Amy Cole has lost her mind: The perfect laugh out loud, feel-good comedy (The Amy Cole series Book 1)

by Elizabeth McGivern

  Mum’s birthday dinner, I’d completely forgotten.

  “By the look on your face, I'm going to assume you forgot about tonight, even though we were talking about it at breakfast.

  “You were to head out and get the present with the boys, remember?”

  “It may have slipped my mind. Can I play the ‘I’m still depressed’ card?”

  “Meh, maybe, she’s not my mother. Look, it’s fine we’ll get this dinner over us and say the present is ‘on its way’.”

  “I like that, that way I’m not committing to anything it’s just ‘on its way’. Could be a new top, could be a llama, who knows?”

  “Please don’t get her a llama.”

  Chapter 32

  We were the last to arrive at the Italian restaurant. We were meeting my parents with their closest friends, the McDonnells, and they all resented the fact we had to go for dinner this early to accommodate the kids.

  That level of resentment is always nice to start the evening off with. My mother hadn’t completely put her wall back up since I managed to get out of bed again and rejoin the real world, but she wasn’t suddenly a cuddly person either.

  “Where have you been? What are you wearing? You could have got Olive to do your hair” she asked.

  “Happy birthday, mother,” I replied, as I kissed her on the cheek. “I’m absolutely famished, what looks good?”

  “Nothing, we’re stuck with the early bird menu like a group of pensioners,” huffed Dad.

  “You are a group of pensioners, Dad, now suck it up and pick something that won’t irritate your dentures.”

  “You cheeky mare, these are all still my real teeth!”

  “Now that my daughter has finally graced us with her presence, how about the presents,” suggested Mum, gleefully.

  For all her gruffness she really was still a child at heart. When it came to her birthday she still wanted to be the centre of attention and God help my father if he didn’t make her feel as if she was the most important woman in the world for the entire day.

  I remember, one year, he suggested we do a ‘low key’ affair so she didn’t speak to him for a week. I believe that was the year he bought her an eternity ring after day six of the silent treatment.

  The McDonnell’s were first:

  “Oh, Deirdre! How thoughtful! A spa day is just what I need. I’m an unpaid child-minder these days with Amy taking liberties so this will be just perfect for ‘me time’.”

  Bloody, Deirdre.

  She looked expectantly towards me, so I invited the boys to hand over the cards they both made for her before we left. She did the obligatory proud granny routine and made a fuss of what ‘talented’ grandsons she had, but she was still expecting her ‘real’ gift.

  “And what did my daughter bring?” she asked.

  “Well, Mum, I wanted to get you something really special. Like really special, and I think I’ve finally got it,” I said.

  “By all means, don’t keep me in suspense, Amy?”

  “It’s on the way.”

  “On the way?”

  “Yep, it should be here any minute, actually.”

  Ben looked at me completely flabbergasted at the fact I could mess up a simple lie like this.

  “What Amy means is that it’s not on the way this evening, but it should definitely arrive by tomorrow, sorry for the delay, Eloise.”

  “Well, Amy? Which is it? Is it arriving any second or is it coming tomorrow?”

  When I looked into her sad eyes I knew I couldn’t let her down; after all, she’d been so nice and I did owe her one for giving birth to me.

  “It’s arriving at any minute, Mum,” I lied, “I’m just going to go check and see where it is. Excuse me, I just need to make a call.”

  I left the table and went outside, scanning the deep recesses of my mind to find some sort of miracle.

  What does Eloise Galbraith like?

  Italian food.

  Opera.

  Leaving passive aggressive reviews on the Internet

  Painting? No, that’s Dad.

  Crap.

  Well, we're eating in an Italian restaurant so that’s out. That leaves me with opera. What in the hell am I going to do with that?

  As a car drove by, the passenger sang out the window towards me. It was a rubbish novelty song and when that didn’t change my expression he shouted: “Smile, love!”

  I responded in kind by giving him the finger.

  It was in that second I had a flash of inspiration. I just needed a singer. They could show up and do one of those impromptu serenades, like the fake waiters you see at weddings.

  How can I possibly get someone here to sort this?

  I scrolled through my address book, in the hope that I had some random part-time opera singer’s number I had forgotten about. By the time I got to ‘M’, without being any closer to my goal, I could feel sweat dripping down my back. I decided that I should just phone the next person I got to and see what they can come up with, they couldn’t be any more clueless than I was.

  It rang four times but there was no answer. I was about to give up when they eventually picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Michael! Thank goodness you picked up!”

  “Amy? What’s wrong? Is the café on fire?”

  Perhaps I should have started with a less melodramatic opening.

  “Nothing like that, I need your help,” I said.

  “Of course, what can I do?”

  I explained my predicament and instead of being completely outraged at my poor organisational skills as a daughter, he said he may be able to help.

  “I knew I could count on you. You have such a huge family, I figured there was bound to be an authentic Italian opera singer in your hive somewhere.”

  “Amy, you know I’m not Italian, right? Have you thought that this whole time? That’s very racist.”

  Abort! Abort!

  “No, I haven’t always thought that. Sometimes I think you’re from the Middle East or Cork.”

