This Charming Man

by Marian Keyes

  ‘Paddy de Courcy? But he’s New Ireland.’

  ‘Was Christian Progressive before he was New Ireland. Once filthy Chrisp, always filthy Chrisp. Doesn’t matter what fancy title he assumes these days. Christian Progressive! Pah!’

  Please, I think, please do not spit.

  More drinks were bought – this time by Barry – and energetic discussions ensued. Mostly, I regret to report, about me.

  I heard ‘… too good-looking for her…’

  ‘… fake smile… like Joker in Batman…’

  ‘… wrong suitcase of clothes… nearly sparked international incident…’

  Great bonding ensued. In total we had five drinks each before Bridie called a halt. ‘We will miss party tonight if don’t stop now.’

  Bridie made Barry go for stagger along the beach. ‘Sea air will sober us up.’

  Rest of us went home and fell asleep and woke two hours later covered in drool.

  19.25

  The Oak

  Light dinner. Toasted sandwiches and soup of day (mushroom).

  ‘Say it,’ Ol’ Prune Eyes begged me. ‘Say it.’

  ‘But I know it’s not.’

  ‘Say it anyway.’

  ‘Okay. Is it lumpy?’

  I never saw anyone laugh so much.

  ‘You might have future as comedian in Egypt,’ Jem said quietly to me.

  20.39

  Mrs Butterly’s

  Nasty surprise. Two people already in there. Have never before had to share Mrs Butterly – Honour (she doesn’t know I know her first name; Boss told it to me; it is like learning name of your teacher when you are in junior infants) – with any other customer.

  Then noticed one of customers was Firestarter! Rossa Considine. He was with woman. Reunited with fiancée? But speedy scrutiny revealed that woman he was with was definitely not wedding-dress woman. In fact, she had slight ferrety cast to her features. Could she be the girlfriend Alco’s Corner had told me about? Despite undeniable ferretyness – something to do with her teeth – she was not minger. Or bowler. In fact, cute-looking.

  But what was story there? Rossa Considine dumped ferret-girl when he met wedding-dress girl? But now wedding-dress girl had done runner, he was trying to mend fences with Ferret-Face?

  Mrs Butterly in a flap. ‘Don’t know where I will fit everyone. Sorry, Lola, know these are your friends, but can’t take them all. Not enough glasses. Will take you –’ she pointed at Treese, like this was hot nightclub with savagely cruel door policy –‘and you.’ Jem had also made the cut.

  But not Bridie and Barry. Bridie looked stunned. Actually very upset. ‘Why you pick them and not us?’

  ‘Nothing personal, but cannot serve people in their pyjamas. By order of management. Anyway no room.’

  ‘Is okay,’ Rossa Considine said. ‘We are finishing up. They can have our seats.’

  ‘All right. Will make exception seeing as you are friends of Lola.’

  Rossa Considine squeezed past and said, ‘Hello, Lola.’

  ‘Hello, Rossa,’ I replied.

  To the uninitiated this might seem like benign greeting. But lots unspoken stuff going on. By sarcastic expression in his eyes, Rossa Considine was really saying, I see you many mornings spying on me like nosy oddball.

  And with my eyes I was saying, Is that fact? Well, I caught you burning your ex-fiancée’s dresses in middle of night. And dancing around your kitchen wearing swimming goggles and a shower cap. You are fine one to be calling me an oddball.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Treese asked, when they’d squeezed out.

  ‘Next-door neighbour.’

  ‘Seems nice.’

  Shows what little you know, I think.

  Mildly wounded. What had I ever done to Rossa Considine? Apart from spy on him some mornings? And what is so wrong with that?

  ‘You have certainly made friends here!’ Bridie clearly impressed that I knew so many people. Is hard for Bridie and them. Because I have no family to speak of, they are burdened with me.

  Bridie had crow to pluck with Mrs Butterly. ‘Is not pyjamas. Is leisure pants.’

  ‘I am old woman. I have lived long time. I know pyjamas when I see them.’

  0.12

  Party at surf boys’ house

  Loud music. Rammed. Where did all these people come from? Didn’t know were so many young, good-looking types in Knockavoy.

