by Marian Keyes
16.27
Put down book, closed eyes and thought about Paddy. Sometimes I thought had made peace with it. But other times, I am seized by frenzy of missing him, of needing him. From time to time, still think: There was such a bond between us, all that feeling can’t simply have gone away, just because he’s getting married to someone else.
Haven’t rung him since return to Knockavoy. Well, only once. Drunk, of course. Only time could convince self to be hopeful. (Had got drunk by accident. Had been bought drinks by everyone from Ol’ Prune Eyes to Mrs Butterly to Boss to rival Alco’s Corner. Impolite to refuse native hospitality. Could cause terrible insult.)
Had been walking home, happy and hopeful and – let’s say it like it was – pissed, and decided ring him. Would convince him to break it off with this so-called Alicia Thornton. Beautiful evening. Balmy. Moon smiling on ‘wine-dark’ sea (quoting the Master). Everything seemed possible.
Sadly not. Simply drunken misapprehension.
Made call all right. But went to voicemail. Should have hung up, but in grip of unstoppable force.
‘Paddy, Lola here. Just ringing say hello. Er… that’s all. Um, don’t marry that other woman. Right… ah… goodbye.’
All set to ring his landline, but was overtaken with sudden queasiness. Too much emotion, probably. Or perhaps mixture of red wine, Southern Comfort and Guinness, sweetened with blackcurrant.
Next morning, thought I’d dreamt it. Hoped I’d dreamt it. But forced self to check phone. No. Had definitely rung him.
Shame. Bad shame.
Which counted as progress. In immediate aftermath of news, shame conspicuous by absence.
17.30
Not spying. Not this time. Dragging couch back inside when glanced towards Firestarter Considine’s house and saw him in his kitchen. First thought, a nosy-neighbour one: He’s home early from work. Second thought: Is that ACTUALLY Firestarter Considine, and if so, what on earth is he WEARING?
Stared. Stared hard. Was he really wearing swimming goggles and a shower cap? Yes. Undeniably yes.
Strange goings-on in that house.
18.57
Arrival of Bridie and Barry
Listening for car, like lonely rural person. Hear it long before it arrives. Not because it is only car on road – indeed not, road is main Knockavoy to Miltown Malbay highway, quite busy – but because of music Bridie has on, on car stereo. Oasis, if not mistaken. Bridie’s taste in music almost as bad as taste in clothing, but she is unrepentant.
Car pulls up beside me, music abruptly shut off and Barry emerges from driver’s side. Barry permitted to come for weekend, because does everything he is told to, does not express opinions of his own, causes no waves. Unlike other people’s husbands.
‘Three hours, forty-nine minutes,’ was first thing Bridie said to me. ‘Excellent time for Friday rush hour. Hold on, just have to write it down.’
19.35
Treese and Jem arrive
Treese driving adorable little blue Audi TT – gift from Vincent! Perhaps to apologize for having abnormally large head? Jem in passenger seat looking uncomfortable. Too low to ground and slightly too chubby for car. Also embarrassed to be in such girly vehicle? (Claudia on hen weekend which is reason Jem allowed to visit.)
Treese v. glam-looking, in heels and sleek tailoring.
‘You are fabulous,’ I say.
People used to say about Treese, ‘lovely-looking, for fat girl.’ Patronizing. And to her face, ‘Treese, you really should knock off the sweets. Worked for my sister-in-law, she lost four stone. If you stopped being porker, you could be quite attractive.’
Once she lost the weight, she suddenly clicked into being soignée woman. All other parts had already been in place, just waiting. People who had urged her to be thin had to swallow hard. Taken aback. Wrong-footed. Unhappy. Kept her away from their boyfriends.
‘How is Vincent?’ I asked. ‘Keeping well?’ Had to ask. Polite. He was invited for weekend – obviously he had to be if Barry was – but nothing ever said. Not even, ‘Vincent says thanks for invite, but he is busy this weekend trying to get his head reduced in size.’ Simply, we all – Treese included – in silent conspiracy that it would be better if he didn’t come.
19.38–19.45
Newcomers taking deep breaths of salty air. Standing facing sea, hands on hips, filling lungs with ozone, saying, ‘God, that’s fantastic!’ Took seven to eight minutes. Then Jem clapped hands together and said, ‘Right! Which pub?’
