My friend picked me up as arranged. At a glance I knew there was something different about him.
It took me a minute to realise the something different was a pair of combat trousers. "What are you staring at?" he asked. "Your trousers," I said, trying not to laugh. "I've always worn this kind of clobber," he said. Which, of course, he knew and I knew was an out-and-out fib.
I don't know when he started wearing that kind of clobber, but I joked that it must be something to do with his girlfriend. We are very powerful in the sartorial stakes, us female partners, especially if we think our men could use some help. My boyfriend, for example, owns two flowery shirts, which he likes and which suit him. But does anyone who knows him believe he went out and chose them himself?
Still, despite all the studies that show men are eminently susceptible to female grooming, my friend had the audacity to groove along in his trousers with pockets on the side - there is even one for his mobile phone - denying to all around him that he was under the influence when he bought them.
When we got into the car he had it tuned to RTÉ Lyric FM. I used to love Lyric FM in the car myself - back when we had a car, that was - but normally this friend would be cranking up Tom Waits or Brooce or John Lennon. I laughed again as an aria filled the air. "What? I always listen to these kinds of tunes," he said. Which, naturally, was another fib.
But I knew I had to be careful. Male- female platonic friendships are difficult at the best of times. There are lines that can't be crossed, things that can't be said. I've done and said some of those things in the past, and now, as I engaged in what I thought was just a common-or-garden slagging session, they came back to haunt me. I made one remark too many about his combat trousers, and combat ensued. My jocular remarks about his gear and his girlfriend's influence (or not) on their purchase opened up a can of particularly wriggly worms.
We left on uneasy terms. I went home and got stuck into a book called You Must Be My Best Friend . . . Because I Hate You, a guide to friendship by Emily Dubberley. Not that I hated him, exactly, but it seemed to be appropriate reading in my seething state. When I turned to the chapter on platonic relationships, a few things rang deafening bells.
Basically, I've a bad record when it comes to his girlfriends. Some of the incidents have resulted from misunderstandings. I mean, if I have told him once that I never encouraged that girl who fancied him rotten to follow him into the men's toilet when his girlfriend was in the room, I have told him a million times. Some of them involve honesty. I once made it clear I didn't like a certain one of his girlfriends, and even though it turned out she wasn't the one for him I still got it in the neck for being disloyal.
It doesn't help that some members of my family treat him like a brother or a son, and so have been known to make remarks about issues that are none of their business. It turns out he doesn't trust me as far he can throw me when it comes to his girlfriends. And the combat baiting, while funny at first, apparently forced the issue.
I was on my bike a few days later when he rang. At first I thought I'd just reject the call, but then I decided that I really needed to talk to him about this. He didn't want to talk about it on the phone, but that's what happened anyway as the traffic flashed past on Pearse Street.
I had to stand and listen to the details of all those times I'd hurt him or hurt his girlfriends with things I had said or things I had done. I didn't like listening to it, but there wasn't much I could dispute. (Except, perhaps, the toilet incident. I will deny that to the end.) When the conversation finished I said "Fine". If this was the pattern, would it always be that way or was it something we were mature enough to try to change? To my relief he said "Fine". That he'd like to think we could.
Another night he rang and I asked him what he'd been up to. He said he'd just been to a performance of La Bohème, what with Puccini being his favourite composer and all. And Puccini might well be his favourite composer. He might like kick-boxing. Or extreme kite-flying for that matter.
All I know is that there are parts of him I will never know. So for the sake of our friendship I'm prepared to laugh with him when he says he's always worn that kind of clobber. And to mean it when I say it suits him.