“He blew you off,” she says.

I nod, unable to speak without crying over it.

“And that hurts like a bitch,” she says.

I nod again.

She puts her arms around me and holds me softly. “I know exactly how you feel.” She pats my back and hums.

After a few seconds, I can’t help but laugh. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Shhhh, it’ll be okay.” She keeps humming and then she pats my back, now leaning us side to side a little. It’s entirely possible that she’s mistaking my laughter for sobs. “That’s right, let it out. You’ll be stronger for it.”

Just then someone pushes the door in and hits me in the back with it. Unfortunately, Erin was still seriously into her hugging and humming program, so she got whacked on the top of the head.

“Ow, mother fucker,” she says with a hiss of pain, backing up away from me and the offending door with her hand holding the top of her scalp.

I turn around and face the girl whose head pops in around the corner.

“Ooops. Did I hurt someone?” She smiles as she locks eyes on us.

“It’s you,” Erin says with a scowl.

I move to quickly cover up my friend’s rudeness. “Oh, hey, Siobhan! Come on in. Don’t mind us hogging up the whole bathroom.”

She pushes in the door and enters the bathroom.

“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon,” she says, waiting for a reply, looking right at Erin.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ERIN

“IT’S ERIN, ISN’T IT?” THE goddess looks me up and down. Suddenly, I wish I’d made more of an effort when I was packing to come here. My jeans have lost their shape and are long over due a wash and there’s a Guinness stain on my Blondie t-shirt.

“Yeah. And you’re Siobhán.”

“That’s right. Micheál’s friend.” She lingers on friend and runs her tongue along her top lips, all Marilyn-esque; and I’m not talking Manson either. She has one of those sexy gaps between her front teeth. This bitch is way too hot for the west of Ireland. She actually looks like Debbie Harry circa Sunday Girl. Dressed in charcoal grey jeans with numerous zips, a funky striped t-shirt and Doc Martin boots, she exudes effortless cool chic. Her hair is teased to within an inch of its life, but her make-up is barely there. It is undeniable; she’s quite the looker. It’s no wonder she’s Micheál’s friend.

“Nice t-shirt,” she says, but I can’t be sure if she’s taking the piss or not. I decide to play nice.

“Thanks.”

She’s still holding the door open and an older woman brushes past us. “Is this the queue?” she asks.

“No, Ma’am. You go right ahead," chirps Ridlee. “We’re all good here. C’mon, Erin, it’s your round.”

Siobhán is still giving me the once-over but at least she’s smiling. I feel unaccountably shy all of a sudden. Following Ridlee back out into the pub, I turn and flash my friend-not-foe smile at her. I’ve gotta be honest, I’m gobsmacked when she blows me a kiss.

“Weird…,” I mutter to myself. “So, there you have it, Rid. He has a girlfriend. Still, it’s hardly her fault he’s a cheating bastard. Maybe we’ll become friends like in that film and then get together and teach him a lesson.”

“I like your thinkin’, Sweetcheeks, but right now you’ve got other fish to fry.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right. I don’t have time for this nonsense. I do have other fish to fry and need to keep my focus on the pub and the business with this Padraig Flanagan fella, not distracted by some hunky holiday romance.”

Ridlee has already caught the barman’s attention and ordered the drinks. The pub is filling up now and Henry O’Henry’s ‘office space’ has disappeared behind a sea of hopeful, lusty singles trying to get it on. We squeeze ourselves into a tight little corner where we can balance our pints on a tiny window ledge.

“Slainte!” says my now expert hibernophile friend.

“To your health,” I nod before breaking the creamy goodness of my perfect half-pint. The barman appears out of nowhere with two shot glasses and sets them down, giving Ridlee a wink as he does so. She passes me a glass.

“Fuck ‘em! Sisters are doin’ it for themselves,” she says by way of a toast.

“Eh, someone’s gotta drive us home, Rid.”

“The things I do for you, Sista," she says downing my shot too.

“Fuck ‘em all!” I echo, sipping from my Guinness.

“Woof!” says Ridlee, laughing. “Whoa! Hair of the dog, eh? You want another glass?”

“Eh, maybe in a bit, Rid. You don’t want to suffer again like you did last night.”

“This is the best I’ve felt all day!” She giggles, and I realise that a change of tempo is most definitely called for.

“C’mon,” I grab her hand, “let’s go chat with Mr. O’Henry again. Maybe he can hook us up with a couple of stand-ins for the night. We’re at the biggest matchmaking festival in the world after all. It’ll be a laugh!”

“Sure thing, Baby. Plenty more fish in the sea, right? And we’re staying in a fishing village so how hard can it be?” Ridlee laughs hysterically at her own joke.

Mr. O’Henry is enjoying a rare moment of quiet, staring into his pint. The crowd who’d gathered earlier has dissipated, and he seems to be a million miles away.

“Ah, ye’re back!” he welcomes us as we reach the table in the corner that he’s commandeered as his office. “I was hopin’ I’d see ye again. Come and chat with me a while.”

Ridlee and I slide into the long seat opposite him, and I nod to the barman and glance at Mr. O’Henry’s almost empty glass. The kindly barman winks back at me and moments later a pint arrives for the matchmaker.

“Now, who’s first?” he asks genially.

“You’re alright, Mr. O’Henry, we’re not lookin’ for love," I say smiling. “Haven’t ye heard, sisters are doin’ it for themselves?” Ridlee and I exchange smiles.

So we both got jilted. So what? Their loss! Or at least, that’s what we’ll tell ourselves over and over until we believe it. Thankfully, we have each other.

“Just Henry will do, and everybody needs someone to love, girls.”

“Not us. We have each other.” I snake my arm round Ridlee’s shoulder and squeeze.

“Oh, I see! You’re gay, is it? Homosexual. Batting for the other team, an all that. Well, I may have just the girling for you - a real stunner… Now, where did I put her details.” He leafs through his book.

“No, Mr., O! ” exclaim Ridlee and I in unison.

“We’re not gay!” I explain.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” adds Ridlee.

“To each her own,” I chime in, working the overkill button a bit too hard.

“I don’t understand,” says the matchmaker looking from me to Ridlee.

“We’ve just sworn off men for a bit,” says Ridlee.

“They’re more trouble than they’re worth,” I finish, smiling.

He looks from Ridlee to me and back to Ridlee again. “Nonsense! Now, I’m sure I can match ye with two fine fellas from me magic book.” Licking his thumb and forefinger he guides a shaky hand through the yellowed pages of his black ledger. Poor eyesight means that he has to lean in very close to the page to read.

Ridlee and I sit back, resigned to our fate. There’s simply no telling this old codger.

After a few minutes of us smiling indulgently while Henry peruses the pages like a blood hound following a scent, he looks up, grinning from ear to ear, and with arthritically twisted fingers he somehow manages to press the keys of a device sitting on the table next to his ledger.