"She’s a tonic - she’ll say anything, that one"

MY FRIEND thinks I could do with a good night out in Cork. 

She’s having none of my, “I’ve never really got the hang of drinking” malarkey anymore, not since she read my column on my sister’s birthday celebrations in Sligo. “Lashing it back and dancing on the bar,” she says, “you’re one of us now. It’s there in print.”

I tell her I’m not in the form for a good night out but this isn’t cutting any ice either; apparently, not being in the form for a good night out is the best indicator of being in need of one.

I’m still trying to work out the logic of this argument now at 5pm, in my friend’s bedroom, while she twists and turns in front of a full-length mirror, checking her vintage cream Armani for knicker-lines.

It’s possible this good night out idea might have something to do with the fact that her car is in the garage, waiting to be mended, and she needs a spin. But then she’s such a one for good nights out I’d say if push came to shove, she’d hitch up to Cork on the back of a motorbike — cream Armani notwithstanding.

By 6.30pm, I’m in Brown Thomas; first stop on the good night out is a Clinique promotions event.

There’s a tray of Cava being passed around in the make-up section. My friend is sticking to her “don’t forget you’re one of us now” line, so I have one glass and then — anticipating a villainous hour being promoted to on an uncomfortable stool — another.

My friend’s sister arrives half an hour late. I know little about her, only having been told “she’s a tonic — she’ll say anything, that one”.

The Tonic sits down just when the Clinique salesgirl to whom we’ve been allotted for the evening begins demonstrating the new battery-operated Clinique Sonic System Purifying Cleansing Face Brush, which, as well as being innovative, Swiss-engineered, waterproof and for all skin types, looks and sounds remarkably like something buzzy from Ann Summers. And I’m suddenly very afraid for our salesgirl — what with her being so impossibly young and sweet — for all sorts of reasons to do with The Tonic and how she’ll say anything, and me and my two Cavas, which are loosening me up — I can feel it.

We restrain ourselves while the salesgirl gets buzzing, demonstrating the angled tip, which targets hard-to-reach areas “and makes the 3-Step cleansing routine more effective for 3-Steppers”.

I confess I do not know what a 3-Stepper is, in a voice that must be louder than the whisper I think it is, if the sympathetic looks which come my way are anything to go by.

These looks make me feel like Dirty Gertie from the Country and stop me from disclosing anything that might incriminate me further, such as how, I whisper very, very quietly and cautiously into my friend’s ear, “I’ve been using an electric toothbrush with a soft head as an exfoliator on my face for yonks — and it’s never done me any harm”.

The salesgirl demonstrates the action of the face-brush on a piece of tissue. The tissue doesn’t even wrinkle, the bristles are so gentle.

“Just imagine what your electric toothbrush would do to that tissue,” my friend says but that tray is doing the rounds again and I’d rather have another Cava than imagine.

The salesgirl, all milk-fed bloom and fervour, tells us about another product that stops skin-ageing dead in its tracks.

“I’m worried how she’ll cope,” I whisper to my friend, “when she discovers that never before, in the history of womankind, has an old lady been laid out, wrinkle-free, in a coffin.”

“Shush,” my friend says, “or I’ll tell her about your manky toothbrush.”

I can’t remember the finer details of what followed. There was a nice old pub in Cork that used to be a chemist. More of the “don’t forget, you’re one of us now” and a lot more Cava.

I also have a vague memory of The Tonic lamping me into a bed at half one.

But I won’t forget what she said to me when she clapped eyes on me first thing this morning.

Something about never in her life having seen anyone in such urgent need of the 3-Steps.

But then she’ll say anything, that one.