by Emma Murray
It’s hard to look at Sean without thinking about his ‘issues’ in the bedroom, but on the face of it, he’s a good-looking guy – clear green eyes, a narrow face, softened by short, tousled brown hair, and a mouth that goes slightly up at the sides, which gives the impression of being permanently amused. I watch him give a reluctant Dee a quick kiss and put his arm around her and I feel a flash of envy. I can’t remember the last time David was that affectionate towards me. He gives me a ‘nice to see you again’ wink and I smile back, doing my best to give the impression that I remember him from the boozy evening with his wife – which, of course, I don’t.
More drinks are ordered and the chat is flowing, and the craic is brilliant, and everyone talks over everyone else and it’s one of those nights that I never want to end.
At some point in the evening, I decide it’s high time we got more drinks in. But just as I’m about to get up to go to the bar, Jen tugs at my hand, her eyes fixed to a point behind me, her mouth open.
I turn round and instantly freeze.
‘Holy fucking Christ,’ she breathes.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Sean saying, ‘Jesus Christ, I’d ride him meself.’
And before I can prepare myself, an apparition in jeans and a dark blue slim-fitting polo shirt, slides into the empty seat beside mine and says hello.
I take a deep breath and meet his gaze. Ryan. This time I refuse to go all wobbly around him, but then I remember I performed a sex act on him in my dream the previous night, and look away, feeling my face grow hot.
Dee is the first one to recover from the arrival of our surprise guest. In a valiant attempt to avoid slurring, she introduces Ryan to Jen and then to Sean, who Ryan has never met before. After all the introductions have been made, a moment passes and then another, before Jen decides to use a classic tactic to break the tension.
‘SHOTS!’ she shouts, elbowing me and pointing to the bar.
‘No, no. I’ll get them in,’ Ryan says, instantly standing up. Jen gives him the drinks order and we all watch that perfect bottom make its way towards the bar.
‘Jesus! That’s HIM,’ Jen says, in the loudest whisper ever uttered in a public place.
‘Who?’ says Sean.
‘Ryan!’ Jen says, impatiently.
‘I know the fella’s name but what’s he got to do with Saoirse?’
I give Jen my best ‘I’ll kill you if you say anything look’ but it doesn’t even begin to work.
‘That’s the fella Saoirse had the sex dream about last night!’ Jen says.
I groan and put my head in my hands. The cat’s well and truly out of the bag now. I wait for Sean to rip the piss out of me, but he ends up saying something both surprising and disturbing.
‘I can see why,’ he says, thoughtfully. ‘He’s a looker all right. Reminds me of someone… Even got a round in before he’s barely sat down. He’s a good lad.’
Jen and I exchange raised eyebrows again.
Dee turns to Sean and asks him drunkenly what the FUCK is he going on about, and does he actually FANCY Ryan or something, and I can see it all turning ugly, and then mercifully the pair are interrupted by Ryan putting eight shots on the table (eight shots for four people – Sean looks at Ryan with such a look of adoration that for a second I genuinely feel worried for Dee), and then everyone shuts up for a bit. I knock back both of my shots in quick succession, and immediately start to feel a bit calmer.
When Ryan laughingly asks me about my record-breaking plunge into the icy sea the last time we met, I don’t get embarrassed. I laugh it off easily by telling him that I needed to make my first dip as painless as possible, like ripping off a plaster. When Jen asks him what he’s doing in this part of the world, he tells us he’s been coming here for two weeks every summer for the past five years. When Sean asks him what he does for a living, he tells us that he is a management training coach who, although based in LA, does a fair amount of travel. And it goes on like that, us asking lots of questions, and Ryan answering them easily and with the odd bit of humour thrown in.
But then it all goes a bit wrong, countless shots later, when Sean suddenly blurts out, ‘That’s it! La La Land!’ and slaps the table to wobbling.
Jen, Dee and I exchange tortured glances. Ryan looks up to the ceiling.
Too drunk to pick up on our reactions, Sean stumbles on with the force of a desperate comedian determined to land a joke at whatever cost.
