The Emerald Lie

Storm clouds your judgment, and herein

I phoned Ridge. The doctor had gotten in touch with me again and implied that maybe... just perhaps...

His diagnosis was off the mark a tad.

Now did I go and tear his fucking head off?

Or

Buy him a crate of Jameson?

No. I rolled the dice.

Didn’t go to hear yet another verdict, decided to act as if I was still under the death sentence.

Why?

Because I was tired, in every area that weariness can touch.

I met Ridge in Garavan’s and completely out of character, she ordered a large vodka, slimline tonic. I went with the Jay. She was dressed in a soft green sweater. You might even stretch and suggest, emerald?

White jeans that dazzled in their brightness, but there the shine ended.

She looked fatigued.

Well, fucked, actually.

I said,

“You look terrific.”

Got the stare.

She said,

“This Emily? Nothing about her is kosher.”

I laughed, mimicked,

“Kosher? Seriously? From a west of Ireland woman?”

She slammed her glass on the table, her very empty glass, said,

“One way or another, I will get her, and if you are any part of that, it will be a joy to do you too.”

I considered telling her my fifty-fifty chance of being out of the game. Would I get a break, some sympathy, maybe even a shot at repairing our tattered friendship?

I said,

“I have not been feeling well.”

She was on her feet, spittle leaking from her mouth. She fumed,

“Well? Are you kidding me? You haven’t been well for twenty years and what on earth are you telling me for?”

I tried,

“Because of our, um, you know, history?”

She gave a short bitter laugh, moved to the door, then, as parting,

“You could die tomorrow, I could give a fucking toss.”

I sat completely still, then muttered,

“All in all, I think it went okay.”