Upside Down Inside Out

by Monica McInerney

  “Hello? Hello?”

  Still no answer, though she could just hear Dermot talking to someone. He seemed to be explaining the features of his new mobile phone. What was it with Dermot and mobiles? she wondered as she waited, not very happily, for him to put the phone back to his ear and actually talk to her. She hated mobiles herself, refused to get one, but Dermot was obsessed with them.

  His latest party trick was guessing what brand a mobile phone was from the ring it made. He’d made a spectacle of himself in a restaurant two weeks previously. “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me,” he’d shouted across to the table beside them, as one of the diners reached for a phone playing a butchered version of “O Sole Mio.” “It’s a Nokia, is it? No? Then definitely a Motorola. Yes!” He’d actually punched the air in victory when the diner had shown him that, yes, it was a Motorola.

  He finally came on the line. “Eva? Are you there?”

  “Well, yes, I thought one of us should be.”

  “Sorry, babe.”

  She winced inwardly. She wished he wouldn’t call her babe. “How are things?”

  “Grand, grand. Except something urgent’s come up at work and I need to see you tonight and talk about it. Can you come and meet me here at Archibald’s?” It was a new wine bar off St. Stephen’s Green. “Tonight? Now?”

  “Hold on a moment.” She turned to her uncle. “Ambrose, do you mind if—”

  Ambrose interrupted. “Off you go, Evie. It’s nearly six anyway. Meg and I will close up shop here.”

  She spoke into the phone again. “That’s grand, Dermot. See you soon.”

  Moments later, she was walking down Camden Street. Pulling her coat in close against the sharp wind, she passed shops she knew like the back of her hand. The tailor, the charity shops, the hardware store, the photo gallery, the pottery shop. The old dark pubs were being joined by bright new bars these days, people spilling in and out of each of them, the air filling with the scent of tobacco and alcohol as she passed doorways, the noise from inside mingling with the traffic sounds.

  She liked walking through the Dublin streets. In the early days she’d driven her battered old car to and from work each day. When she’d worked part-time, it hadn’t been so bad. But when she’d gone full-time, she’d realized it was quicker to walk from one side of Dublin to the other than sit stranded each morning and evening in a traffic jam along the quays, looking down into the murky water of the Liffey.

  Eva waited at the pedestrian lights, wondering again what the urgent work business was that Dermot had mentioned. And why he needed to talk to her about it. She smiled at the irony. Here she was dropping everything to talk to Dermot about his work and she hadn’t told him about Ambrose’s offer yet. She hadn’t told anybody. Not her parents. Not her sister. Not even Lainey.

  It was still early days with Dermot, though, she told herself. They weren’t at the stage where they confided fully in each other, after all.

  Which stage is that? The stage where you like each other? a voice piped up inside her head.

  We like each other, she insisted.

  Do you?

  Did she? She thought about it as she walked on. The awful thing was she really wasn’t too sure anymore. She’d slowly been realizing they didn’t have anything in common. They didn’t read the same books or like the same films. They didn’t even laugh at the same things.

  Perhaps she was just out of practice. Perhaps this was what relationships were like these days. After all, Dermot had broken something of a boyfriend drought. A long drought, in fact. In the past ten years she had gone out with only two other men, neither of whom lasted longer than two months—her decision both times. She was probably expecting too much. There were bound to be some things about Dermot that annoyed her.

  Some things? Everything, more like it.

  They’d met when he started calling into the shop nearly four months previously. She’d noticed him immediately, with his smart suit, groomed hair, quick movements. Like a glossy bird, Eva had thought. Preened and sure of himself. With great charm, he’d insisted she—not Ambrose—serve him, each time he came in. Then, one Friday evening, he’d asked her out for a drink. Very flattered, she’d accepted. Then dinner. Even more flattered, she’d accepted again. And again. They had fallen into a routine almost without her realizing it.