20.07
The Oak, for preprandial libations (Margery Allingham)
Ol’ Prune Eyes took time out to sit down with us. Very smiley, twinkly-eyed, pleasant. Told others that he had heard lots about them. Delightful. I felt proud, almost as if he was my invention.
He told them how I came in every lunchtime (it’s not every lunch time, but never mind, no need to contradict, much goodwill floating around) for soup of the day. ‘She always says, “Ibrahim, is it lumpy?” ’ He laughed hard and hit thigh and repeated, ‘ “Ibrahim, is it lumpy?” Every day.’
Everyone joined in with laughter, not quite sure what laughing at, but charmed that he found it so funny. (Different cultures, different senses of humour.)
‘Ibrahim, can I buy you drink?’ Bridie offered.
‘No, thank you. Don’t drink.’
‘Why not? You an alcoholic?’ Bridie so nosy!
‘Don’t drink alcohol for religious reasons.’
Bridie stared, clearly wondering what kind of peculiar religion forbade alcohol. To be Catholic, is practically obligatory to have drink problem.
‘What religion is that? Christian Science?’
‘Muslim,’ he said.
‘Oh yes, didn’t think of that one. Well… er… fair play.’
Subsequent conversation stilted. Then two golfers, seeking respite from rawlrawlrawl of the Hole in One, came in and Ibrahim had to resume his bar duties.
As soon as he was gone, Bridie leant close to rest of us and hissed, in splurge of admission, ‘Is terrible, but when I hear people are Muslims, my first thought is that they are secret suicide bombers.’
‘Yes!’ Jem agreed, in enthusiastic whisper. ‘And that they despise me.’
‘Yes!’
‘When I was in Morocco with Claudia, the men used to look at her like she was a whore.’
That’s because she is a whore. Bridie and I had moment of strong, steady eye contact while this message flashed between us.
‘They have no respect for women,’ Jem said. ‘Beating their wives when they don’t cover their hair!’
Treese was getting agitated and trying to interject. ‘That is outrag –’
‘And I bet they are all mad pissheads in private,’ Bridie said. ‘Getting lamped out of their skulls and pretending to be –’
‘That is outrag –’
‘– teetotallers and saying everyone else is unclean swine for having glass of wine and ham sandwich once in while.’
‘That is outrageous way to think!’ Finally Treese had the floor. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves! Over two billion Muslims in world – they cannot ALL be suicide bombers! Is nothing but racism!’
Worst fear confirmed. Don’t want to be racist.
‘Vast, VAST majority of Muslims are moderate.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Jem said soothingly. But too late. We are treated to lecture, the gist of which is that everyone in world, regardless of race or religion, is entitled to respect and fully functioning latrines.
Two hours later
Back in the Oak after having bite to eat in Mrs McGrory’s pantry.
Place far busier. Ol’ Prune Eyes rushed off his feet.
Jem went to bar to buy round and returned, flushed and happy. ‘We’re invited to a party tomorrow night!’ He had made new friends while purchasing drinks. Not first time such a thing had ever happened to someone. Don’t mean to be cynical, but…
‘What party?’ Bridie asked.
‘Tho
se lads at the bar.’
Surf boys. Five or six of them. Barely dressed, flip-flops, cut-offs, tans, earrings, salt. And there was Jake, in washed-out T-shirt, low-slung jeans and shark’s-tooth neck ornament, lounging against bar, drink in hand, watching me. He mouthed, ‘Lola,’ and smiled.
Bridie rounded on me. ‘YOU KNOW HIM?’
‘Jake?… Um… yes.’ Quite proud, to be honest. Is like buying fabulous new Chloé coat, but not telling anyone, just arriving along in it and seeing everyone’s faces.
‘He fancies you!’ Bridie elbowed Barry. ‘Doesn’t he?’
‘Certainly seems like it.’ (Careful to express no opinions of his own.)
‘The way he was looking at you!’ Bridie snuck another glance at Jake. ‘He’s still doing it! He fancies you, I could swear it!’
‘Actually.’ I cleared throat, readying self to enjoy moment. ‘He does.’
That stymied her. ‘He does? How do you know?’
‘Cecile told me.’
‘WHO IS CECILE?’ Bridie likes know everything. Right now, she knows next to nothing.
‘French girl. In fact, there she is.’
