Painted Faces

by L.H. Cosway

  “So, what did you get from Satan's lay-by this time?” I ask her, as she goes to the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water.

  “I'm roasting,” says Nora, ignoring my question and sitting down on an armchair with the cold bottle pressed to her forehead. She doesn't like me commenting on her penchant for spending what little extra money she has on stupidly expensive items, such as tiny pots of eye shadow from the Mac counter. I know we're twenty five year old women and genetically predisposed to want to spend money on things we don't need, but come on.

  “Yeah well, you're lucky you didn't get caught in the downpour earlier. I was effing soaked,” I tell her crankily.

  “Mm hmm,” she mumbles, fanning herself with the material of her blouse. She picks up her precious bag and peers inside, before pulling out a silky neckerchief looking thing. It's pale blue, reminding me of the colour of Vivica's eyes, or whatever his real name is.

  “So, did you meet our new neighbour Vivica?” I ask her jokingly. The joke goes right over her head though, because her brown eyes dart to me.

  There's something like disappointment in her expression as she sighs and says, “Don't tell me he's got a girlfriend living with him, that will just completely ruin the fantasy I've currently got going on.”

  I'm tempted to torture her and draw the whole thing out, but I like to think I have a kind nature, so I don't. “Nah, at least he never mentioned one. We talked for a minute out in the hallway. I told him everyone calls me Fred and he joked and said I could call him Vivica.”

  Nora eyes me and smirks. “Sounds like you two had quite the cosy little chat.”

  “Yep, that was right before he pushed me up against the wall and took me right out in the open. I was going to tell him that I was a lady and didn't go in for that sort of thing, but my birthday's coming up in a couple of months so I thought I'd allow myself an early present.”

  “Shut up Fred!”

  She throws a cushion at me. I pick it up and throw it right back at her, knocking her sleek ponytail slightly off kilter. I laugh as she scowls and takes great pains to set it back to rights.

  I suppose this is a good time to tell you a little bit about Nora. She is absolutely obsessed with her appearance. Not so much in a vain way, but more in a control freak sort of way. Everything has to be neat as a pin. Just so. Clean as a whistle. She has straight dark brown hair, deep sultry brown eyes and a tan. She's one of those Irish people who have a slight Spanish look to them. Some say that this “look” came about when Spanish ships arrived in Ireland hundreds of years ago and the Spanish began “mating” with the local talent. So historically accurate aren't I? I suppose Nora's great-great-great-great grandfather could have been a Spanish sailor.

  Nora is also one of those stick thin people with an abnormally fast metabolism who could eat a whole buffet table and still not put on a pound. She's around a size eight. If she lived in America she could go around telling people she was a four. Anyway, if Nora's metabolism is an Olympic gold medal runner, mine is one of those slugs that you step on by mistake when it's cold and damp out. We have very different bodies, although the one benefit I get from being a “bigger girl”, as they say, is that I'm not lacking in the chest department.

  I think Nora is secretly pleased that I'm the “fat one”, because it means she tends to get more attention when we go out together. Yes, despite my ample bosom the men always seem to flock to her, however that might have something to do with my more abrasive, shall we say, personality. If a guy came up to Nora in a club and said, “You must be lost honey, because heaven is a long way from here,” she would eat that shit right up. If the same scenario were to occur with me, I'd cock my head to the side, tell the guy to “piss off” and be on my merry way.

  When I look back at her she's still scowling at me for messing up her ponytail. “Just because you can get out of bed and have perfect hair, doesn't mean we all can,” she says in a pissed voice.

  Somebody's having their time of the month, I think. I have curly golden brown hair, and yes, because of the curls I don't ever really attempt to do much about taming it. I take a lackadaisical approach to hair care, and let's just say that I know it drives Nora up the wall.

  I roll my eyes. “Nora, your self-pity monitor is beeping, it's telling me you're feeling sorry for yourself over something trivial and need to get a life.”

  She shakes her head, finally having gotten her ponytail emergency taken care of, and takes a drink out of her water bottle.