  They usually saw each other during the week. He was too busy showing properties to clients at weekends, he’d explained. They’d meet for dinner, a drink, or a film. They’d kissed, but not a lot. Dermot always called a halt to that side of things too. “Let’s get to know each other first,” he’d always said. Eva hadn’t known whether to be impressed at his self-restraint or disappointed at the lack of passion between them.

  This holiday to New York had been his idea. His cousin had an apartment they’d be able to stay in. “A bedroom each,” he’d said quickly, “plenty of room for us both.”

  “New York? Really? That would be brilliant.” She’d never been to New York. She’d always wanted to go there.

  “You see, I’ve a little proposition I want to put to you while we’re away.” He’d given her a meaningful look.

  Eva’s stomach had flipped in quite an unpleasant way. “Proposition?” she’d repeated, not liking how close the word was to “proposal.” She’d pressed him for details but he wouldn’t elaborate. “No, this is something to discuss when we’re in a nice New York restaurant with a good bottle of wine in front of us, all relaxed.”

  She’d fought back the sudden rush of panic his words had given her. Was he talking about a marriage proposal? After just three months together? She didn’t want to ask him outright in case he wasn’t thinking in that direction at all. She’d be mortified if she’d misunderstood him completely.

  Lainey had been delighted at the idea. “Jaysus!” she’d shrieked down the line from Australia. She might have lost her Irish accent since she and her family had emigrated fifteen years before, but not her vocabulary. “My friend the blushing bride! I can hear the wedding bells from here. I have to be bridesmaid. In pink taffeta. Promise me now, Evie.”

  “Lainey, stop it! I might have it all wrong. I probably have. It’s just he’s been really secretive. Hinting that he wants to ask me something.”

  “Oh, how romantic. But you can’t marry him yet anyway, you know that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I haven’t met him. And you can’t possibly marry someone I haven’t approved. Listen, forget New York, come to Melbourne instead. I’m off to Brisbane for two weeks in April for work—I can check him out and then the two of you can mind my apartment for me.”

  Eva had just laughed at her. Lainey the steamroller. “No, thanks. It’s New York, New York, or nothing, nothing.”

  At the entrance to the wine bar she stopped and thought about it for a moment. Would Lainey approve of Dermot if she met him? And more to the point, would she want Lainey to meet Dermot? After what had happened last time Lainey had met one of her boyfriends? She put the thought out of her head and went inside.

  He was sitting at a corner table, talking on his new phone. It was the latest model, silver-plated. He was very proud of it. As she took off her coat and sat down opposite him, he waved a finger at her, pointing to the phone with his free hand while he continued talking. After a second she saw what he was pointing at—he’d had his name engraved on the silver plating. “Dermot Deegan.” Underneath it, in smaller letters, “Play to Win.” Eva’s heart sank. Motivational slogans were the latest trend in his property office.

  “Hi, Eva,” he greeted her, finally finishing his call.

  “What’ll you have, a G&T? A V&T?”

  “Gin would be great, thanks, Dermot.” She watched as he went up to the bar. He looked especially sleek tonight, she noticed. He was a very good-looking man. Out of her league really. She didn’t normally attract men as successful and handsome as Dermot.

  Beside her a small group of women were talking and giggling. They’d braved the weathe
r in short dresses, showing plenty of skin, their heavy coats a jumble on a chair behind them. One of them had noticed Dermot and was whispering to her friend about him. The friend whispered back, then they both turned and shot a glance at Eva.

  Eva shifted in her seat under their scrutiny, feeling a little dowdy compared to them. Dermot had tried to glam her up on a few occasions, before realizing short glittery dresses and tight-fitting, low-cut tops weren’t her style. She preferred simple clothes, colored T-shirts, little jackets, long skirts, and jeans. She glanced down at her clothes now—the white linen shirt and black skirt that Ambrose liked to see her in behind the counter. Definitely not the pop princess look Dermot favored. Quite ordinary clothes, really.

  That word again.

  Looking around the wine bar, Eva surreptitiously opened the top button on her shirt, hoping that would spice up her look. Oh yes, instant glamour. Not. She was just contemplating opening another button and thrilling the winebar when Dermot came up behind her.

