Monday

She could do better, my friends tell me on a daily basis. Today, one likens her to pornographic actress Faye Reagan, who I pretend not to know. “And I don’t mean Faye Reagan these days,” he adds. “I mean when she was fresh and still super thin. I’d say she rides like Nina Carberry too.” As I am about to respond, she sits down beside me. She kisses me on the cheek before turning to the lads to ask if they had watched Liverpool and Man U, but I’m not really listening because I feel like the King of the Buttery, maybe even of the whole western part of campus.

 

Tuesday

My sister lines up her putt. “She’ll leave you for someone handsome,” she says. “Has she cheated on you yet?” I intentionally walk across her line. “Don’t walk across my line.” She practices her putting motion. She’s annoyingly assured on the greens. “She’s got such a cute face,” she says. “Always smiling. She reminds me of Nina Carberry in that way. A real sunny manner about her.” She putts, sinking it from about nine feet, and stays silent as I two-putt from five. “Mind you, she’s all sweetness and light but I’d say she rides like a porn star.”

 

Wednesday

The postman comes. “Four score and seven days ago, you brought forth on this woman the words, ‘I love you’. I thought that was the best day ever but I was wrong because every day since then I have loved you more and felt more wonderful. I hope I’ve worked An Post out right and that this gets to your handsome self on the right day, otherwise that first line will just look stupid. Love you xxx.” I show the note to my sister as she leaves for the driving range. “Oh my God,” she says. “That’s so lovely. She must feel guilty about something, probably cheating on you.”

 

Thursday

We walk across campus, hand in hand. She’s wearing a white T-shirt with a blue rectangle on the front and the words ‘Yves-y does it’ on the back. I don’t get it but I don’t care because her strawberry-blonde locks look so lovely against the blue and white. I hope she’s not cheating on me.

 

Friday

“I don’t believe it,” I say. “You love him?” She wears a look of apology on her beautiful, freckled face. “I’m not going to apologise for the way that I feel,” she says. “But why didn’t you tell me before? Why did you let it go on like this?” She shuffles on the couch and looks around, anywhere except at me. “I just . . . I just didn’t know how.” I turn towards the television and shuffle away from her a little on the couch. She holds my hand, squeezing. “Please don’t hate me,” she whispers. “I can’t hate you,” I say, “I love you.” Sometimes love means getting over your girlfriend’s admission that she venerates Stephen Fry as an icon for clever people. Everyone has a flaw or two.

 

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