Love

by Roddy Doyle

  —Okay.

  —I love her. The fuckin’ ground she walks on.

  —Okay, I said. —I hear you. But when you followed her up to bed. After The Affair and the phone call.

  —Davy, he said. —This isn’t about sex.

  —You had sex with Trish.

  —Yes.

  —You’d just spoken on the phone with Jessica.

  —Yes.

  —You brought that upstairs with you. You must have, surely.

  —Okay, he said. —Yes.

  —And this isn’t about sex – you said.

  —Now, he said. —Now it isn’t. Now. It’s misleading.

  —Well, I’m feeling misled.

  —We’re jumping the gun, he said. —That’s the problem. It’s my fault, I think. So – being blunt. I had sex with Trish that night.

  —But you were thinking about Jessica.

  —No, he said. —No. Honestly, though – a bit. But Trish is Trish. Trish –. I’m not going into detail – it’d be wrong.

  —Yes.

  —I’ll just say. Actually – two things. I’ll say two things. One is that, with Trish. There was only the two of us in the bed – really. Okay? And the other thing is, and I only thought of this later. I think she knew.

  —Trish knew?

  —I think so, he said. —I think she did.

  I watched him. He was looking at a corner of the room, above me, to my left. Then he looked at me.

  —It was like she was doing her driving test, he said.

  He burst out laughing. He did – the noise charged out of him. A woman sitting near the front, at a window, turned and looked our way, squinted at Joe’s back, then turned back to her plate. It was the first time we’d been loud. I was laughing too.

  —Sorry, said Joe. —Fuck – that sounds terrible. But it came into my head. Remember when you were doing your test and you were told – well, I was, anyway. By my da. Not just to remember to look in the rear mirror and the side mirrors but to make sure the inspector saw you doing it. The inspector or the instructor or whatever his job description is. Make sure he saw you doing all the correct things.

  I was still laughing.

  —Well, Trish was doing her driving test that night, he said. —If she heard me, Davy – fuckin’ hell. I can hear her. At least I fuckin’ passed it. But anyway – yeah. I think she knew. At some level she knew. And now that I think of it, I was probably the one who was doing the test. And Trish was the inspector.

  —Did you pass?

  —Probably not. No.

  * * *

  —

  —She’ll have to go to the jacks, said Joe. —And this is fuckin’ Thermopylae.

  We were sitting right at the doors, down to the Gents and up to the Ladies.

  —She’s drinkin’ pints, he said.

  —Harp.

  —She’ll have to pass this way.

  And she did. Jessica, or the woman – the girl – I know was called Jessica. Her hair passed us. And her back. And we saw her legs for a second from the knees down, her jeans, as she went up the stairs.

  I waited for Joe. He didn’t let me down.

  —God, Davy, I wish I was a toilet seat.

  —Tha’ particular toilet seat.

  —Yeah – Christ. Only tha’ one. Or the jacks itself, I’d prefer tha’. The fuckin’ flush – the whole shebang.

  —I’m not so sure.

  —I fuckin’ am, he said. —She’ll be done by now.

  —Washin’ the hands.

  —Always, he said. —Here we go, she’s comin’ back.

  Even when the place was full, you could hear the feet, you could feel them, on the stairs as the women came down from the loo. But never going up – a different journey, a different kind of weight. We heard her, then saw her feet, her legs, and we turned away just as she got to the foot of the stairs and opened the door, back in.

  At least, I turned away. Joe didn’t.

  —She smiled at me, he said, and we watched the back of her head as she pushed her way – and she did push; I remember that – back to her friends at the front of the shop.

  —Did she?

  —Yeah.

  —Have you witnesses?

  —Myself, he said. —An’ her.

  —That’s not enough, I said.

  —It fuckin’ is.

  * * *

  —

  —Did you phone her back? I asked him.

  —She phoned me, he said.

  —Before you did.

  —Yeah.

  —I mean the second time, I said. —The day after.

  —I know, he said. —No, I was going to but then I wondered about it, you know. What was I letting myself in for. I wasn’t sure if –. I was perfectly happy, Davy, you know. That’s true – really. I don’t know –. I kind of decided. I’d wait till lunch time, or whatever. I’d wait.

  —Put it off.

  —Or forget about it – yeah. But –.

  He sat back, then sat back up. He put his elbows on the table. He looked down as he did it, made sure he was well clear of his plate.

  —I love her, he said. —I always loved her.

  —What?

  I waited for him to grin, become Joe.

  —I loved her, he said.

  He nodded, slightly. He was listening to himself, and answering himself.

  —Yeah, he said. —So –

  —Sorry, Joe, I said. —I’m being stupid here. You loved who?

  He looked at me.

  —Jessica, he said.

  He looked around, like he was looking for a waiter; he wanted to get the bill and go. But he didn’t. He settled down again, looked back at me.

  —It sounds mad. I know.

  He was still listening, talking to himself.

  The waiter was beside the table.

  —More beers, gentlemen?

  —Yes, please, I said. —Thanks.

