by Tara Heavey
Christiana fell in love with a different person every single week. She claimed she was bisexual, but I suspected this was only because it was currently fashionable in the film industry – I think it was Drew Barrymore who had started this particular trend. Quite frankly, I had difficulty keeping track. On a weekly basis, extravagant bunches of flowers were delivered to the flat with her name on them. It was quite annoying, actually. They were usually from some new, up-and-coming director or from a bit-part actor or actress. These relationships tended to last roughly as long as the flowers. Either Chris blew them off because of their lack of ‘Heathcliff-like qualities’ (her words, not mine) or they realised in the nick of time that she had fallen off her trolley a long time ago. Hazel, on the other hand, was resolutely single. She hadn’t got where she was with the aid of a man, no sirree Bob. In her opinion, a husband was a sign of weakness.
I was the only one with a steady boyfriend. Steady being the operative word.
Paul was an accountant too. He worked in the same office as Hazel, and we had hooked up at one of their work do’s (or should I say work don’ts). It had been a total set-up. Paul had been taken under the wing of his best friend’s newly appointed wife. Having sorted out her own love life, she turned her attention to the so-called love lives of others for her entertainment. She was Paul’s social secretary. Hazel was my marketing manager. Wifey decided that I would be perfect for Paul, as I was a solicitor and therefore bound to be sensible and financially viable. How wrong can you be?
‘What does Paul think?’ asked Hazel.
‘I haven’t told him yet. I’m seeing him tomorrow night.’
Hazel nodded but was silent. I could tell that she was worried. She suspected that all was not rosy in the Paul–Lainey garden. I guessed she was just saying nothing and keeping her fingers crossed that it would all work out. Otherwise, how was she going to take credit for our wedding?
‘We’ll have to have a going-away do!’ It was Chris, squealing with excitement yet again.
‘Oh, no. The last thing I want is a big fuss.’
‘But we can’t let you go off to Ballymuck without a proper send-off.’
‘For the last time – Ballyknock!’
‘Whatever. Go on. Say yes!’
‘Oh, all right, then, if it’ll get you off my back.’
‘Yes!’
‘But you’ll have to keep it small. You, me, Hazel and Paul. You’re not to invite any of your loony friends.’
‘I won’t, I promise. Just leave it all to me and I’ll arrange everything. You’re not going to regret this, Lainey.’
One small tip: whenever anyone says those words to you, start worrying.
Paul thrust inside me as if he were trying to push a boulder up a hill. I wished fervently that he’d reach the summit and hoist his flag. How much longer? His face hovered inches above my own, ghostly white. Beads of sweat had begun to form on his forehead. I watched in fascination as his features contorted and his body shuddered.
‘Oh God!’
Thank God.
Paul collapsed on top of me. I lay beneath his sweaty bulk, waiting for a decent interval to expire before I could push him off. I judged ten seconds to be an adequate period.
‘Paul,’ I said gently, and patted him on the shoulder. He grunted in reply.
‘Paul. I need to use the bathroom.’
‘Oh, yeah, right.... Sorry.’ Assisted by what I hoped seemed like a gentle shove, he rolled off me onto the other side of the bed. I leapt up enthusiastically, padded naked into the bathroom and locked the door, relieved to be on my own. I viciously spun the toilet-roll holder, releasing far more squares of toilet paper than I actually needed. That’ll teach him, I thought unreasonably. Paul was a two-squares-only man, for both economic and environmental reasons. Fuck the environment and fuck him. I wiped away the meagre juices that my body had produced due to his ministrations and flushed angrily, watching with satisfaction as the toilet swallowed all evidence of our brief encounter.
As I washed my hands, I looked up into the mirror and sighed. I smoothed down my long blonde hair. We’re not talking Pamela Anderson here; more Lady Helen Taylor – the type of hair that looks well adorned with an Alice band or swept back into a sleek chignon. People thought it was classy. I looked for a brush or comb in vain. Paul didn’t have much use for them, being an advocate of the Phil Mitchell school of hairdressing, and I didn’t dare leave my own hairbrush in his bathroom in case he thought I was dropping hints about moving in with him. He panicked at the mere presence of a carelessly discarded earring on his bedside table.