  “Anyway,” she says. “Back to the topic of our new neighbour. His name is Nicholas and I asked him to join us for dinner tonight before I go to work, so you need to cook something.”

  “He never mentioned dinner,” I tell her. “Are you sure this didn't happen in one of the many fantasies you've had about him since meeting him earlier today?”

  She lets out a sigh to end all sighs. “Can you refrain from taking the piss for just one minute Fred, please, I'm really not in the mood.”

  “Fine I shall refrain Nora dear. I shall also refrain from cooking you dinner just so that you can impress the man candy next door.”

  Nora had a fancier upbringing than I did. It never fails to amuse me when she comes out with these random posh words. A small smile tilts up the ends of her mouth. I can tell that she doesn't want to be smiling but can't help herself. “All right then, continue being a piss taker, but please just make the dinner, will you?”

  I grin. “I will make the most fabulous dinner you have ever tasted. It's a rare dish, not many have heard of it, sausage a la mash.”

  She throws the cushion at me again and dashes into her bedroom, slamming the door shut before I can return the favour. I roll up my sleeves and go to have a look at what there is to make for dinner. I don't actually intend to make sausage and mash, because we never have guests over and I kind of want to impress this Nicholas character. I bet when he was a teenager he was the one everybody wanted to have as their best friend. As I said, he's sort of magnetic. Or maybe I'm just being a romantic idiot.

  But even if he's well out of my league boyfriend wise, I'd still like to be his friend. I mostly only have two proper friends, Nora and our gay pal, Harry. Yes, we have a gay friend. It makes me feel more normal when I can see that my life is full of stereotypes. If I didn't have such a bad attitude and a habit of swearing I could be a reject from a future chick lit novel written by Bertie Ahern's daughter. After all, I do have the hopeless love life and the low self-esteem.

  Anyway, Harry and I bonded over some apple strudel when we met at The Cake Shop about two years ago, and he's been a regular feature in my life ever since. Like me, Harry is a little on the chubby side, and we tend to get along due to our obsession with fine food.

  As I pull out some ingredients, preparing to make my special spaghetti bolognaise recipe, my thoughts drift to Nicholas. I could become his cool gal pal who he comes to for advice about life and women. He'd talk to me of his current super model girlfriend and how they are having relationship problems. Then he'd rest his head on my lap and I'd brush his black hair for him and tell him how women are complicated creatures and that he needs to give her space and love. I'd come out with sappy little nuggets of wisdom such as, Nicholas, true love is like a flower, it needs care and sustenance in order to grow. It will be cheesy in the most wonderful way. How sad is it that the idea of playing that kind of a role in his life actually excites me?

  I lose myself in the motions of cooking. Yes, not only do I bake, I'm also a dab hand at savoury dishes. In the world that exists inside my own head I am the perfect woman. About an hour later Nora emerges from her room, wearing a tight black dress and blue ballet flats. She also has her reading glasses on, so I can tell she's going for the whole sexy but intelligent look.

  At this current moment in time I have on comfortable jeans and one of those oversized jumpers that are all the rage at the moment, with no plans to go and change. Nora's about an eight or a nine on the much touted scale of attractiveness, which you
come across in films from the good old US of A. She's got a chance of becoming Nicholas' new squeeze.

  I'm a comfortable six, and sometimes I like it that way. It means I don't have to bother trying. The art of laziness is something I perfected many years ago. Often it's nice to just sit back and be a spectator for other people's love lives. I might not have a boyfriend, but I have cupcakes, and those tasty bastards haven't let me down yet.

  All right, so now you're probably wondering about my past loves. Let's just say that they have all gone down like lead balloons. Crashed and burned. No happy ever after endings for me, I'm afraid. I have had a grand total of two boyfriends in my vast twenty-five years. The first lasted six months and was fairly normal; we basically figured out that we just couldn't really stand each other in the end.

  The second, well, he turned out to be quite the psycho kettle of fish. When I told him I wanted to break up with him he stalked me for a whole year. This is the main reason why I don't have any kind of online presence whatsoever. I don't need that piece of work finding me again. I won't go into any more details, because thinking about both of those short relationships tends to give me indigestion.