  Through throng in hallway saw Jake, talking to girl with long, dark hair. Despite multitudes milling about, he held my gaze for unfeasibly long time and smiled; slow, white, meaningful.

  I gave brusque nod of head, face aflame.

  Into main room. Treese and I sat primly on futon while Bridie doled out beers like a mother on a picnic. Barry and Jem in top form.

  ‘Knockavoy is great bloody place!’ Jem declared, reeling slightly. ‘This is great song!’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Haven’t clue!’ Jem said happily. ‘But it is great bloody song! Come on, everyone up dancing!’

  Although feeling slightly old and well-dressed, drunk enough to get to feet. Bridie and Barry also took to floor but Treese stayed seated, smiling enigmatically. You would think Treese not dancing because too sophisticated but those closest to her know she doesn’t dance because never learnt to enjoy it when fat.

  Dancing quite happily when unexpectedly received sharp poke in lower back. Quite painful, if you want honest opinion. Think it got me in the kidney. Turned around. It was long-haired girl Jake had been talking to. Young, surfy, many tattoos. (I have tattoo, but is only discreet one of butterfly on ankle. Way outclassed by this girl with Celtic knot circling her upper arm, sunburst around her belly button and Om symbol on her wrist.)

  ‘You are Lola?’ she said.

  Am used to everyone in Knockavoy knowing all about me, but this was different.

  ‘… Er… yes.’

  She gave me scorching head-to-toe once-over with her eyes. ‘I am Jaz. Remember my name.’ Before could laugh at such cheesy line, she stalked away, bumping into Jem, who went staggering into Bridie, who clouted him roughly and said, ‘Mind where you’re dancing.’

  Life sad, no? Tattoo girl clearly besotted with Jake, but he is making play for me. But I am not interested in Jake because in love with Paddy. But Paddy getting married to Alicia and actually, that is where chain ends because Alicia bound to be in love with Paddy because how could she not be?

  1.01

  ‘Come upstairs for minute,’ Bridie whispered.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just come on.’

  Pushed way through people snogging on stairs. Then another flight of stairs, no one snogging on this one. Followed Bridie, who was doing exaggerated tiptoe walk, up bare, wooden steps. At top of house, she pushed open a door with tips of her fingers, but didn’t cross the threshold.

  ‘This is Love-God’s bedroom,’ she confided.

  ‘How you know?’

  ‘Asked around.’

  We stood at door and peeped in. Like magic-land in there. Light flickering from three fat white candles stuck in Gothic trident candelabra. Bleached floorboards. Sand. Wooden four-poster bed, top draped with fishing nets (but not smelly). Lopsided locker. Paint peeling but not depressing. Somehow beautiful.

  Windows open, muslin curtains billowing in breeze, sound of waves rushing and sucking.

  ‘The things that must happen in this room…’ Bridie sighed. She seized my arm in sudden painful grip. ‘Look in drawer beside his bed,’ she urged. ‘Go on, see if he’s got condoms in it. I bet he has. Go on, Lola.’

  ‘No.’ Didn’t want illusion spoilt simply to satisfy Bridie’s sick curiosity.

  Didn’t want to see matches, broken watch, hair bobble, Anadins, Rizlas, leaking pens, fluff and other bedside-drawer detritus.

  ‘The candles…’ Bridie breathed. ‘So romantic.’

  ‘Probably because he is too lazy to change broken light bulb,’ I said.

  And what kind of irresponsible fool leaves naked flam
e unattended?

  With three sharp, no-nonsense puffs, I extinguished the candles. Bridie annoyed.

  1.12

  Back downstairs, Jake in dancing room. He saw me come in, turned quickly to hi-fi, did something and suddenly music changed from Arctic Monkeys (I think) to slow song. Dancers startled. Cut off in their prime. Distinctly heard someone ask, ‘What’s this shite?’ Jake cut swathe through them, stood before me and in low voice asked a question.

  ‘Hmmm?’

  Knew what he was asking, but wanted to watch his mouth say it again.

  Louder he said, ‘Would you like to dance?’