Cecile was in thick of surf boys, giggling and shrugging. Wearing capri pants, ballet slippers and scarf knotted jauntily at neck, in fashion Irish woman would never achieve even if practised for a month. (Not even Treese could pull it off.)
‘Call her over,’ Bridie ordered. ‘Hey, Cecile, Cecile! Over here!’
Surprised, Cecile pursed red lips and raised perfect eyebrows, but responded to Bridie’s summons.
‘Cecile?’ Bridie demanded. ‘You’re Cecile?’ High-speed introductions. ‘Bridie, Barry, Treese, Jem, and Lola you know. Okay, tell me, that blond-haired man at bar – Jake? – is it true? Does he fancy Lola?’
Cecile giggled. ‘Oh yes, ’e wants to ride ’er into middle of next week.’
Treese flinched. But not Cecile’s fault. She is not really crude, simply French. Does not understand all that she says, merely repeating what she has heard, like small child.
‘’E wants to ride ’er so she cannot walk straight for a month.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.’
Cecile dismissed.
‘Right!’ Bridie decreed. ‘Here’s what I think. Best thing that could happen to Lola right now would be a fling with this Jake. Agreed?’ Bridie consulted others. Yes, agreed.
‘But you must not expect anything long term,’ Bridie cautioned. ‘He is far too good-looking.’
‘What is this thing where you keep telling me all men are far too good-looking for me?’
‘No offence, Lola, you are nice-looking too. But just look at this Jake person. He is ABNORMALLY good-looking. He is freak of nature. The mouth on him! Is so sexy! Everyone must fancy him. Even I fancy him!’
‘Sorry,’ she said to Barry.
‘Is okay,’ he said. ‘I fancy him too.’
‘Do you?’
‘We could have threesome with him,’ Barry said, then they leant into each other and laughed some private laugh, while rest of us watched, slightly uncomfortable.
1.30
Back in house
Drunk as I was, was highly alarmed when Bridie and Barry changed into strange leisure pants had seen them in before. Baggy but gathered at ankle, somewhat like trousers MC Hammer used to wear. Barry’s had illustrations of kites and balloons, while Bridie’s had blue and red zebra-skin pattern.
Heinous.
Something must be said.
Saturday, 18 October Noon
Everyone up.
Plan for the day: walks, breathing air, being wholesome before going on ‘unmerciful batter this evening’, to quote Jem. First: short trip to town because we had run out of milk.
‘I will go,’ I said. ‘Because am hostess. My responsibility.’
‘No, I will go,’ Jem said. ‘Because drank it all at five o’clock this morning.’
‘No, I will go,’ Bridie said. Because she is control freak.
‘Why don’t we all go?’ Treese suggested.
‘Okay!’
‘You better get dressed.’ I looked meaningfully at Bridie and Barry’s MC Hammer pants.
‘What you talking about? We are dressed!’
Oh cripes. Bad enough to wear those terrible things in privacy of own home, but out in public? Gruesome business.
12.18
Walking to town
Bridie starts talking about Jake. Again.
‘Good for you to sleep with him. Good for your ego, good for your confidence. What you know about him?’
‘Nothing. Is twenty-five, from Cork, has had sex with every other woman in Knockavoy and apparently wants to ride me so I can’t walk straight for a month.’
‘But has he job?’ Treese pressed. ‘How does he support himself?’
‘Don’t know and don’t care. Don’t want to know that his mother is teacher and his father a guard, that he has older sister and two younger brothers, that at school he was good at hurling but not so good at football. Don’t want to know that he shared bedroom with brother and had photos of Roy Keane Blu-tacked to wall. Don’t want to know that photos exist of him as cheeky six-year-old with gappy teeth or grinning ten-year-old with awful haircut. Don’t want him to be ordinary and don’t want any evidence that he wasn’t always beautiful.’
‘But you are not treating him as human being,’ Treese said.
‘I know. Don’t want to know his hopes and dreams.’
‘Is no basis for relationship,’ Treese said.
‘But she won’t get relationship off him!’ Bridie said. ‘I am sick saying it, but he is just too good-looking.’
‘Just minute! What about what I want? You are all acting as if I am luckiest woman on earth that he fancies me – and he only fancies me because I am novelty – but what about what I want? Maybe don’t fancy him at all!’
‘Well, do you fancy him?’ Bridie asked.