‘YOU! You’re like that fella from La La Land,’ he says, pointing unnecessarily at Ryan. Then a puzzled expression flashes over his face. ‘Now, what’s that actor called?’ he asks, frowning.
‘Ryan,’ Dee hisses furiously.
Sean turns carefully towards her. ‘Fuck’s sake, Dee! I know his name’s Ryan. I’m talking about the fella from La La Land!’
Dee sits back in her seat, shaking her head.
When I am pissed enough I thank Ryan for walking me home after the all-day drinking episode, and ask him if I said anything embarrassing.
He smiles, and says, ‘No, nothing embarrassing.’ And even if he is just being kind, I’ll take it. Then he adds something that I wish he hadn’t. ‘In fact, you didn’t talk as much as sing all the way home.’
Oh God. I forgot about the singing. That’s a sure sign I’ve had too much to drink. But if that’s all I was doing, I am happy enough.
And in that moment, I know with full certainty that nothing happened with Ryan that time he walked me home from the pub. He is too polite and well-mannered. It wouldn’t have occurred to him to try anything on. And I realise that he makes me feel safe.
Just then Sean explodes.
‘GOSLING! You’re the spitting image of Ryan Gosling,’ he stutters, spraying spittle everywhere.
Ryan smiles patiently. I can see that Sean’s spittle has landed on his nose, but he doesn’t wipe it away.
He’s kind, I think, feeling all fuzzy, drunk, and affectionate. Kind and easy to talk to.
‘I bet you get that all the time,’ Jen says.
Ryan gives a modest smile, and says, ‘No, not at all,’ with as much sincerity as he can manage under the circumstances. Sean’s spittle stays on Ryan’s nose until we leave the pub, and I like him all the more for it.
That night, when we all part ways, someone drunkenly suggests that we all go for a swim together the following day in the Irish Sea ‘to chase away the cobwebs’. I think that person is me. After I hug everyone goodbye, I hum the songs from La La Land all the way home.
17
It’s been a long time since I have woken up in a pool of my own piss, but that’s just what has happened. Clutching my thumping head in my hands, I gingerly step out of bed, overcome with the shame of drinking to the point of unconsciousness. What the hell is wrong with me? Ever since I’ve arrived here, I’ve been caning it with the drink, like a first-year student who’s just broken the pledge. I knock back a couple of pills to make the pain in my head go away, and miserably change the wet sheets before stuffing everything in the washing machine. It’s been a long time since I felt this low.
With effort, I make myself take a long, hot shower, and it’s only when I’m in clean clothes again that I remember my drunken vow about our pre-arranged swim from the night before. Frankly, diving into the sea is the last thing I feel like doing, but I throw on my swimsuit anyway and let myself out of the house… only to find it pissing it down outside. I pause for a moment but then decide to carry on, feeling an odd comfort that the weather matches my mood.
I navigate my way carefully down the cliff steps to the swimmers’ enclave below. As I reach the bottom of the steps, I am surprised to see Ryan already there, standing perfectly still with his back to the sea. He looks so focused that I stop for a moment, reluctant to destroy the peace. As I watch, he lifts one arm slowly and reaches it towards the back of the cliff face. For a minute he looks like he’s going to do a bout of tai chi, and this disappoints me a little. Tai chi may be trendy on an LA beach, buster, I think,
but it’s hardly in keeping with a little Irish beach in the pissing rain. But he doesn’t practise any tai chi moves after all. Instead, he uses the tips of his fingers to trace something on the wall, exactly in the space where the graffiti is displayed. I am too curious to stand about waiting, so I start walking towards him. As soon as he sees me, he jumps, and swivels round quickly so he is facing the sea once more.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. Trust me to ruin someone else’s moment. ‘Did I disturb you?’
He looks at me with dark eyes and then looks away. Frankly, he seems really pissed off.
‘Were you thinking of fixing Frank’s handiwork?’ I say to lighten the mood.
Ryan musters up a small smile, so I keep going.
‘Maybe you can add my name too. I hear they’re running short of swimmers these days!’
He rounds on me. ‘What the fuck is that supposed to mean?’ he says, impatiently wiping the rain from his face.
