I arranged to meet Megan Nolan at 1.30pm on Friday at a cafe in Brooklyn called Vineapple. “I think because we sell wine and it’s on Pineapple Street,” says the apologetic barista who serves me an iced coffee. I make my way to the yard at the back of the cafe to wait for Nolan who arrives a few minutes later, dressed casually in jeans and a black T-shirt, except for a pair of Barbie pink latex mules. The author opts for a Bloody Mary from the waitress as I contemplate my iced coffee before making peace with it. After…

Want to continue reading?

Introductory offer: Sign up today and pay €200 for an annual membership, a saving of €50.

Subscribe

Cancel at any time.

Are you already a member? .