Page 55 of The Pieces of Us

Maggie’s Bar is bouncing as always, the perpetual threat of tit-for-tat killings not enough to keep faithful patrons away from their Guinness.

I’m not a fan of the black stuff; I’m drinking gin and tonic. And I am, perhaps, feeling somewhat untouchable after savouring the collective spirit of dozens of women in a University of Ulster meeting room.

My colleague Maxine has gone back to the centre. I worked late last night, so she ordered me another drink and insisted I stay. ‘Relax. Enjoy. Pop into CastleCourt and treat yourself. You work hard.’

I’m a lone woman in a busy pub. I can do anything.

‘Scotch and soda, please.’

The voice next to me isn’t Irish; I glance at her. Tall, dark hair skimming her shoulders, a strong nose and large mouth. She’s striking. I look away, then look back.

She does a double take as well and smiles. As she takes off her blazer, I catch sight of a familiar lanyard.

I wait until she’s been served. ‘You were at the university meeting? With Angela Davis?’

‘I thought you looked familiar. Didn’t want to stare.’ She raises her glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘ Slàinte .’

‘Are you feeling as inspired as I am?’ She gulps her drink. ‘I’m Emily Beattie.’

‘I’m Beth Muir. And yes, I am. We could all do with a little inspiration right now, I think.’

‘It’s my first time in Belfast.’ Her eyes are wide and intense; I can’t work out if they’re blue or green. Perhaps they’re grey. ‘Police everywhere … I don’t know why it was such a surprise. I guess even the constant press coverage back home doesn’t prepare you for the reality of being here.’

‘You get used to it,’ I tell her. ‘Some parts of the city are worse than others. I work for Women’s Aid on the outskirts … a loyalist area. A chip shop two streets away from us was firebombed last year.’

‘Jesus.’

‘I hear that a lot. But not in your accent. Where’s home? I know it’s northern.’

‘Manchester. I’m a professor in Women’s Studies at Manchester Met. I couldn’t miss the chance to hear Angela talk about her life. More people need to know her story. Incredible.’

‘An unforgettable experience.’

We drink at the same time; I savour the heat at the back of my throat.

‘Are you hungry? I’m hungry. I think I want chips.’

I realize that I am hungry and remember that I’m not a day drinker, and a plate of carbs is exactly what I need right now, and I decide that her eyes are blue.

Over two servings of hot crispy-skinned fat chips, we exchange stories.

It’s her first time in Northern Ireland, a fleeting visit to celebrate International Women’s Day.

I tell her about the centre, the women we work with, their willingness to learn and grow and create better lives for their children.

She tells me about her flatmate Arthur, who has a glitter ball in his bedroom.

‘His mother thinks we’re a couple,’ she says.

‘But you’re not?’

She laughs. ‘Definitely not. But I go along with it. It’s easier. For Arthur and me.’

Unspoken words linger in the air. I eat another chip and wash it down with the last of my gin.

‘Do you want another drink?’

‘Um … I shouldn’t, really.’

‘Sure. Of course. I’m holding you up.’ She looks at her watch. ‘I’m just killing time until I head to the airport.’

‘I shouldn’t have another gin,’ I clarify. ‘But I’d love a coffee.’

Her face relaxes. ‘Coffee sounds great. Here? Or somewhere else?’

‘I know a nice wee place just round the corner. Unless … is there anywhere you want to go? Anything you want to see while you’re here? I can show you where Van Morrison was born …’

She shows all her teeth when she laughs. ‘Van is the man. But I’m more of a disco woman to be honest. Maybe it’s Arthur’s glitter ball.’ She lowers her voice. ‘Don’t tell anyone. I’m a serious professor after all.’

I smile. ‘You’re preaching to the converted. “Dancing Queen” is my theme song.’

‘Well, that’s amazing. It’s a shame I’m not here for another night – you could take me to Belfast’s finest discotheque.’

‘Oh, I only dance within the confines of my house,’ I tell her. ‘Believe me, it’s best for everyone.’

‘That’s a shame,’ she says, and those hypnotic eyes dart from my face to somewhere lower.

‘I can drink coffee in public, though.’

‘Let’s do it.’

The cafe is full, so we get our coffee in takeaway cups and we walk – through the Cathedral Quarter, past the Corn Exchange and St Mary’s and the building we almost but didn’t quite meet in a couple of hours ago.

‘We’ve got a long way to go,’ Emily says. ‘We’re starting to delay marriage and children, assert ourselves at work, in politics, in popular culture. But the more power we seize, the more is taken away from us.’

‘The modern era isn’t so modern,’ I agree.

‘Only a few years ago it was legal for a man to rape his wife.’

‘Aren’t you a barrel of laughs?’ I tease.

‘Oh, I know. I’m a complete nightmare.’

At some point between CastleCourt and City Hall, she curls her arm round mine. ‘I have an hour,’ she says.

‘I want to show you something. It won’t take long.’

We walk to Great Victoria Street. ‘It’s called the Monument to the Unknown Woman Worker ,’ I tell her as we approach the bronze sculpture. ‘Dedicated to the women who’ve helped to shape the city, and all women who work.’

We stand and stare at the clothes pegs where fingers should be, the baby’s dummy hanging from an ear, the milk bottle attached to the breast.

‘Amazing,’ Emily murmurs. She rummages in her bag and pulls out a disposable camera. ‘I need to capture this.’

I reach for it, but she shakes her head. ‘You have to be in the photo.’

I make all the usual reluctant noises, but she insists. ‘I wouldn’t have seen this if you hadn’t brought me here.’

I stand between the two bronze women and smile.

‘Serious face,’ she instructs. ‘Gender equality is no laughing matter.’

I laugh and she snaps.