Thought about it. ‘Not really.’
Clamour of aghast disbelief, even from Jem.
‘All right, calm down! He is nice to look at!’
‘You are only playing hard to get,’ Bridie decided. ‘Don’t bother. He still won’t do relationship with you.’
‘Not playing hard to get. Still in love with Paddy.’
‘You would turn down hot sex with Love-God just because you are still hung up on slimy politician with smile like Joker from Batman!’ Bridie indignant. ‘Politician who, incidentally, is getting married to a horse.’
12.49
On way back from buying milk, got lured in the Dungeon. Passing open door – rare, rare occasion when Dungeon had its door wedged open. Usually it eschewed daylight as though it were radioactive. Suspected Alco’s Corner were on lookout for me. Sure enough, Boss spotted me and yelled out into the street, ‘Ho, Lola Daly! Not good enough for you any more, are we?’
Not true, but keen that Dublin friends should not cross paths with Boss, etc. They would worry at dodginess of company I was keeping. So I said, ‘Hahaha,’ and continued walking, but Bridie said, ‘Who is that man? How come you know so many people?’
She insisted on meeting Boss. I tried resisting. Extreme futility. Found self plunging into gloomy interior and making introductions all round. ‘Bridie, Barry, Treese, Jem, meet Boss, Moss and the Master.’
Boss beside himself with excitement. His round, red fizzog was lit up and extra red. ‘Have heard ALL about ye! Let me see if I have it right.’ He pointed at Treese. ‘You’re the know-all?’
‘… Ah…’
Cripes!
‘No, I’m the know-all,’ Bridie said.
‘So you must be the one who used to be fat?’ he said to Treese.
She inclined perfect head in assent.
‘By gor!’ Boss clearly impressed. ‘You’d never know it, you’re like a whippet now. Isn’t she, boys?’
As Boss, Moss and the Master scrutinized Treese and expressed incredulity that she had once tipped the scales at fourteen sto
ne, my temperature rocketed. Experiencing bitter regret at having spoken so freely about my friends to the clientele in the Dungeon.
‘And you’re the know-all’s hen-pecked husband?’ Boss said to Barry.
Barry shot nervous glance at Bridie. Was he? ‘Yes,’ he said, reading signal. ‘I am.’
‘You’re obviously not the ex-rugby player with the ginormous head,’ Boss said to Jem. ‘So you must be the fellow Lola is Just Good Friends with.’
Invested words ‘Just Good Friends’ with sleazy meaning.
‘… Er… yes…’
‘And where is your dolly-bird fiancée?’
‘On hen night.’
‘Not here? I’m disappointed, so I am. Heard she has fake bosoms. Wanted to see a pair before I die.’
Cease and desist, I think. Cease and desist!
Awkward, all terribly awkward. Desirous of moving the party out of the Dungeon and back to Uncle Tom’s cabin at fast clip, but Boss insisted – INSISTED – on buying round. Once a man like Boss is insisting on buying a round, there is no choice, no choice at all.
And as for having soft drink? Not a hope.
Jem made mistake of asking for Coke and entire pub seemed to stop talking. Faintly heard voices say, ‘Am I hearing things or did your man in the pyjamas just ask for Coke?’‘ ’Twasn’t your man in the pyjamas, ’twas the other fellow.’
‘COKE?’ Boss demanded. ‘Are you man or mouse?’ Then looked scornfully at Barry. ‘I know all about you. You are mouse. But today you can be mouse that roared. Pint? Five pints,’ he called to barman.
Accepted Guinness with bad grace. Drank quickly. Wanted to vamoose. (Strange word.) But before we had finished drinks, Moss got another round in. And halfway through second drink, suddenly relaxed. Boss had ceased and desisted with the mortifying revelations and seemed so patently thrilled to meet friends that – against better judgement – I was touched. ‘Was great day Lola Daly graced Knockavoy with her presence,’ he said, with sincere warmth, to Bridie. ‘She has brought us good luck. Since she arrived, the Master won three hundred and fifty euro on scratch card and I won de luxe fruit cake in raffle in aid of new DVD player for parish priest. To cap it all, mortal enemy has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. Inoperable. Lola is lovely girl, we are fierce fond of her.’ He dropped his voice, although I could still hear everything. ‘Of course, is crying shame the way she was let down by that Chrispy louser.’