  —It’s true, said Joe.

  He was looking at me again. He sounded different, more convinced. Less pale. I didn’t want to say anything now. I didn’t know why I’d let the waiter go off for the beers. I wanted to go. Back to my father. Back to something I understood. I half hoped I’d feel the phone in my pocket, a text or a call. But I couldn’t resist.

  —How can you say that? I asked him.

  —What?

  —You loved her.

  —Because it’s true, he said.

  —For fuck sake, Joe, I said. —Thirty years. Thirty-five years – no, thirty-six.

  —Asbestos can incubate for forty years, he said.

  —Sorry?

  —Inhale asbestos, he said. —It can still get you forty years later. It happened a friend of mine – you didn’t know him. Jim Cahill – a carpenter.

  —Are you saying she’s asbestos?

  I was hoping he’d sit up and glare at me, laugh, hit me or the table.

  —No, he said. —I’m only saying.

  —What? I said.

  I was furious now. I wasn’t sure why. What he was saying was ridiculous. That was fine; I don’t think I minded that. But he expected me to follow him, to nod and believe. So I kept going. My own elbows were on the table.

  —You’re saying – what? Your love was incubating? Fuckin’ hibernating, in your fuckin’ heart? Is it a song? My love is incubating.

  The waiter arrived back and put the bottles on the table, picked them up again one at a time, took the tops off them, and put them back down. He picked up my glass.

  —That’s grand, I said. —Thanks. We’ll pour them ourselves.

  —No better men, said the waiter.

  He smiled and was gone.

  —Go on, I said to Joe.

  —You go on, he said.
r />   —Well, I said. —This. You see the woman for the first time in – we’ll say thirty-five years.

  —It’s thirty-seven years.

  —Grand, I said. —And you can’t remember her name. You might not ever have known her name.

  —I did.

  —Okay, I said. —And – it’s not that you fell for her. I could understand that. Not that it matters if I understand anything. But I’d understand it. She’s well-preserved. The ageing beauty – and she sails down the corridor at you. You’re feeling low, unloved.

  He was looking straight back at me. He nodded slightly.

  —Redundant, I said.

  —Are you? he said. —Do you feel redundant?

  —God, yeah, I said. —So. Yeah. I can imagine being excited. And a bit smitten. There’s nothing in me that wouldn’t understand that. If it was me. If she asked me for my number or whatever. If she kissed me and stayed close to me, so I’d feel her breath on my face. I’d go home imagining being with the younger version, half hoping she’ll phone me. Half hoping she won’t. And seriously – Joe. Joe. I can imagine phoning her back and falling in love. If I saw her doing the same. Or I thought I did. Falling for me – even enjoying my company. If we met for lunch or a drink and the chat wasn’t too awkward. It would be great, I’d say. Brilliant. The same age, like. None of the guilt – calculating that she’s nearer your daughter’s age than your own. You’d have plenty to talk about. Especially if the years have been kind to her. She’d be a bit of an upgrade – I don’t know.

  I’d run out of words; I didn’t want to be crude. A bit of an upgrade. I wished I hadn’t said it. His expression hadn’t changed. He looked like a man who was interested in what he was hearing.

  —But, I said. —Saying you’ve always loved her. That I don’t get. I don’t understand it. Sorry.

  I poured the beer into my glass.

  —That living a lie thing, I said.

  —What?

  —All these years I’ve been living a lie.

  —Did I say that?

  —No.

  —Did I suggest it?

  —Yeah.

  —How?

  —Of course you did.

  —How?

  —You said it there. You always loved her.

  —I did.

  —But you hadn’t seen the girl for most of your life. I could feel myself wanting to shake, wanting to get up and go, or just move.

  —It’s like what I said about it incubating, he said.

  —That’s fuckin’ idiotic.

  —Fuck you, Davy.

  —You can’t take asbestos – or anything else, right. And compare it to human emotion, and expect to go unchallenged. No fuckin’ way, Joe. The argument, if it’s even an argument, has no validity at all. It explains absolutely nothing – sorry.

  —Okay.

  He shrugged.

  —Maybe that’s the problem with honesty.

  —What?

  —No one really believes it, he said.

  —Jesus, Joe.

  I’d give it another five minutes.

  —What’s happened to you? I asked him.

  —Nothing.

  —Joe.

  —Nothing, he said again. —A lot – obviously. If you look at it one way. My life has changed completely. Fuckin’ completely – Jesus, Davy.

  He picked up his bottle.

  —But I’m still the same, he said. —Same man.

  —You’re not.

  —Oh, I am.

  —Okay.

  I watched him fill his glass. It was easier than watching him.

  —But, I said. —Tell me.

  —What?

  —Your amnesia theory.

  —It beats the asbestos theory, he said. —Or, so it seems.

  He smiled. He was going to laugh; I hoped he was. He’d been having me on. He’d met a good-looking woman. They’d been having a fling. It had gone past that, too far. He was a fuckin’ eejit – it would be a boast. He was where he was. For fuck sake.