  ‘… Okay…’

  He took my hand in courtly gesture and led me two feet into centre of room.

  ‘Go on, Lola!’ Jem called, as if encouraging horse in Grand National. He was really quite fluthered.

  Heard Bridie hissing, ‘Shut up, Jem, you imbecile!’

  Jake opened his arms – beautifully sinewy; biceps bulgy but not obscene, not like Mr Universe – and I stepped into them. Hit by the heat of his body.

  Hard to describe how I felt. Not lustful or giddy with romance. But not reluctant either. Not repelled by fact that he wasn’t Paddy. I suppose I was… I was… interested.

  He placed one hand between my shoulder blades, other on small of my back. Nice. At moment have so little physical contact in life. (Mrs Butterly very fond of me, but she is rural Irish woman: would kill her to do hug.)

  I slid arms around his neck, hands getting tangled in hair at nape of his neck. Nice space under his collarbone, just to the right of the shark’s-tooth necklace, to rest head. Experimentally tried it. Yes, pleasant. Nice fit. Relaxed into it. Closed eyes.

  His T-shirt warm and soft, chest underneath warm and hard. Pleasant, pleasant, oh undeniably pleasant.

  Felt like eight thousand years since had slow-danced with a man. Just doesn’t happen past the age of fifteen, does it?

  His skin smelt salty. Suspected if I stuck tongue out and touched his neck, would taste salt.

  In fact, as took a breath, noticed he smelt slightly of sweat. Unusual. People behave as if to smell of human being is obscene. Him not smelling of sharp citrus scent seemed gauche… but perhaps it is me who is gauche? Maybe that is the way of the younger people: not washing so frequently, not clogging up sweat glands with white stuff which then goes all over clothes, not drenching themselves with pungent chemicals (i.e. aftershave). Perhaps I and my attachment to magnolia blossom fabric conditioner seem risible to them.

  Jake tightened his hold on me, sliding one hand round from small of back to waist and pressing harder between shoulder blades with other hand. Fine, all fine. But kept my focus above the waterline. If any stirrings below it – in either of us – just didn’t want to know.

  Song ended. New song started, also slow. But had had enough. Can’t describe it any better than that. Had liked the feel of him and smell of him, but no more for tonight.

  ‘Thank you.’ I pulled away from him.

  He seemed surprised. ‘That’s it, Lola?’

  ‘That’s it, Jake.’

  He smiled.

  Look in his eyes: admiration? Respect? Maybe not. Who knows?

  I went back to others.

  ‘Why you stop?’ Bridie demanded.

  ‘Because wanted to.’

  ‘I see, you are playing long game –’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘– but it will do you no good. You might as well go up those stairs and get into bed with him right now!’

  Said nothing. Bridie doing transference. She fancies him.

  Sunday, 19 October 13.17

  Awoke feeling peculiar. Hung-over, of course. Jem only person up. In kitchen, reading newspaper.

  ‘Going to ring my dad,’ I said. ‘Ring him every Sunday around this time.’

  Went outside, sat on front step and rang number in faraway Birmingham.

  Dad answered by saying their phone number. Is quaint, no? Time-warp stuff. (They do it in Margery Allingham books. ‘Whitehall 90210’, etc.)

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘… Oh… Lola.’

  ‘This a bad time?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure? You sound…’

  ‘I sound what?’

  ‘… Like it’s bad time. Like you don’t want talk to me.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I want talk to you?’

  ‘… Um… ah…’ Sudden courage. ‘Dad, why don’t you ever ring me?’

  ‘Because you ring me every Sunday.’

  But couldn’t help wondering: What if I didn’t ring? How long would it take before he rang me? Sometimes felt like testing him, but couldn’t run the risk that he might simply never call me – ever – and then I would have no father.

  Desultory conversation ensued. Most of talking done by me.

  Then Dad asked, ‘What you want for Christmas?’

  ‘It’s only October.’

  ‘It’ll be upon us before we know it. So what you want?’

  ‘Bottle of perfume.’ Is sort of present he thinks fathers should give to daughters.

  ‘What kind perfume?’

  ‘Any kind. A surprise.’

  ‘You buy it, I will send you postal order.’