  “One gin and tonic,” he said in a loud voice, putting a fresh drink in his place as well. “So, how was your day?”

  She had just started to tell him about Meg settling in so well when he broke in over her. “Big things afoot in our place, Eva. Charlie in Commercial Property has resigned and you know what that means.”

  She didn’t have a clue. She didn’t even know who Charlie was. Her blank look said as much.

  “A reshuffle. There are places opening upstairs in the next few months and we are all officially Under Scrutiny.”

  She knew he was worked up when he started Speaking In Capitals.

  “Is that good?”

  “It could be huge, babe.”

  She tried to ignore the Americanism.

  He shifted in his seat and gave her an unusual look. She had the same feeling she’d had with Ambrose several nights before. What was this—National Drop a Bombshell Week?

  “Now, Eva, you might have wondered why I suggested we meet for a drink tonight. I mean, it’s not our normal night to meet up, but well, with the situation changing so rapidly at the office, I realized that I had to keep things moving along. I decided there was no point waiting until we were in New York to ask you what I wanted to ask you.”

  Eva went stiff. Oh my God, she thought. Was this the proposal? She wasn’t ready for it. A sudden image sprang into her mind. Lainey standing beside her, dressed in a pink taffeta bridesmaid dress.

  Dermot seemed uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He adjusted his tie, gave a little cough, even cast a glance at the mirror behind her to make sure he looked the part. There was another short pause while he took a sip of his pint, then he leaned in close toward her. “You see, Eva, I’ve heard a few whispers that your uncle might be thinking about retiring.”

  Eva’s head shot up. How did he know that? Had he bugged her? Her thoughts raced. Surely Ambrose hadn’t spoken to Dermot about this already? But no, of course he wouldn’t have. In any case, what would Ambrose’s retirement have to do with them getting married? Did Dermot want to work in the shop with her, after their wedding? She couldn’t imagine that. She decided to say nothing, hoping she hadn’t given anything away.

  “As you know, Eva, property prices in this part of Dublin, Camden Street in particular, have been rising substantially in the past few years. Above all expectations, in fact. And all the signs are that the economy will continue to boom.”

  Eva couldn’t believe her ears. He was prefacing his marriage proposal with an economics lecture? In her mind’s eye, Lainey-in-pink-taffeta started to make loud snoring noises.

  “It’s those indicators that have brought me to the point of our meeting here tonight.”

  Eva was transfixed. This was his marriage proposal? And if she said yes, was this really the sort of romantic story she would relish telling her children and grandchildren about in the years to come? Well, the way it happened was Dermot rang me up unexpectedly at work a week before we were due to go on holiday to New York, which was where I’d thought he was going to propose. And we met in a fashionable new bar and first he gave me a very fascinating lecture about rising property values in Dublin and then he said to me—

  “Eva, would you ask your uncle if I can handle the sale of his shop?” Dermot’s voice rang out loud and clear through the wine bar noise.

  Eva sat very, very still. Lainey-in-pink-taffeta disappeared with a pop. “I beg your pardon?”

  Dermot pasted a rehearsed engaging smile onto his face and leaned closer toward her. “Evie—”

  “Eva. Ev-a,” she said, her voice dangerously low. Only a few special people were allowed to call her Evie.

  “Ev-a.” That smile again. “Ambrose is due to retire, surely? What is he, sixty-five? Seventy? I mean, I’ve been keeping an eye on him for months now, before you and I, um, got together, and I’ve thought he’s got to be thinking about retiring soon, and selling up. I mean, now is the right time, property prices are so high along Camden Street. Ambrose needs to seize the day.” He thumped his fist on the table with such force that their drinks and his mobile phone jumped.

  Eva watched in a strangely detached way as her gin and tonic rippled then settled in its glass. She felt as though nine or ten layers of gauze had just been ripped, forcibly, from in front of her eyes. She spoke carefully, the words slowly forming themselves in her head. “So is that what all of this has been about, Dermot?”

  “What?”

