Carolyn for Christmas

Excerpt

Carolyn for Christmas
Lucy Carey © 2015
All rights reserved

Who the hell did that one think she was?

Saoirse Barrett narrowed her eyes and took a long sip of her Chardonnay. She was momentarily distracted from her irritation as the wine hit her tongue and she grimaced at the taste of it. Pub wine was just the worst.

It certainly wasn’t making the sudden tension any easier to take. She did her best to look nonchalant, like she wasn’t bothered by the rudeness that had arrived at her table. At the other end of the table, Carolyn bloody Roche was staring in Saoirse’s direction, with an expression on her face like she’d just got a whiff of dog shite.

Saoirse had watched Carolyn and her friend in the too-high heels tottering this way with mounting dread. The closer they got, the more Saoirse had started to wish that Carolyn would maybe just fall into the big, crackling, open fire beside Saoirse’s table. It was bad enough she had to put up with Carolyn once or twice a week at rehearsals; spending a Saturday night looking at her sour face was anything but her idea of fun.

And now, to add extra insult to the matter, Carolyn was trying to drag her friend away from her seat at the end of Saoirse’s table, like Saoirse was the troublemaker.

That bitch, she thought. Like I’d even offer her a seat.

She nudged her friend, Lorna, who was feigning interest in a conversation about the recession with some random guy in an expensive shirt. As pleasantly as she was smiling, Lorna had gone dead behind the eyes. She’d welcome Saoirse’s interruption.

“Jesus, they’ll let anyone in here,” Saoirse said.

Shit. Saoirse had meant to whisper the barb but it came out louder than she’d been expecting. Must be that cheap Chardonnay.

Carolyn whipped around from dragging her friend away and gave Saoirse a stare that sent a shiver down her spine. She’d obviously heard.

“And a Merry fucking Christmas to you, too,” Carolyn snarled, then curled her lip and turned away.

Thank God, Saoirse thought. That could have turned really ugly. As much as Carolyn had changed in the past few years, Saoirse knew her of old—she came from one of the rougher estates in the town and would likely make mincemeat of Saoirse in a fight, if she was so inclined.

The heavy, aggrieved clatter of Carolyn’s heels on the stone floor was like music to Saoirse’s ears. She took a swig of her Chardonnay to hide her relieved expression.

“God, the state of her,” Lorna whispered as they watched Carolyn’s retreating form. “You’d think with getting that job, she could afford not to dress like some sort of goth reject.”

Saoirse didn’t quite agree with the assessment—she thought Carolyn’s shape in her tight, black jeans tucked into studded boots and her short leather jacket, impractical for the cold, suited her. She kept the thought to herself and continued guiltily appreciating the swish of Carolyn’s hips as she strode through the crowd.