I phoned Ridge. The doctor had gotten in touch with me again and implied that maybe . . . just perhaps . . .
His diagnosis was off the mark a tad.
Now did I go and tear his f*****g head off?
Or
Buy him a crate of Jameson?
No. I rolled the dice.
Didn’t go to hear yet another verdict, decided to act as if I was still under the death sentence.
Why?
Because I was tired, in every area that weariness can touch.
I met Ridge in Garavan’s and completely out of character, she ordered a large vodka, slimline tonic. I went with the Jay. She was dressed in a soft green sweater. You might even stretch and suggest, emerald?
White jeans that dazzled in their brightness, but there the shine ended.
She looked fatigued.
Well, f****d, actually.
I said,
“You look terrific.”
Got the stare.
She s