‘Nothing!’ I say, totally shocked. Where the hell has nice-guy Ryan gone? ‘It’s just that Kitty was saying there have been a few deaths around here lately.’
His eyes widen, seeming to turn a much darker blue.
‘Did Kitty tell you what happened?’
‘No… I…’ I stammer.
‘What about Dee? Did she tell you?’
I see his fists clenching and unclenching and I start to feel really hacked off. I’m hungover to the point of wanting to throw up and in no mood to be shouted at for no reason.
‘No!’ I say, angrily. ‘Nobody said anything about… anything!’
He bends down and grabs his sports bag and walks away fast down the beach, shouting, ‘The gossiping in this godforsaken town is total bullshit.’
I feel my mouth drop open and the rain pouring down my face. What the hell was all that about? I look back at the graffiti and a memory of Kitty pops into my head: the suicide. The death nobody ever talks about. I wait until Ryan is a dot in the distance, and give myself a little shake. Well, fuck him. He’s obviously a total weirdo, which is a shame, given his gorgeousness. I march self-righteously into the icy water and plunge headlong into the turbulent sea.
As I swim, a sense of peace and calm washes over me; the cold water washing away hot-tempered thoughts, and a brutal, shameful hangover. I stay in a bit longer today, exhilarated by the personal triumph of withstanding such cold temperatures, coupled by the power and weightlessness of my body as it cuts through the waves.
As I emerge with purple/blue legs and unclenchable fingers, I see Kitty by the enclave, wriggling out of her tracksuit. I greet her with a wave, and she gives me a short wave back. When I get closer, I see that her eyes are red, and her face slightly swollen. She looks as though she’s been crying. What is wrong with everyone today?
‘Are you all right, Kitty?’ I say.
She waves me away, pulling on her swimming goggles.
‘I’m fine, love,’ she says, and we both pretend not to notice when her voice cracks.
‘Ryan’s not exactly a happy camper today either!’ I say, in an inappropriately jocular tone. This is something I do when I have no idea what to say. As David often reminds me, ‘Sometimes it’s all right not to rush to fill every gap in a conversation.’
Kitty’s head whips around to me. ‘You’ve seen Ryan?’
I nod. ‘Not only did I see him, but he bit the head off me!’
She shakes her head vigorously as if she’s trying to get water out of her ears, and gives me an indecipherable look. Then with a curt wave, she walks away into the crashing waves ahead.
I am now more flummoxed than ever.
I don’t feel calm any more. Now I’m annoyed.
As soon as I get home I call Dee.
‘What’s today supposed to be?’ I say, the second she picks up the phone.
‘Wednesday?’ she says, yawning. ‘The day I murder both my children because they kept me up half the night?’
I swallow hard in frustration and explain what has happened on the beach.
‘There’s Ryan with a face like a slapped arse, and then Kitty looking all tear-streaked, and I haven’t a clue what’s going on,’ I moan.
Dee is quiet for a moment.
‘I’ve just realised what today is,’ she says. ‘I can’t believe I almost forgot,’ she adds, almost to herself.
I’m barely hanging on here.
‘Dee,’ I say through clenched teeth, ‘any chance you could fill me in?’
She sighs, and says, ‘I can’t. It’s not up to me to tell you.’
I swear at her for a bit and, fair play, she takes it on the chin, and then I put down the phone, forgetting to ask her why the hell she hasn’t made it to the beach yet. I am still annoyed so I call Jen – not because she’ll have any of the answers (she’s as clueless as I am when it comes to local knowledge) but because I need a rant.
Jen waits until I have finished venting and then says something that takes the wind out of my sails.
‘Let me ask you something. Did you tell Dee or Kitty about my relationship breaking down?’ she says.
‘Of course not!’ I say, instantly. ‘That’s absolutely none of my business. That’s your news to tell.’
Then I get it. ‘Fine. So, you’re saying Ryan or Kitty need to tell me instead, right?’
Jen is so annoying when she’s right.
‘Bingo,’ she says in the world’s most patronising voice.
‘Fuck you, Jen,’ I say.
‘Besides, whatever chance I have, as a Dubliner, of the local villagers confiding in me, you have none,’ she says, laughing.
