I began to chop the basil he put his hand across the knife and told me you always tear it or you'll damage the flavour. I'm sure everybody knows that but he didn't make me feel like an eejit. We glided through my tiny kitchen as if it had been built for Gordon Ramsay in fact, I began to feel so expert that I did a TV-chef parody. He laughed and said I'd missed my calling. We were moving happily to the Steely Dan and Jamiroquai he had brought; I couldn't remember when I'd last had so much fun in anyone's kitchen.

Before he left he made sure that everything would run like clockwork. The starter was a tomato, buffalo mozzarella and basil salad, which had only to be plated. While we enjoyed the piquancy of the basil set against the sweetness of the tomatoes and the roundness of the cheese, the main course would be tenderizing nicely, while filling the room with a divine aroma. Mike said there was nothing to beat really good corn-fed chicken on the bone for simplicity and succulence. (I think he was pulling my leg a little with all his chef talk, but I didn't care. My meal was going to be fabulous.) The marinade white wine, balsamic vinegar and the juice of two oranges would thicken in the cooking and make a sumptuous sauce. The vegetables were as simple as possible: boiled baby new potatoes, with steamed broccoli and mangetout. Apparently all that the lightly cooked vegetables would need was a little extra seasoning and a sliver of real b.u.t.ter. The dessert, a strawberry fool, I would whip up while everybody was digesting the chicken and engaging in scintillating conversation. And to finish: a cup of excellent coffee and squares of fine dark chocolate. Surely Iris would think we were a marvellous family and fall in love with us all.

When everything was in hand and the washing-up was done Mike produced a bottle of wine he said would go well with the chicken or, he said, we could open it now and have a self-congratulatory gla.s.s. We opened it. It was a pinot noir, he said, from the Irancy region in France, a much lighter wine than the rich, plummy reds we usually enjoyed. Its very lightness, he said, made it perfect for drinking on its own.

We sat in almost silence; he reclined on the couch, his feet propped on a magazine on top of the coffee-table, and I sat with my feet tucked under me on the armchair. The wine was perfect, deep and flavoursome, but it wasn't going to knock me out before the evening had begun. At one point Mike closed his eyes; he seemed as satisfied as I was with our afternoon's work. There wasn't any need to talk. It was almost as if, for those few moments, only the two of us existed and there was calm in our universe. I remember such moments, years ago, when Mike and Jean would be over in our house for some family occasion or other. I was probably in college at that stage and particularly disdainful of everything that went on at home. Jean would arrive in a flurry and rush off to find Mum, dumping Mike along the way. He would usually find me in the sitting room, or the conservatory, stealing a gla.s.s of wine, and join me without needing to go through the customary formalities of how I was getting on at college or wasn't Christmas/Easter/ Hallowe'en all a bit crazy. We would sit together, sipping the wine, and before we knew it, we'd be laughing about something silly one of us had said. I have always felt so at ease in Mike's company, yet there's the sense that we're on the edge of something very exciting.

Now, suddenly, he turned to me. 'I've really enjoyed this afternoon,' he said.

'Me too.'

He looked as if he might be about to say something more but he finished his wine and said it was time he went.

'You should stay. It wouldn't be a problem, and after all the work you've done...'

'No, no, this is definitely just for the girls. We'll do it some other time when it isn't a girls-only evening.'

'Yes,' I said, 'we will will do this again, that's a great idea.' do this again, that's a great idea.'

He was walking out of the door when I remembered the kitchen equipment and his CDs. 'It's OK,' he said. 'Hold on to them for a while. Your stereo and your kitchen are crying out for something new.'

'OK, but I'll drop them back soon. You might want to do some entertaining yourself.'

'No hurry,' he said and laid a hand on my shoulder and kissed me. It began as a kiss on the cheek, the way we'd always kissed, but just before our faces touched he turned so that the edge of his mouth brushed the edge of mine. It might have been an accident, but it felt as if he'd intended it all along. It was like the prelude to a deeper, longer, more pa.s.sionate kiss. It was only a few seconds but it was unmistakable.

He didn't catch my eye again and practically ran down the stairs.

The dinner was a great success. From the moment Iris stepped through the door she was at ease and soon it seemed that she'd always been part of the family. She was easy-going by nature it would take a lot to faze her but she appeared genuinely relaxed with us. And it was obvious she was stone mad about Lucy. I don't think she took her eyes off her all evening, and everything she said was in some way a compliment to her. Marion had expressed concern to me earlier that she might be very domineering, given that she'd been such a driving force in Lucy's coming out, but that didn't seem to be the case. She was strong, certainly, but no stronger or bossier or more overbearing than the rest of us could be. In fact, she was very nice.