  “You calling into the shop. Talking to Ambrose. Paying me attention. Asking me out. The trip to New York. You’ve been going out with me to get to my uncle, haven’t you? To try and get the commission on the sale of my uncle’s shop?”

  Dermot was immediately defensive. “Of course that wasn’t all it was. You’re a nice-looking woman, Eva. Um, lovely smile. I’m sure plenty of your customers ask you out—”

  Nice-looking? Nice-looking? Nuns were nice-looking. It was her turn to talk over him. “How could I have been so stupid? This wasn’t about me at all, was it? You weren’t going out with me, Eva Kennedy. You were going out with Ambrose Kennedy’s niece, whoever or whatever she happened to be, weren’t you?”

  She stopped short, feeling sick to her stomach. He wasn’t denying a thing. Not any of it. He was just looking at her as though he was glad it was all out in the open and, now that it was, could she please ask her uncle if he could handle the sale? All sorts of things fell into place. Why he hadn’t seemed interested in her—in her mind, her thoughts, her body. Why he’d allocated her specific times. She’d been just a project to him. Then she had another awful thought.

  “Are you married, Dermot?”

  “No!” he said quickly. But she noticed he seemed uncomfortable.

  She knew without doubt that there was someone else. She stared at him in complete amazement. In a kind of wonder, even. “How long did you expect it to take, Dermot? What was supposed to happen? That I’d be so flattered by your attention I’d get Ambrose to roll over and agree too?”

  He said nothing. Again, there was no shame on his face. Just expectation.

  Her temper rose like a geyser. “You bastard, Dermot. You two-faced, deceitful bastard.”

  The customers at the surrounding tables spun around at the sound of that. Eva noticed but didn’t care. Let them listen. Let them hear what a creep Dermot had turned out to be. She stared at him, eyes blazing.

  To her astonishment, Dermot rounded on her instead. “Well, it hasn’t exactly been a day at the beach going out with you either, do you know that?”

  The other customers were making no bones about eavesdropping now. One of them turned his chair around for a better view.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Well, look at yourself. At least I’m actually doing something with my life, making something of myself. Not like you. You’re just drifting along, not making anything happen. Three years at art school, but what have you done with it? Nothing. You talk about the singing you used to do, how you’re an artist at heart, but I’ve
known you for three months and you haven’t so much as lifted a paintbrush or sung a note. Face facts, Eva, you’re not creative. You’re just…”

  The whole wine bar waited.

  “A shop assistant,” he finished.

  Eva felt as though she was outside of herself watching all this happen. As though she was in a play or an opera. She half expected the diners behind her to burst into song.

  A shop assistant!

  A shop assistant!

  He says she’s just—

  [Gasp] A shop assistant!

  Eva could hardly find her breath. How dare he? How dare he talk to her like that? Hands trembling, heart thumping, she summoned every scrap of pride, stood, and picked up her bag. There was nothing else to say. Feeling like a robot, she climbed the steps to the front door, opened it and started walking as quickly as she could.

  Then, just a few steps along the footpath, she realized she did have something else to say. So she turned around and came back.

  The other customers shifted expectantly in their seats. “Excellent,” one of them said to her friend. “Round two.” They settled back to listen.

  Eva walked up to Dermot’s table and stood right in front of him. She could feel her cheeks burning in anger and embarrassment. This time he had the grace to look uncomfortable.

  “One last thing, Dermot. You can forget about the shop. My uncle isn’t selling it.” Because he wants to give it to me, she was about to add.

  But Dermot interrupted her. “Oh well,” he shrugged. “There’ll be others.”

  Somehow that hurt more than anything he’d said before. Standing looking at him, she thought of his deceit, his imagey ways, his American slang. All the things that had annoyed her rushed at her memory.

  At that moment his mobile phone started to ring, playing a very loud tune. The sound reminded her of one of his particularly annoying habits. Moving quickly, she picked up the ringing phone, silver-plating and all, and upended it into his pint glass. The dark liquid gurgled and slopped around it.