‘I swear, Jen, if you call me a foreigner too…’ I say, my fists bunching. The pills are wearing off and my head starts to thump. ‘And fuck you for not coming for a swim today like you promised,’ I add.
‘Have you seen the weather, Saoirse? It’s pissing it down outside,’ she says.
Then she hangs up.
After I shower and change, I grab my laptop with the false intention of doing some work, even though I know full well that all my fuzzy mind can cope with is vacuous social media. I click into Vale Mums and a new post catches my eye. It’s from Rosalind. She has posted a picture of a child’s arm, which looks to have a mild-looking rash (‘that fails the glass test’) and has asked eight hundred medically unqualified people what they think. I don’t even bother to look at the responses: they are too predictable. Tania and her Organics crew will offer all sorts of ‘advice’ in the form of natural remedies (‘I find soaking a potato in the morning rain and then rubbing it on the rash in an anti-clockwise motion works a treat’) while a more sensible side (albeit few and far between) will encourage her to go to the doctor. I am in the middle of cursing the whole situation when a sudden thought occurs to me. Everything I have written for the pitch so far is about mothers being judged, criticised, and torn down by people like the Organics, but all the while I’m not doing anything to change things, which makes me as bad as they are. So, before I can give it any more thought, I DM Rosalind a quick note introducing myself and asking her if she’d like to go for a coffee sometime.
Then immediately regret it.
Nobody, but nobody, reaches out to a total stranger over Facebook. She’s going to think I am a total weirdo.
Sighing, I get up to look for something fizzy from the fridge, but a loud ping stops me in my tracks. I check my phone and my heart quickens when I see Rosalind’s name flash up. I take a deep breath and steel myself for rejection. But it’s good news. Rosalind says she would love to meet me for a coffee. Hurrah! She asks when and where, and I go to reply, but then I stop myself.
I don’t want to look too keen.
Then I make myself a congratulatory cup of tea and think about how much has happened in less than a week. Not only have I written some material for the pitch, but I have reunited with my best friend from school, made a new mum-friend in Dee, discovered the shocking sensations of sea swimming, connected with another mum and… I push thoughts of Ryan out of m
y head. He was a dick the last time I saw him. So, no, I don’t count him as a friend and decide to completely ignore him if I ever run into him again.
Then I spend the rest of the afternoon dragging myself around the house, tidying up for my mother, who is arriving the following day. To be honest, I am genuinely surprised to see how messy it is. When I walk through the rooms and see them through my mother’s eyes, all my feelings of contentment disappear and I start to freak out. Jesus, how could I have let it get into such a state? The hallway is strewn with a variety of my shoes, jackets and towels from the beach, which I clearly haven’t been arsed to tidy up. Thanks to wearing shoes in the house at all times, the cool marble floors are full of muddy footprints and dry sand. More clothes and towels lie scattered over my bedroom floor. The bathroom is filthy. I spend a good hour wrestling chunks of hair from the shower plug, scrubbing the tiles and bleaching the toilet. The living area is cluttered with post for Bea’s mum or junk mail, which I hastily form into neat piles or chuck in the bin. When I walk into the kitchen, a dark smell assaults my nostrils and I gag when I realise the stench is coming from days’ worth of unwashed plates in the dishwasher. Did I have fish one night? It definitely smells like it. The oven is like something out of a murder scene except instead of blood it’s tomato sauce from all the pizzas I’ve cooked and overturned accidentally during various stages of red wine consumption. I get out the rubber gloves and start scrubbing furiously.
After three hours of cleaning, I am finally satisfied that the house is a decent enough state for my mother. It is almost 9.30 p.m. by the time I finish, and have my dinner (not pizza). I flop down on the couch with a large glass of wine and I wonder for the first time if all this silent revenge stuff on David has possibly backfired a little bit. I mean, maybe it’s not such a bad thing to live in a very clean and tidy house.
On my way to the kitchen for a refill, I take a moment to look out the window to catch the sunset. I shouldn’t be surprised when I see a tall figure standing in my back garden close to the edge of the cliff, but I am. I take a large sip of my wine, place the glass carefully on the kitchen island, and slide open one of the glass doors.
