Picture three, both of us in bed, my bed, after I gave her three hundred orgasms and a part of my heart.

He tries way too hard in bed.

The worst thing is, shortly thereafter at The Boar’s Head, I took the napkin out and compared her handwriting on the contract to the words on the back of the pictures. Sean, Daniel, and I all concluded it was the same handwriting. So it’s not like her mother could have faked this.

Daniel drums the table. “Well then, I think it’s safe to say you can move on with your life now. She sounds like a world-class slag.”

“The thing is, she is not,” I slur.

I pick up my fifth…sixth pint and chug it down. Kathleen is sitting across from us with her friends again. Sean is staring at her, pining…again. She’s doing the same—to me. I wish they’d just shag and let me drown in my misery.

“She is not a slag at all.”

But the more time passes, the more the crisp memory of her not being a slag dims. The captions on the pictures are now more vivid than her innocent smile in my head.

“I’m going to call her mum,” I announce.

“Dumbest idea you’ve had in a while.” Daniel does a thumbs-down, whistling as he crashes his hand against the table. “And you’re never short of those.”

“Borderline suicidal.” Sean bobs his head, dragging his eyes from Kath.

Ever since our conversation by my grandfather’s door, she’s been dropping by my house quite a lot—always in skimpy dresses that look very odd on her, and always with a fresh platter of something good for me to eat, plus a bottle of wine or a few cans of Guinness in her hands. I invite her in, eat while she tells me stories about whatever is happening in her life, then send her on her way. On the surface, she seems content with being just friends. A dom-girl friend, I suppose, with that kind of attire.

“No, I need to talk to Rory directly.” I shake my head and stand. I still keep the napkin, of course, returning it carefully to my pocket, but I’ve broken every rule under the sun.

Now, here I am, dialing Debbie’s number. Again.

She picks up on the third ring. There’s a time difference, and I know I’m catching her early in the morning.

“Hello?”

“Debbie?”

Drunk Mal is obviously on a first-name basis with Rory’s mother. Sober Mal, however, is worried for Drunk Mal’s bullocks.

“Yes?” She already sounds on edge.

“It’s Mal, Father Doherty’s grandson.”

“What do you want?”

Your daughter. Is it not painfully, pathetically clear by now?

“Cheers for the pictures.” I hiccup into the phone. “She is very talented, our Rory, isn’t she?”