  Nora says she's going to go and knock next door to see if Nicholas is ready to join us. I wave her off and stir the bolognaise concoction in the pot as it heats over the stove. Not two minutes later the both of them burst into the apartment, having a good old laugh about something. I'm still standing by the cooker, finishing up the spaghetti.

  “Look Fred, Nicholas brought a bottle of wine. Wasn't that nice of him?” says Nora. I glance over my shoulder as she waggles the bottle in her hand and places it on the dinner table.

  “What a treat,” I exclaim with mock excitement. “You're a real prize, Viv. How much did that cost you, 8.99 down in Londis?”

  “Don't be rude, Fred,” Nora scolds. “I need to pop to the loo, you two chat amongst yourselves,” she says, full of contained glee at having a male of the species in the apartment.

  I hate it when people tell you to chat amongst yourselves, because whenever they do I can never think of anything to talk about. So I remain silent and turn back around, focusing intently on the food. A moment later I can feel the heat of Nicholas' body behind mine. He puts both his hands on my hips and rests his head on my shoulder, looking over it at the food.

  “Smells delicious Fred,” he comments, casual as you please. Like this is normal behaviour for us and we barely know each other.

  I stand stock still, my body immobile. Okay, so either he's one of those weird overly familiar guys who touch on people they hardly know, he's gay, or he's actually coming on to me. I'm thinking it's one of the first two.

  “Yep,” I mutter.

  “The wine cost twenty Euros, and I got it from the off licence down the road,” he says.

  “Oh, very la di da Viv, you must be a big spender.”

  He laughs and his breath tickles my neck. “You like calling me Viv, do you?”

  “What can I say, feminine blokes really do it for me,” I reply, trying to keep my cool at his proximity.

  “I can do that, if it's what you're into. In fact, I can be whatever you want me to be. I don't think it is though. I think you're the kind of woman who likes a man to take the lead.” He softly jerks my hips back and presses into me ever so slightly. My eyes go wide. What the fuck is this about?

  I twist around, lifting the spoon I'd been using to stir the bolognaise and pointing it right at him. A speck of tomato sauce splats down onto the floor. “Okay. Listen here, back the hell up or I'll knee you in the balls.”

  He takes a step back, putting his hands in the air in surrender, his face the picture of amusement. “Sorry Freda. I thought you were making all the passive aggressive comments because you were into me.”

  “Yeah well, you thought wrong. Now sit down at the table and make nice before Nora comes back out.” Perhaps we're not going to have such a normal neighbour after all. I'm thinking he might be a sex pest.

  “Yes sir,” he replies, grinning like a fool. He really is far too handsome for his own good. When he pressed into me I felt like I was on fire, in a good way. Although at the same time I wanted to squirm with discomfort. I've never been the “touchy feely” type.

  He keeps on looking at me, holding my gaze. I want to look away but I can't seem to manage it. “What colour are your eyes anyway? They look gold in certain lights,” he says, his voice low and intense.

  I shrug, all bashful. Jesus, one compliment and I've melted into a pool of sweat on the floor. “Hazel I guess.”

  “They're lovely,” he says. “You're lovely.”

  My breathing catches. “Thank you for establishing my loveliness, Viv. Now, do you like garlic? Because there is a lot of garlic in this bolognaise.”

  He smiles, showing me straight white teeth. The kind of teeth you only see on movie stars. “I love it.”

  “Good,” I reply, just as Nora emerges from the bathroom.

  Deciding to take the piss to cover up my embarrassment at Nicholas' compliment, I say, “You might want to crack a window in there Nora, you were in for a while, number two was it?”

  Her face goes bright red. I love embarrassing her. I take back what I said earlier about having a kind nature. I'm a cruel, cruel lady.

  Nicholas' laughter fills the entire room. He looks to Nora. “She's just fabulous, isn't she?” Now that was the statement of a gay man if ever I heard one. It's in contention with the look he gives me, his icy blues eating me up. Good God, can somebody please loan me a burqa?