  I decided to give him a nudge.

  —What’s the sex like? I asked.

  —There isn’t any.

  He smiled again. He should have shrugged. But he didn’t.

  —I told you already, he said.

  —You didn’t. When?

  —I told you it wasn’t about sex, he said. —Will we stay here or move on?

  —We can finish these first, I said.

  I held up my glass.

  —Okay, he said. —Grand.

  I wasn’t a drinker. I dreaded having to drink two or three pints. I’d tell him I had to get back to my father. It wouldn’t be a lie.

  —You met her, I said.

  It seemed like days since this had started.

  —Yeah, he said. —So, anyway, she phoned me. Again, like. The day after.

  —Where were you?

  —The toilet, he said. —In work. I swear to God, the glamour. I was washing my hands, drying them. A Dyson, or one of those jet engine ones.

  —Give me a towel any day.

  —Or the sides of my trousers, yeah. Anyway. I felt the phone in my pocket, just in time. I nearly dropped it.

  —You knew it was her.

  —No – yeah. No. It could have been anyone – any one of dozens of people. I’ve got the thing stuck to the side of my head half the day. And non-stop in the car.

  —You’d said you’d phone her back.

  —What?

  —The night before, I said. —When she phoned you the first time. When you were watching The Affair. You told me you told her you’d phone her in the morning. You showed Trish your phone. George.

  —Yeah.

  —But you didn’t.

  —Because she phoned me first, he said. —Are you trying to catch me out here?

  —No.

  —Okay, he said. —But I told you already. Like – I had serious fuckin’ misgivings, Davy. I told you.

  —Did it not worry you? I asked him.

  —What?

  —That she phoned you again, I said. —That she couldn’t wait.

  —Are you serious?

  His face was back; he was Joe again.

  —When was the last time you felt that a woman couldn’t wait to meet you? he asked. —Never mind everything else? When?

  —Never, I said. —If I’m being honest.

  I wasn’t. Being honest.

  My wife decided I was going to be her husband three minutes after she met me. Or so she’s always said.

  * * *

  —

  She was someone’s daughter, some old friend of my girlfriend’s mother. We were sitting beside each other at a wedding. At my girlfriend’s brother’s wedding. The friend, the mother’s old friend, had recently died.

  —I’m sorry.

  —Ah, thanks.

  —It’s hard, I said.

  I was about to tell her that my own mother was dead.

  —Oh, good, she said. —Let’s see if we can keep it that way.

  She looked up from her prawn cocktail. She stared at me, and smiled, and changed her fork from her right to her left hand, and put her hand right under the table, on my leg. She walked her fingers backwards, up my thigh, and she leaned out, in front of me, against me, so she could chat to my girlfriend.

  —You’ve a fab boyfriend here, Cathy, so you do.

  —You watch yourself now, said Cathy.

  She said it cheerfully, for the table. But she didn’t like Faye. That was very clear.

  —Don’t worry, said Faye. —I’m only here for the grub, so I am.

  She patted my leg goodbye and put her fork back in her right hand.

  —First time I’ve ever eaten these yokes, she said.

 
—Prawns?

  —Yeah.

  —D’you like them?

  —They’ll do, she said. —I like the pink stuff. The sauce, like.

  I watched her eat.

  * * *

  —

  —Actually, I said. —Now that I think of it. Faye.

  I gave Joe time to remember that Faye was my wife.

  —What?

  —She was all over me, I told him. —When we met each other the first time.

  He smiled.

  I wanted to talk to him for a change, and not have to listen. I wanted to entertain him.

  —She terrified me, I said.

  He laughed.

  —It was at a wedding, I said. —Do you remember Cathy?

  —No, he said. —Do I?

  —We went with each other for a while.

  —Hang on, he said. —The garda.

  —That’s right.

  —She was nice.

  —Yeah, she was, I said. —I really liked her.

  —What happened?

  —Well, I said. —Faye.

  —Do I know this? he asked. —Did you tell me before?

  —Don’t think so, I said. —I don’t think I’d have been able to tell anyone back then.

  —Great, he said.

  —It was too fuckin’ –.

  —Embarrassing.

  —No, I said. —Unimaginable.

  —Great – go on.

  He was glad we’d swapped places, and so was I. And I told him about the wedding, why I was there, why Faye was there, what she’d said when I started to offer my condolences.

  —She said that?

  —Yeah.

  —With Cathy right beside you?

  —The other side of me, yeah.

  —And did you? he asked.

  —What?

  —Stay hard.

  —More or less, I said.

  It wasn’t right, what I was doing. I knew it, and felt it. It was crude and possibly cruel. And treacherous. But I knew this too: I wanted to hear myself talking about Faye. I wanted Joe to witness her. I was tired of his no-sex fling.

  —Love at first sight, said Joe. —Jesus.

  —I didn’t even have to see her, I said.

  That was true, somehow. The day after the wedding I couldn’t have described her. I could have recited every word she’d said but I didn’t know what colour her hair was, or her eyes. She overpowered me.