I scrutinised my face in the mirror. That was never a crow’s foot at the outer corner of my left eye? It couldn’t be. I was only twenty-nine and a bit. Since my last birthday I had developed an all-consuming obsession with crow’s feet, laughter lines and any other facial inconsistency remotely resembling a wrinkle. I often snuck up on my reflection unexpectedly, trying to catch any lurking lines unawares. And, to add insult to injury, I still got the odd spot. Surely that wasn’t on, having to worry about pimples and wrinkles simultaneously? It was like seeing a dead leaf on a glorious summer day.
There was definitely a dry patch on my right cheek. I opened the bathroom cabinet, searching for some kind of moisturiser to remedy the situation. Paul’s lotions and potions were lined up like little plastic soldiers. It was most definitely a boy’s bathroom. Not a hint of pink or a gently curved shape anywhere; all the containers were either dark blue or metallic grey and were shaped like phallic symbols, as if the advertisers were trying to reassure the male consumer that, no, you’re not a poof if you buy exfoliator. All those little lines of plastic penises arranged with pathological neatness. Freaky.
‘Lainey, are you going to be long in there? I’m dying for a pee.’
I slammed the cabinet door. I couldn’t get a moment’s peace.
‘I’m coming.’ For the first time tonight, I felt like adding.
Paul stood on the other side of the door, grinning sheepishly and shifting from one bare foot to the other. He was clutching his privates in one hand and holding a full condom in the other. We come bearing gifts. I was exposed in the fluorescent glare of the harsh bathroom light. I felt my dimpled thighs did not bear scrutiny. So what if I didn’t know whether I fancied him any more? It was still important that he should find me attractive. I dodged Paul’s kiss as I slunk by him into the safety of the dimly lit bedroom.
I would have killed for a fag, but Paul would have gone berserk if I’d lit up in his precious bedroom. The last time I had tried it he had thrown the offending item out of the open window – fully lit! How inconsiderate. He could have caused a forest fire or anything.
I could hear him banging around in the kitchen now, opening and closing presses. The kettle hissed reassuringly in the background. A few minutes later Paul emerged, clad only in a pair of gingham boxer shorts, bearing a tray heavy with teapot, milk carton and plate of warm buttered toast. He smiled shyly at me as he placed the tray on the rumpled bed. He reminded me of a little boy bringing his mammy breakfast on Mothers’ Day.
‘I thought you might have the munchies.’ He began pouring me a cup of tea, milk first, just the way I liked it. I felt sick with shame at my earlier mean thoughts. I’d forgotten how lovely he could be at times. I almost remembered why I’d gone out with him in the first place.
I examined his face as I bit into my first slice of toast. Regular, classically handsome features: light-hazel eyes, soft brown hair, strong nose, full firm mouth, and cheekbones that a supermodel would be proud of. So why did I feel so irritated every time I looked at him nowadays? He could be great when he wanted to be. And he had so obviously wanted to be tonight. It was just all the other times – when he didn’t want to be great – that were the problem.
There was the excessive tidiness, for a start. It had seemed like a joke at the beginning, an endearing quirk – part of his charm, if you like. CDs arranged in alphabetical order; socks and jocks store
d in colour-coordinated bundles, neatly rolled and folded. And then there was the obsession with hygiene. Germs! Everywhere! It was just so ... well, it was downright anal, to tell the truth. I had reached the end of my rope with it some time ago; I had tied a knot on the end and I was hanging on for dear life.
I suppose it wouldn’t have been so bad if I had also been a neat freak. It might have been a big plus. But not only was I not a neat freak, I wasn’t even averagely tidy. In fact, I was a slob – albeit a secret slob. My colleagues would probably never have guessed. I kept my office in reasonably good nick. And I was always well turned out: suits regularly dry-cleaned, shoes and nails polished, hair groomed, face done. My flatmates knew all about it, though. They were as bad as me. That was why I rarely brought Paul around to the flat. I was afraid he’d faint. When left to my own devices, I could literally fester in my juices for days. My tolerance for dirt was astounding. And as for germs ... you couldn’t even see them, therefore they didn’t exist.
