‘So right now, would you remove a snail from his windscreen?’

‘Probably not.’

‘There’s your answer.’

‘Right.’ That made me improbably sad.

Then – emboldened by drink – I made some reference to Charmaine reading auras.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘Do you?’

‘Yes,’ she repeated.

‘So what’s mine like?’

‘Are you really sure you want to know?’

Well, after that I really wanted to know.

‘It’s a little toxic,’ she said.

All of a sudden I was upset, despite the fact that I didn’t actually believe that I – or anyone else, for that matter – even had an aura.

‘Toxic – that’s bad, isn’t it?’

‘Good and bad are just labels.’

That old cop-out.

‘You should learn not to be so judgement-based,’ she instructed, in a manner which sounded very judgemental.

I disentangled my head from the lilac bush and went back inside, to discover that the Goatee Boys had got wind of the knees-up. They had commandeered the stereo – replacing Madonna with some Death Metal racket – and had formed an impromptu mosh-pit in a corner of the front room. Luis, the small, dark, pretty one, showed a great aptitude for moshing. While the others just ran straight at each other and violently bounced stomachs, Luis invested his moves with delicate steps and socket-defying hip-swervage.

To my surprise, beardy Mike was in the thick of it, having what looked like the time of his life. I suppose he had the belly for it. Every time he gave someone a good mosh, he sent them flying halfway across the room. A particularly enthusiastic bump scooted little Luis several feet and he only stopped when he crashed into a chair.

Once they’d picked him up and established that he wasn’t badly hurt, they tried body surfing, passing one of them over the heads of the others, but it all fell apart when they tried to hoist Mike up and found they couldn’t.

They dispersed, to reveal the shaven-headed one, Ethan, in a corner, gloomily bent over the coffee table. Because he had the most hardcore goatee – a pointy, satanic beard and a long, Zapata-style moustache that extended to his chin – I’d always thought of him as the leader of the other lads. Closer inspection revealed that he was playing with a penknife. He had his hand splayed, palm down, on the table and he was flinging the penknife at the table, aiming between his fingers. Sometimes he missed his hand but, as evidenced by the cuts between his fingers, sometimes he didn’t.

‘Stop it!’ I exclaimed.

‘It’s my hand, man.’

‘But it’s Emily’s table!’

‘I’m bummed out, man.’ Mournfully, he looked up at me. ‘This is what I do when I’m bummed out.’

‘But –’ I said helplessly, worried about the table. Then I had a solution. ‘If you want to self-harm, could you not try burning yourself with cigarettes?’

‘Smoking, ew! Totally gross.’ He sounded mortally offended.

It transpired that he was hurting because he’d tried to get off with Nadia and she’d spurned him. But as soon as I told him she was gay, he brightened. ‘Yeah? For real? With Lara? Oh, wow, man. What do they do?’

Something I’d been wondering myself, actually.

‘I don’t know,’ I said sternly. ‘And leave the table alone!’

Back out to the garden to check on Troy and Kirsty. They were still talking to each other. Before I could decide how I felt, Lara and Nadia, arm in arm, skipped over to me.

‘Having a good time?’ Lara beamed.

‘Yes…’ I trailed off, as Nadia snaked her hand under Lara’s arm and began caressing her breast.

‘Hey!’ Lara laughed. ‘Cut that out.’

Nadia withdrew her hand but only to lick her finger and recommence stroking. Lara’s erect nipple appeared through the damp cotton and I felt acutely uncomfortable. If a man did that at a party everyone would loudly condemn him as a lech and a gobshite, but because Nadia was a lesbian I had to behave as if I was totally down with it.

All night, I was aware of Kirsty talking to Troy. Even when I couldn’t see them, I could sense their closeness and it didn’t make me happy. So the high point of my evening was that they didn’t leave together. She effed off around midnight and I was hard put not to stand in the middle of the road, roaring after her car, ‘You can’t be in that good a shape, now can you?’

Troy stayed quite a bit longer and when he finally left I half-expected a special goodbye. But he kissed Emily and said, ‘Baby girl, we’ll talk,’ then he kissed me in exactly the same friendly way and said, ‘Night, Irish.’

Bit by bit, the crowds drained away until it was nearly just Emily and me left. While we were arranging all the bottles to be recycled, sweeping the splinters off the coffee table, wrapping broken glasses in newspaper, I blurted – the drink talking, ‘I’ve a confession to make. I have a… crush.’ Yes, that was the right word. ‘Troy. I find him attractive.’

‘Take a number and get in line.’

‘Oh. It’s like that?’

She pointed her finger, winked and said in an Elvis-type voice, ‘Don’t fall in love with me baby, ‘cos I’ll only break your heart.’

‘Don’t tell me he said that!’

‘Not as such.’ She seemed amused. ‘It’s just the way he acts. You’d swear everyone’s mad about him… Although,’ said with less certainty, ‘maybe they are.’

‘But he has a big nose,’ I protested.

‘Don’t seem to bother the ladies none.’

‘What ladies?’

‘With Troy there are always ladies.’

‘Are you talking about Kirsty?’

‘Sure.’

‘But do you know for a fact that there’s something going on with them?’

‘Intuitively, I know for a fact.’

Then I got it. ‘Has anything ever happened with you and Troy?’

‘Me and Troy?’ She began to laugh. It started as a quite normal chuckle, then progressed to where she was leaning on the kitchen counter. ‘Sorry,’ she said, her face contorted with hysterics. ‘It’s just… the idea of me. Me and Troy!’