I FINISH APPLYING SOME BLUSH and appraise the damage. Some puffy residue, reddish eyes, and a bit of blotching that has now been well camouflaged by some very effective BB cream. It’s amazing what a little makeup can do.

“Well, that’s probably as good as it gets, Babe,” I tell the girl looking back at me from the mirror in the ladies toilets. “Cheer up, will ye!” I say brusquely. Even I’m getting bored with my shitty mood.

Just then the door opens and two very pretty girls come in chatting animatedly. “You’re gonna love it, Marnie. The traditional music is awesome and the guy who plays the drum thingy is drop dead gorgeous.” They both smile at me and carry on talking, clearly unaware of who I am. “This place used to be such a dive — full of druggies — but I think it’s under new management or something, ‘cause it’s really turned around.”

“That bartender is pretty cute too,” ventures the friend. “Do you think I should give him my number? He is a bit short though…”

“I don’t think you’re his type…” The girl smiles at her friend, scrunching her nose in sympathy.

I gather up my make-up bag and walk out of the ladies room smiling. They’re the kind of customer that we’ve — I mean, I’ve — been trying to attract. They’re young, upwardly mobile, and interested in exploring other cultures, especially if it’s just a couple of blocks from work or home. Not to mention that they probably have good jobs and money to spend on the weekend.

I’ve got to admit it; the proof is in the pudding. People love the changes that Michaél has made and I’d be mad to continue being angry with him, especially since Ridlee has assured me that he can’t just waltz in here and take half the bar. Time to put my big girl pants on and enjoy the bar’s success. Being nice is so much more fun than being nasty. I’m exhausted by the effort of the last two weeks. It’s definitely time for a change. I almost let out a sigh of relief, such is the wondrous feeling of a huge weight being lifted.

Dropping my make-up bag back in the office, I head back into the bar to enjoy what’s left of the evening. It’s Saturday night and the motley crew of musicians and singers are making themselves comfortable in the corner booth which they have managed to commandeer to the point that people don’t use those seats much anymore, out of some kind of respect or something. Barry is dropping down pints and filling jugs of water for them. I go over to say hello.

“How’re ye?” I ask, amping up the Irish lilt.

“Grand, yeah … good, Erin, How’re you?” come the replies as people open music cases and store coats under seats. A lot of them are ex-pats, others are first-generation Irish, and some are just into the music. There’s even a guy from Pakistan who plays the fiddle. It’s a nice bunch of people and it seems to be expanding all the time. It was, I’ll concede, an awesome idea to have an open session. Hats off to Michaél.

“Are ye all good for drinks?” I ask checking that there’s a glass in front of each of them. They nod or mutter their ascent.

“Grand, so, Barry here will look after ye. If ye need a drink, just give him a nod.” I put my hand on Barry’s shoulder.

“Is Michaél around this evening?” asks Sheena, the squeezebox player. “We could do with a bodhrán player. Steve’s not able to make it tonight.”

“Eh, I’ll ask.” I glance back to where I last saw Michaél. He’s leaning over the bar and one of the girls from the ladies room is whispering in his ear. It’s Marnie, I think. She’s saying something to him while cupping her hand round her mouth. She draws back and looks at him. He gives her his devastatingly cute, perplexed look, and cocks his head, apparently confused by what she’s said. She laughs out loud and leans in again. This time she plants a kiss right on his mouth. He pulls back, mock shocked, but laughing. She’s pointing at the brass plaque behind him on the wall that reads Kiss me, I’m Irish.

I march over, my hands full of empty glasses and set them on the bar in front of him. “Whenever you have a minute, could you wash a few glasses?” Then I lift the counter top and let myself in back behind the bar.

“Is that your boss?” I hear Marnie ask with more than a little disdain. “I thought you were the boss.” The disappointment in her voice makes me smile.

Michaél just grins, drops her over some complimentary peanuts and starts loading glasses in the dishwasher.

 I discreetly remove the plaque from the wall near the cash register and put it on one of the lower shelves. Standing up again I turn to him. “Eh, Michaél, Sheena was asking if you’d be playing tonight — they’re down a bodhrán player.” For once there’s no tension or bitterness in my voice and it feels so good not to think of him as my enemy.

“Sure, if you and Barry are okay with the bar. It might get pretty busy, ye know.”

“It’s grand; I’ve got Sharon coming in a bit later to help out. And, anyway, if it gets too hectic, I’ll call on ye.” That sentence is out before I have time to stop it. It’s so obvious how much I’ve come to rely on him already. I’ve really painted myself into a corner here.

I catch the eye of a punter and almost race down the other end of the bar to take his order. When I glance back at Michaél, he’s chatting to Marnie again, who’s sipping her drink through a straw and staring at him coquettishly.

“What can I get ye?” I ask the guy waving a twenty dollar bill at me. If Michaél wants to flirt with Marnie, he can flirt with Marnie. He can fuck her brains out for all I care! I give a million-dollar smile to the customer.

“Three pints of Guinness and whatever you’re having yourself.”

Five minutes later I drop his drinks over to him. “You’re a gentleman and a scholar,” I say taking his money.

 He winks at me. He’s cute, a little older than I am, and wearing a suit. In days gone by, pre Margaret’s illness, I’d have returned the wink and sent him and his friend a drink or two on the house. Then it would have been a roll in the hay, either in the office or up in the apartment. We’d have hung out for a couple of weeks, gone on a few dates, had some fun — nothing serious. But now I just thank him and put the tip he’s given me in the communal tip jar. I shake my head at myself. What has gotten into me?

“Everyone’s sorted, Erin, so I’ll head over to play for a bit.” Michaél is standing right behind me, and his closeness turns me to jelly.

“No prob. I got this.” I don’t even turn to look at him. Instead I fold and refold the bar towel I’m holding and start polishing the already immaculate bar surface. He squeezes past me, touching my upper arm as he goes by. I pretend not to notice.

Marnie slides down off her stool and follows him over to the booth where the musicians like to play.  I scowl after her.

“Ohh boy, you have got it bad!” says Barry, coming round to my side of the bar.

“I don’t know what you mean.” I keep rubbing at an imaginary stain on the bar.

“Bodhrán boy.”

“Who?”

Barry laughs. “Michaél, of course! As if ye didn’t know. It’s like watching two strange birds of prey do some queer mating dance or something. Ye like him and he likes you. Get on with it, why don’t ye!”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about. The situation with Michaél is all business, and pretty complicated at that.”

“Okay, okay. There’s still a bit of the dance to play out, is there? Well, don’t leave it too long. The girls here really go for the Irish accent. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel, being a straight man here, Erin. Don’t say I didn’t warn ye…” And with that he walks off to serve a young cute guy in a tight button-down shirt.

The music has started up now, and the bar is hoppin’. Michaél’s broad shoulders catch my eye as he leans in to his drum as though listening to its response to his beating. My mind wanders. I like him. I really do. But what can I do? There’s so much history between us now, and none of it very romantic.