  Postal order! Why not cheque? He has bank account! No need for postal order!

  Whenever I think of life lived by Dad and his brother – Uncle Francis, also a widower, also prone to depression – I always imagine depressing play about rural Ireland in the fifties. Picture in my head has them living in small cheerless cottage where kitchen is full of steam from enormous pot of potatoes constantly on boil. From early morning to sunset, days are spent in back-breaking work, tilling fields and milking cows, while wearing ancient white dress shirts and shiny-bummed suit trousers. Conversation non-existent. Every evening they each eat thirteen floury potatoes, and drink pint bottle of stout, while listening to sea-area forecast on wireless. Then they get on their knees on hard-flagged kitchen floor and, leaning elbows on bokety wooden chair, say fifteen decades of the rosary, before undressing to their vests and long johns and sleeping together in narrow iron bed. For many years, day in, day out, life continues in this vein, until eventually one of them hangs himself in cowhouse.

  I know reality is not like that. Uncle Francis’s house, in Birmingham suburb, small but modern. Has electricity and running water, unlike house in my head. Also each man has own bedroom and know for a fact that Dad has pyjamas and tartan dressing gown and doesn’t need to sleep in long johns. Fair amount of religious iconography, mind you. Pride of place a picture of Sacred Heart: picture of Jesus, revealing red heart – i.e. internal organ – in his chest. Many Catholic homes sport one, but Uncle Francis has de luxe version – red flashing lights inset into heart. Terrifying. Had to get up one night to get glass of water and when saw red heart floating in darkness of hall, own heart nearly seized up in chest from fright. They go to Mass every Sunday but other than that, have no idea what they do with their time. I know they went to grand reopening of Bullring. (FYI, Bullring is shopping centre in centre of Birmingham, not actual bullring.) Another big outing – cinema to see The Da Vinci Code. (Were quite defensive about it, poor things. ‘Is better to be informed about attacks on Catholic church. Was terrible the way Opus Dei was portrayed. Is fine organization, full of fine people, and you don’t have to wear that thing on your leg if you really don’t want to.’)

  Eventually conversation meandered to complete halt. My patience expired, said huffy goodbye, snapped phone closed and marched back in to Jem.

  ‘How’s your dad?’ he asked.

  ‘Emotionally unavailable to me.’ (Had learnt this in therapy.) ‘You know what, Jem!’ Sudden burst of frustration. ‘Is no wonder am a bit fucked-up. I mean, look at family I come from – dead mother, depressed father, depressed uncle. All things considered, am actually pretty normal!’

  ‘Yes!’ Jem agreed. ‘Yes, indeed!’

  Jem, loyal friend.

  14.12

 
; Bridie made us go for walk on beach –first time since arrived in Knockavoy that I had put foot on beach. Noted with quiet satisfaction Bridie and Barry wearing normal clothing. Then she made us go to pub and drink several drinks to ‘make most of weekend.’ (Barry forbidden to drink, as driving home.)

  Didn’t want any alcohol – felt hung-over, quite sick, actually, from quantities consumed the night before – but Bridie shamed me into it. ‘Not every weekend your friends visiting from Dublin!’

  17.38

  Waved off Bridie, Barry, Treese and Jem. Really quite drunk.

  ‘Feel bad leaving you here on your own,’ Jem said.

  ‘Will be fine! Glad you’re going back. Am destroyed. Do not have constitution for all this drinking and debauchery. Very fond of you all but do not come again for a while.’

  Monday, 20 October 10.07

  Woke far too early. Felt mildly wretched. Circadian rhythm knocked way off course by weekend of drinking and late nights.

  Rang Bridie for chat.

  ‘Why you ringing?’ she asked.

  ‘Chat.’

  ‘Chat? Have spent whole bloody weekend with you. Must go now.’

  She hung up and I stared at phone. ‘Feck you, then,’ I said.

  When stinging feeling had passed, rang Treese. Someone – not Treese – answered, ‘Treese Noonan’soffice.’

  ‘I speak to Treese, please?’ Hard to get to talk to her directly. She is important woman.

  ‘Who’s calling, please?’