In appearance she was striking. She was roughly the same age as Jean, but she had the demeanour of someone much older. Her skin was soft and peachy and smooth; she was wearing hardly any makeup apart from a little eye-liner and maybe lip balm. Her hair was silvery grey; the grey was her own, the silver was courtesy of her hairdresser. 'It suits me to look my age,' she said. 'I was never girly.' And neither was she womanly exactly, but that's not to say she was manly. She was wearing wide-legged black linen trousers with an oversized white shirt and a thick ethnic belt. Her shoes were indeed comfortable but they were also attractive soft leather mules in a medley of criss-crossed colours. If you were to take her appearance as a whole you would have to say that she was rather Diane Keatonesque. Everything about her gave the impression of someone comfortably in control of her life.

She was full of interesting conversation too. She had been running her own firm of auctioneers and estate agents for more than ten years. It was small but highly successful. She specialized in leasing and selling office s.p.a.ces but she'd handle anything if it was profitable. She had us in st.i.tches as she told us stories of her experiences over the years. 'You wouldn't think property could be funny,' she said, 'but I've had some of my best laughs over a sale.'

And so the night proceeded, with Mike's excellent dinner and Iris's entertaining anecdotes, and the odd bit here and there from the rest of us, who were happy just to eat and listen. It was then that Jean first told us about her new flat-share. She was trying to fix a night for her house-warming. 'I'm warning you in advance,' she said, 'that there'll be no food at my party, apart from Pringles and maybe a dip. It'll be another ten years before I'm up to the whole dinner-party thing. Well done, by the way, Kate. Everything's surprisingly excellent.'

'Actually,' I had to admit, 'I didn't do this entirely by myself. Mike helped me.'

'Mike helped you?' my sisters chorused. helped you?' my sisters chorused.

'Yes. It wasn't a secret or anything I wasn't trying to pretend I'd done it all myself. I was just waiting for the right moment to tell you.'

'I thought I recognized something about this meal,' Jean said. 'The basil and the chicken and everything. He was always trying out new things on me but eventually I had to ban him from cooking. I was going to get way too fat. I'm bad enough as it is.'

'You're not fat. You look great. In fact, I think you've lost weight.'

'I haven't,' she said, straight away. 'I've put it on. But I'm dressing better and that makes the difference. In fact, I should have let Mike cook for me he'd probably have kept me thin. It's all this drinking and eating junk that's doing the damage. But what the h.e.l.l? You only live once.'

'So Mike came over?' Marion asked.

'Yeah,' I said. 'Well, I wanted to make a bit of an effort for Iris, and I'm not great in the kitchen. Mike didn't mind he enjoyed it. At least, he said he did. Shouldn't I have asked him? Was it very cheeky of me?'

'Hold your horses,' said Jean. 'That's what he's there for. He's always had a soft spot for you, anyway. Why wouldn't he help you?'

Suddenly Iris cut in. 'Mike is your ex-husband,' she said matter-of-factly, but she was looking at Jean with a degree of expectation.

There was silence for a while. Somehow, none of us had thought of Mike in that way. An ex-husband was such an alien thing, such a grown-up thing, certainly not part of our lives.

Then Jean spoke. 'No,' she said, 'not my ex-husband. He's my present husband, and a very excellent husband he is too, although I did leave him last May. I'm sure Lucy's told you the details. He's one of the best men I've ever known and I went and walked out on him.'

'Does that mean you regret it?' asked Iris, again matter-of-factly.

'No,' answered Jean, without a hint of hesitation. 'After marrying him in the first place, leaving him was the best thing I ever did. I don't know about marriage. I'm not sure about the for-as-long-as-we-both-shall-live bit. I mean, I'm sure there are people who are lucky enough to find exactly the right person for them, then live happily ever after, but it's got to be rare. For most people, you get married because (a) you're way too young and you got carried away and maybe you're pregnant, although that doesn't seem to matter any more, or (b) you're way too old and you're desperate and it seems like the whole f.u.c.king world is married and having disgusting wailing babies, or (c) you're simple-minded enough to believe you can make it happen by sheer strength of will. You alone can turn something ordinary and ba.n.a.l and boring into the marriage of the century, the marriage of the f.u.c.king millennium.'

It was clear that Jean was drunk. Very drunk indeed.