That, luckily, was the wrong thing to say. It turned out that Tomas’s uncle Paco had recently come a ferocious cropper when the US Coastguard had discovered him in charge of a yacht crammed full of marching powder. Paco was currently languishing in a Miami prison and Tomas was outraged by my routine enquiry.

‘I didn’t say you were a criminal,’ I protested. ‘I just thought I’d ask, seeing as Wayne hasn’t got here yet.’

Tomas went on a bit more about family honour and similar shite before he gave me another melting gaze and said ‘Let us not quarrel.’

‘No, it’s fine,’ I reassured him. ‘I don’t mind if we do.’

He reached up and took my hand. ‘Rachel,’ he stared meaningfully into my eyes, ‘dance with me.’

‘Tomas,’ I said, ‘don’t make me hurt you.’

Then, mercifully, Wayne arrived.

I nearly got trampled in the stampede for him but I exercised my right as hostess to get first go of him. I loved having cocaine at a party. It was so much better than anything else for enhancing my confidence and giving me the courage to talk to men. I loved the feeling of invincibility it fired me with.

Because, in a way, at some deep level, I knew I was attractive. But it was only after I’d done a line or two that that knowledge came to the surface. Drink would suffice. But cocaine was so much nicer.

And it wasn’t just me, but everyone else was so much nicer when I was coked-up. Better-looking, funnier, more interesting, sexier.

Brigit and I bought a gram between us. The pleasure from the hit began long before I actually snorted anything. Just effecting the transaction with Wayne was enough to get my adrenalin rushing. The dollars that I paid him were crisper and greener than usual. I parted with them joyously. I loved the feel of the little packet in the palm of my hand. I bounced it up and down, feeling the magic, dense weight of it.

The least fun bit about doing coke was the queueing to get into the ladies’ in the bar or club or wherever to take it. So the great thing about having a party in my flat was that there was no wait involved. Straight to my bedroom with Brigit to clear a little space on my dressing table.

Brigit wanted to discuss the Cuban Crisis.

‘I can’t bear it,’ she said. ‘He treats me like shite.’

‘Why don’t you break it off with him?’ I suggested. ‘He’s got no respect.’

Also I felt it reflected badly on me to have a flatmate who had dealings with someone as uncool as Carlos.

‘I’m his slave,’ Brigit sighed. ‘I can’t resist him. And do you know something, I don’t even like him.’

‘Neither do I,’ I said.

A mistake. Never agree with your friends when they’re going through a bad patch with their fella. Because the minute they’ve made it up, she turns nasty on you and says ‘What’s all this about you not liking Padraig/Elliot/Miguel?’ Then she tells him and they both hate you and rewrite history, saying that you tried to split them up.

And they give you the silent treatment whenever you’re in the same room. They don’t offer you a slice of their pizza anymore, even though they’ve loads, far too much for just two and you’re starving and haven’t had any dinner. And they make you feel paranoid and you worry that they’re going to move in together and not tell you until the last minute and you’ll end up having to pay both lots of rent until you find someone new.

‘Ah, sure, he’s grand,’ I said hastily. Then forgot all about it because we’d chopped out two gorgeous, plump, white lines.

I went first, and while Brigit was doing hers, I felt the tingling start in my face and melt the numbness that came from the initial hit. I turned to my mirror and smiled at myself. God, I was looking well tonight. Radiant. Look at how clear my skin was. See how shiny my hair was. Look at how warm my smile was. How impish, how sexy. And my two little eye teeth that stuck out and that I usually hated, I suddenly realized how much they suited me. They actually added to my charm. I smiled lazily at Brigit.

‘You look beautiful,’ I said.

‘So do you,’ she said.

Then we said in unison, ‘Not bad for a pair of heifers.’

And off we went and moved amongst our guests.

27

In no time at all the place was packed. There was a queue a mile long for the bathroom, of people who had shopped at the Wayne Market and who were still too inhibited to snort coke in public. Such decorum never lasted longer than the first line.

The music had gone to hell entirely during my brief absence. I tried to change it, but Carlos had hidden all the other discs. Brigit was no help as I frantically raced around trying to find where he’d put them. She was too busy trying to keep up with Carlos’s gyrating hips. I feared for our few ornaments. After an unusually violent swerve, I began to worry about our light fittings.

Then all four of the Cubans were dancing, nimble little feet, treble-jointed hips, giving every woman in the place the glad eye. I had to turn away.

More and more people kept arriving. I knew nobody except Brigit and the Cubans. The buzzer went again and another army of people waltzed in. The only good thing about them was that they were male.

‘Yo, girlfren’, what’s up? ‘Theywere about fourteen, with lots of hats and trainers and baggy clothes and skateboards and surfing terminology. Until then I had thought I was pretty cool. But my euphoria dipped briefly, bringing a feeling of middle-agedness. They were punctuating their sentences with funny hand gestures – all the fingers hidden except the little one and the thumb. They said ‘Bitchin” a lot. Their accents came straight from Harlem. Nothing wrong there. Except they had come straight from New Jersey. In a stretch limo. Suburban gougers trying to be cool. And they were at my party. Not good.

‘Hello Rachel,’ said a voice. I nearly fell to the floor in an ‘I’m not worthy” pose. It was Helenka. I was deeply in awe of Helenka. I described her as a friend, but that was just wishful thinking.

Although we were both Irish she had made a much more significant success of her life in New York than I had. She was beautiful and had fantastic clothes and knew Bono and Sinead O’Connor and did PR for the Irish Trade Board and had been on the Kennedys’ yacht and never spoke well of anyone. I was honoured she’d come to my party, it had put the stamp of success on it.

The fact that she was wearing a floor-length chiffon coat that was in that month’s Vogue could only enhance the general feel-good factor.