  What part of your brain thought that would sound less racist?

  “I am Colombian, Amy. Joseph and his family are also Colombian.

  “I’m sorry, Michael. Really I am, I just need some help.”

  “I have a cousin called Pablo, he’s a performer… of sorts.”

  “Of sorts?”

  “Well he doesn’t do opera but he puts on a show and he can do that to some opera music if you like?”

  “Like a mime?”

  “He mimes in parts. Look, do you want me to phone him or not?”

  I was desperate, and if a Colombian mime artist was all I could manage at this stage, a Colombian mime artist was what my mother was getting.

  “Yes! He’s got an hour to get to the Italian restaurant on Leslie Square, and tell him to look a little Italian.”

  “Again, racist.”

  I hung up the phone and turned to find Ben running out the door towards me.

  “I came to find out the progress on the present that doesn’t exist?”

  “I have it all in hand. I have an authentic Colombian mime artist coming to perform an interpretive routine for my very cultured mother. Trust me, she’ll love it and definitely won’t be expecting it.”

  We rejoined our table and ordered the food. I received a text from Michael letting me know my performer was en route. The waitress had arrived to take our dessert order when I looked round to see my present.

  I walked over to find him speaking with the manager and handing him an iPod.

  “Amy?”

  “Pablo?”

  “Yep, that's me. Just sorting out my signal for my music. I got some real classical shit on this that I know you’re gonna like.”

  “Out of curiosity, do you get a good reception to the routine? I never realised that it was still as popular.”

  “Oh yeah, I mean I’m out most weekends doing this. First time here though – you cool with this, man?”

  The manager was
beginning to look a bit concerned with this artist and his iPod.

  “I’m just going to do a quick change and then I’ll give you the thumbs up to start the music,” he said, to the reluctant-looking Italian.

  Just as he was about to leave, I managed to remember one important deal breaker: “No clown makeup, she’s terrified of clowns.”

  Dodged a bullet there, that could have been a complete disaster.

  I reassured the manager that it would be a quick routine and wouldn’t disrupt the other diners.

  How disruptive could mime be anyway?

  I rejoined the table and cleared my throat.

  “So, Mum. The time has arrived for your very special birthday gift,” I smiled. The next part would need to take some creative embellishment and a hope that her memory was faltering in her old age.

  “I decided this gift would be appropriate because of the days we would spend, walking on the pier together, and seeing acts like this.

  “I remember feeling so happy because it was graceful, artistic and rather poetic. All these qualities I see in you. With that in mind, I’ve invited this performer to express just how much you mean to me.

  “I love you.”

  It worked. There were definite tears in her eyes and I was confident that I had trumped Deirdre and her stupid, spa day.

  I saw Pablo give the thumbs up to the manager and settled on my seat to watch his performance.

  Alarm bells started to ring when I realised that Pablo's definition of ‘classical music’ was, in fact, New Order's, Blue Monday. I closed my eyes and hoped that when I opened them again I wasn’t faced with the horrifying realisation that I had, in fact, hired my mother a stripper.

  I opened my eyes to be greeted by a leather-clad Colombian gyrating in front of a very shocked looking Deirdre.

  “Now, let’s really get this party started,” he purred. “Which one of you fine women is the birthday girl.”

  With a dead-pan expression, my mother raised her hand and waited for the horror to continue.

  In his defence, he did mime – unfortunately, it was a sex act.

  We all sat there, stunned, as he mimed cunnilingus on my seventy-year-old mother, at the table, in front of a room of strangers and my two small children.

  It was the longest three minutes of my life but Pablo seemed to be getting into it. He was really working the crowd trying to get them to clap their hands to the beat and chant ‘take them off’.

  He was one large tug away from completely naked when the manager had the sense to intervene.

  There was a collective moan of disappointment from a table at the back. Pablo was handed the clothes he’d already discarded and pushed into the bathroom.

  I didn’t know who to look at first.

  The McDonnells’ were in a state of shock, Ben looked purple with embarrassment and the children were in kinks of laughter.

  My father had his head in his hands, hoping that he was going to wake up from this nightmare at any second, and lastly: my mother. She glared at me. I don’t think I’d ever seen a woman look madder. I didn't know what to do, so I just smiled.

  “Do you think that was funny?” she raged.

  “I thought he was rather good,” offered Deirdre.

  “Thank you, Deirdre; so did I,” I replied.

  That seemed to anger her more.

  The fury was momentarily paused as the waitress brought down the birthday cake to the table.

  We then all had to sing a very miserable rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’.

  There was no conversation over the subsequent cake eating. We all ate our chocolate sponge in silence and in an attempt to fix the situation I said: “We haven’t seen Dad’s present yet.”

  “That’s right, James. Hand it over.”

  “It’s at home,” he murmured.

  “No it’s not, it’s right there, Granddad,” said Adam, who looked very pleased with himself.

  “I’d rather do this in private,” he pleaded.

  “Nonsense, if you thought that then why on earth did you bring it with you?”

  “That was before Amy’s ‘gift’.”

  It took a second for the penny to drop.

  The fool had gone and had the painting completed.

  If she opened it now her reputation as a sex-mad pensioner would be solidified.

