1986
It's September when Maeve comes to stay. The wind blows from the north and the light of the city is so clear that she says she feels her eyes ping whenever she looks out at the shimmery bay. Both she and Donal love San Francisco and are awed by my loft apartment with its grey industrial carpet, its steel racks and track lighting. Relying on Richard, I decide my tactic will be to play up my difference. So I put them sleeping on a futon, feed them sushi and noodles, make little jokes about the Irish way of doing things.
It's petty — and I hate myself while I'm doing it — but I can't help it. I want Maeve to be impressed. I want her to see that there is more than one way to be.
I take them to do all the touristy things I never do: ferries to Alcatraz and Sausalito, sunbathing on China