And then, God help us, there was the sex – or lack thereof, as we might say in the legal world. Not that it made much difference; I could have slept through most of our sessions nowadays. There was nothing wrong with Paul’s technique, as such. It was just that I was never allowed any input. Paul had to call all of the shots all of the time. I was at screaming point there, too.
My family were convinced that we were going to announce the tying of the knot any day now. They were in for a rude awakening.
I decided to bite the bullet as well as the toast.
‘Paul, I have something to tell you.’
The hand bringing the mug to his lips froze in mid-air. ‘You’re not pregnant, are you?’
‘No, I’m not pregnant!’
Relief flooded his face, and he took a sip of tea.
Jesus. Where had that come from? Had I gotten really fat lately or something? And how on earth did he think I could possibly get pregnant, what with him being so acutely careful all of the time? He wouldn’t even hear of me going on the pill, probably because he didn’t trust me to take it. He was the only man I knew who relished using condoms. That way he could ensure that he was in complete control. His sperm didn’t stand a chance. At least it eliminated fights about who got to sleep on the wet patch.
Perverse as I knew it was, I felt secretly jealous whenever I heard of a couple getting pregnant by accident. I could only dream about the kind of passion that would result in bringing a love-child into this world – forgetting all about the tearing of condom wrappers and the balling of socks. Oh, the oblivion of torn tights!
‘I have to go away for a while.’
‘Define “go away”.’
I told him, watching his reaction carefully. His expression remained blank. He kept his eyes downcast throughout. Just kept right on sitting there at the edge of the bed. Topless. Five o’clock shadow – now nine o’clock shadow. Rough. My favourite version of Paul.
‘Well?’ The suspense was too much.
He raised his eyes slowly to mine.
‘Would you like me to go with you?’
That was unexpected.
‘Don’t be daft. You have your job to think about; and it’s only for nine months. We can still see each other at weekends – if you like.’
‘Of course I like,’ he said quickly. He took my hand without looking at me and stroked it gently with the ball of his thumb. He whispered something I couldn’t quite catch.
‘What was that?’
‘I’ll miss you, Lainey.’
My heart melted a little and I felt a curious mixture of affection, irritation and guilt. I thought that I should say something in return.
‘Will you miss me too?’
That was it. That was what I was meant to say. ‘Of course I’ll miss you,’ I said quickly. I almost meant it, too. In fairness, I was in shock. Paul wasn’t the most demonstrative of men; this was pretty soul-revealing stuff for him.
‘When did you say you were going, again?’
‘In a little under two weeks.’
‘So you’ll be away for our anniversary.’
Another bolt from the blue. In a few weeks’ time, Paul and I would have been going out for exactly one year. I remembered the date, but I was amazed that he had. We hadn’t even discussed it. I fixed a smile on my face to hide the shock. ‘Never mind. We can still do something special.’
Paul had stopped talking. I looked up and noticed that he was staring at my left breast, which had popped out of its hiding-place behind the duvet. I cleared my throat uncomfortably and pulled the covers up to my chin.
‘I’d better be going,’ I said, hopping out of bed and quickly grabbing my clothes.
‘Why don’t you stay the night?’
‘No. I didn’t bring clean underwear, and besides, I have an early start....’ I was already half-dressed.
‘When will I see you again?’ Paul called out to me as I was halfway out the door.
‘I’ll give you a call.’
I put off phoning home for as long as possible. Finally it became so uncomfortable that it was easier just to do it.
‘Hi, Dad.’
‘That you, Rosie?’ My dad refuses on principle to call me by my first name. It infuriates my mother. It’s meant to.
‘Yeah, it’s me. Listen, Dad, I have some news.’
‘You’re getting married.’
‘For the last time, no!’ I almost shouted.
‘All right, all right. No need to get your knickers in a twist. I was only saying. You are nearly thirty now, you know.’