  “Unfortunately yes,” Nora replies, giving me a harsh look, a look that says shut up and stop embarrassing me in front of my future husband!

  I cut up some foccacia bread and place it in a bowl with little dishes of balsamic vinegar and olive oil, for dipping, because I'm fancy like that. When I put them on the table Nora immediately digs in. Oh no, don't wait for me or anything. After all, I'm only the lowly cook who's facilitating this dinner date for her.

  As I dish up the spag-bol, Nora dives right in with the old predictable questioning. “So Nicholas, what do you do for a living?”

  He takes a piece of bread, dips it in olive oil and shoves it in his mouth. I notice him savour it for just a second and feel proud because I baked the bread myself. I have this weird fascination with watching people derive pleasure from the food I've made.

  “I'm a cabaret performer,” he answers simply, taking both of us by surprise. I would have guessed he worked in business or banking, since he's such a snappy dresser.

  “Oh really,” says Nora. “How interesting, what exactly does that entail?”

  “It's a whole act, a bit of music, a bit of comedy, a bit of interaction with the audience.”

  “Do you sing?” she asks, intrigued.

  “I most certainly do,” he winks at her, just as I place the remainder of the food on the table and sit down. “Wine Fred?” he asks, lifting the bottle and glancing at me.

  “Of course, Viv,” I answer, twirling some spaghetti around my fork.

  His gives me a brilliant smile and pours the liquid into my glass. I take a sip. It's nice, he has good taste.

  “And have you lived in Dublin long?” Nora continues with her interrogation.

  “Just arrived. I've visited a couple of times though, it's a great city. A friend of mine manages a new club here and offered me a regular gig performing, so I jumped at the chance. I've been travelling from country to country for years, going wherever the work took me. But I think I'm ready to settle down somewhere, for a while anyway.”

  “Nora's in the night club business herself,” I put in. “She bar tends, you two will be able to exchange stories about all the drunks.”

  Nicholas looks to Nora. “Oh really, where do you work?”

  “Temple Bar,” she sips delicately on her wine. The delicate part is for Nicholas' benefit. If we were alone she'd be knocking it back like a good thing.

  “Ah. The club I'll be performing in is on Cap
el Street. For a moment there I thought it was fate and we'd be working in the same place,” he says charismatically. Nora goes all goofy eyed. He turns to face me. “So tell me about you Fred, what do you do?”

  Before I can answer Nora butts in, probably wanting his attention back on her. “She's a baker, she makes cupcakes.”

  Nicholas grimaces. “Early mornings, I presume?”

  I nod. “Very early mornings, it's the one flaw in a perfect occupation. I also work in the charity shop down the road. It sells all sorts of clothes and knick knacks.”

  “Two jobs, I'm impressed,” he says, grinning.

  “I'm an industrious young lady.” I quip.

  His eyes zone in on me, some sort of interest lying in their depths. “Oh, I bet you are,” he murmurs, looking at my chest again. I'm half tempted to click my fingers in his face and tell him to look at my eyes, but that would be too cliché, even for me.

  There's quiet for a couple of minutes, as we eat with Nora looking between the two of us suspiciously. She thinks there's something going on that she doesn't know about. There is nothing going on.

  “This is brilliant, you're a great cook,” says Nicholas, breaking the silence. “I haven't had a meal this tasty in a while. Can I take you home and you can cook all of my food for me?” he jokes.

  “Of course you can, just put a cardboard box under the sink and I'll sleep in there.”

  “Nonsense,” Nicholas chides. “You'll share my bed, I wouldn't agree to anything less.”

  “Great, so I can be your cook and your bed warmer, what a convenient set up.”

  Nora laughs nervously, our banter is making her uncomfortable, but I'm the only one who knows her well enough to be able to tell.

  “My thoughts exactly,” Nicholas agrees. “I could fall asleep on those wonderful breasts each night. I couldn't think of anything more relaxing.”