  “I think Dad is right, maybe you should leave it for home,” I said.

  “I think you’ve done enough, Amy,” she growled.

  Sorry, Dad, you're on your own.

  We all watched helplessly as my parents started to wrestle with each other, both attempting to grapple the present out of each other’s hands.

  “For goodness sake, James what has got into you?”

  She finally managed to wriggle it out of his grip and tore at the paper greedily. Her change of expression was instantaneous. It evolved from delight at winning her prize to sheer shock when she realised she was faced with my father, in all his naked glory, in watercolour form.

  “What?” was all she could manage.

  “To explain: I decided to get something a bit unique this year and I thought getting something real classy, like this, would be a great idea.

  “I’m sorry, love. I didn’t realise Amy would be turning your birthday into some sort of sex party and now my present seems a bit… seedy.”

  Deirdre was rummaging through her handbag for her glasses to see what she was missing but was thwarted by her husband who just gave her a firm ‘no’ through gritted teeth.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she eventually said. “I love it.”

  No one was expecting that reaction, but the relief around the table was palpable.

  “It’s a real work of art,” she beamed.

  She proudly passed it around the table for everyone to have a look.

  I decided to bypass my turn, as I’d seen the live act, far too recently for my liking. Ben nudged me to look but I refused.

  “Not the picture, the signature at the bottom,” he said.

  It was Elle’s. She’d done the painting for my father and it was beautiful. The gesture – even if it meant nothing to her – meant a lot to me.

  She had made my parents, and I, very happy.

  I never thought a naked painting of my father would have the potential to do that.

  That may be something I should bring up in therapy.

  The dinner finished up without any more drama. Mum was so happy with her painting she even managed to stop glaring at me long enough to give me a hug.

  As we were leaving, I caught a glimpse of the manager sitting at the bar with Pablo. He was talking animatedly and gesturing as he spoke. I assumed he was regaling him with tales of his wilder nights as a ‘mime’.

  I wasn’t going to disturb them and decided I would get in touch with Michael in order to arrange payment for the worst birthday present ever.

  I was lost in my own thoughts on the way home when Ben interrupted my stream.

  “Are you going to call her?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “You know who – Elle. Maybe it’s time you reached out, she might need you.”

  I knew he was right, but I still wasn’t sure if my pride had healed enough to face her.

  “Perhaps. I’ll see how I feel tomorrow.”

  “Have you given any more thought to the therapist I showed you?”

  “The one that looks like a member of the Weasley family?”

  “Yes, he comes very highly recommended and I think that if I don’t press you on this, you’re never going to decide on anyone.”

  “Ok, I’ll meet him.”

  The look of shock on Ben's face was a picture and I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Sometimes, dearest, I’ve been known to be rather reasonable. I may even let you spoon me tonight.”

  “Hear that, boys? Daddy’s on a promise.”

  “Really not appropriate.”

  “What? I’m not the one who paid a man to pretend to hu
mp my mother at the dinner table.”

  “Neither did I!” I protested. “I haven’t paid him yet.”

  Chapter 33

  I waited in the hallway for Ben to arrive and take me to my first therapy session with Dr Jeremy Kelly. It had been a week since the birthday dinner and I had run out of excuses not to go and meet with him. I knew he was going to force me to confront my demons in some horrific, sadistic way like… talking.

  The horror.

  The kids were with my parents, who had finally relented and decided to laugh at the stripper incident. However, I suspected, my mother would be expecting a cruise as next year’s present from me.

  I saw a silhouette approaching the door and decided to grab the Batman mask sitting at the door to surprise Ben. I squeezed my face into the tiny mask and opened the door, jumping out from behind it as I did.

  It wasn’t Ben standing there with a look of shock, it was Elle.

  I pulled the mask off my face and looked at her completely agape. I couldn't believe she was really here and smiling nervously on my doorstep. I pulled her into the biggest bear hug I could manage and refused to let her go, even though I could hear a moan as the oxygen was pressed out of her.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Let… go… Amy,” she wheezed.

  “Oh, sorry. There, breathe. Now, what are you doing here?” I asked again.

  “Ben called, said you might need a lift and some moral support for your first therapy session. Thought I could ask you about getting my job back as your sarcastic chauffeur.”

  My smile was so big it hurt my cheeks. “Of course you can, I’m just so happy to see you.”

  “Can we sit a minute? I think we should have a chat,” she said, as she sat down on the doorstep and patted the space beside her for me to join her.

  “I like the new hair,” she began.

  I self-consciously touched my shorter hair and smiled. Olive avoided giving in and cutting it into a bob, but it was still noticeably shorter.

  “I have a lot of apologising to do, to a lot of people, but I needed to start with you.”

  She took a big breath before she continued: “I had no idea how bad you’d gotten again, after that night at the party. To think that I caused you so much pain just kills me inside. I’m so sorry for all of the nasty things I said. It wasn’t true, I was just out of my mind with bitterness over Keith. You had absolutely nothing to do with the breakdown of my marriage, it was dead before you and I even met. We’d both stayed much longer than the use-by date. “Everything I did with you, I wanted to – not because I was forced.