‘Thanks for reminding me.’
‘And someone has to carry on the family line. We’ve given up on your sister.’ Tatiana (we called her Annie) was thirty-four years old and single. I –didn’t know which was worse, being branded as the family brood mare or as a lost cause.
‘Hello, dear.’ It was my mother on the other line.
‘Hi, Mum. Look, I’m glad I’ve got you both together. Something’s happened in work.’
‘You’ve been made a partner?’
‘Not exactly, but it’s in the offing.’ I explained the situation.
‘But, Rosie, you hate the countryside.’
‘Do not.’
‘Yes, you do,’ they exclaimed together.
Both of my parents are from the West. Childhood family holidays consisted of driving through somewhere like Connemara, past acres of fields, sheep, dry stone walls, rocks, more sheep and more rocks. The monotony was broken only by stop-offs in lay-bys, where we ate limp Calvita-and-Tayto sandwiches – which tasted to us like manna from heaven – washed down with warm, flat 7-Up and a flask of tepid tea. Then we’d examine dolmens, piles of rocks assembled by our ancient forefathers to commemorate dead chieftains. High excitement for a couple of pre-pubescent city chicklets.
‘Admire the rocks!’ Dad would exclaim angrily. ‘They were put there by your ancestors.’ And Annie and I would wonder why our ancestors couldn’t have found something more productive to do with their time.
And then there was the rain, the incessant, driving rain. I shuddered, recalling weeks spent shivering in a caravan in the middle of a field in County Roscommon. The sun would refuse to come out until we got back to Dublin. My sister and I would run out of the car straight to our friends’ houses, with tall tales about freckled Mayo boys who had looked at us funny, leaving our deflated parents to shake their heads at their repeated failure to educate their daughters about their cultural heritage.
But that had been years ago. I was sure I must have developed some appreciation for the countryside in the meantime. And if I hadn’t, it was about time I did.
‘Well, I for one think you’re doing the right thing, Elena. It’s a wonderful opportunity for you – and, besides, you owe it to Tyrone. He’s always been very good to you.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Where did you say you’ll be living again?’ asked Dad.
‘In Tyrone’s old family home. It’s a little cottage in the middle
of nowhere, apparently.’
‘When you say “middle of nowhere”, what do you mean exactly? Do you have any neighbours?’
‘I think there’s a couple of houses close by.’
‘And you’re going to be living there on your own?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is there an alarm on the house?’
‘I don’t think so. Why would there be? It’s in the middle of nowhere. And there’s nothing to take, anyway.’
‘There’s you to take! Merciful hour, Rosie, you’re not staying there on your own. You’ll be murdered to death.’
‘Dad!’
‘You hear about it every day. Young women living in isolated country cottages, murdered in their own beds. Or worse.’
‘Don’t mind him, Elena. You’ll be grand. You can get yourself a nice big dog to protect you.’
‘But you know I don’t like dogs, Mum.’
‘Nonsense. You’ve always loved dogs. And it’ll be great company for you, if nothing else. We’ll go down to the pound next week and pick you out something suitable.’
‘It’s a dog, Mum, not a handbag.’
Oh, what was the use?
‘Anyway, I’ve got to go. I’m only in the door and I have an early start in the morning.’
‘It’s ten o’clock! Where have you been all this time?’
‘I was just out with the girls.’ I was hardly going to admit to having unsatisfying, unmarried sex with my boyfriend. ‘I’ll talk to you both soon.’
‘Goodbye, Elena. Sleep well.’
‘Night, Rosie.’
I sighed with relief as I put down the phone. That was everyone important told.
Now I just had to get used to the idea myself.
Chapter Three
That was that, then: last day in the Dublin office for at least another nine months. It had taken me most of Saturday to tie up loose ends, so it was well after six by the time I let myself into the apartment that I’d called home for three years and three rent-hikes. I had decided to keep my room. It made sense: I was only going to be in Ballyknock temporarily, and I planned to come to Dublin every weekend anyhow. I knew I should probably do the sensible thing and look for a place of my own to buy. But I loved living there.
