Eating Peaches

by Tara Heavey

  ‘Hello! Anybody home?’

  No reply. Perhaps they hadn’t heard me. Perhaps this was because Björk was caterwauling at the top of her lungs. Christiana was blaring her latest CD at full volume. It was her customary getting-into-the-party-mood music. She played it a lot. We’d be getting another snotty letter from the landlord if she wasn’t careful.

  I pushed open the door of the living room. Hazel was sitting at the table with her back to me, hunched over a bunch of official-looking papers.

  ‘Not working weekends again?’

  No response.

  I went up behind her and spoke into her left ear. ‘I said, you’re not work–’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Hazel jumped as if she’d been scalded, and her Biro went flying across the room. She slumped with relief when she saw it was me.

  ‘Lainey! You frightened the shite out of me. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I live here, remember? God, you’re on edge. Been overdosing on the caffeine again?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said it looks like –’

  ‘Oh, hold on.’ Hazel removed a lump of Blu-tac from each ear. ‘For fuck’s sake. A person can’t hear herself think, let alone work, with that Icelandic witch wailing in the background. I’ve already asked Chris to turn it down twice.’

  ‘Give her a break. She probably doesn’t expect anyone to be working at home on a Saturday evening. Which brings me to my next point: what’s with all the paperwork?’

  ‘Don’t be talking. We’ve got a major deal going down in work. My ass is really on the line with this one, Lainey. I wouldn’t be going out tonight if it wasn’t ...’

  ‘If it wasn’t my going-away? Go on; you can say it. I don’t mind. In fact, I’m thrilled to be the cause of you taking a break. Anyway, what about that boss of yours? I don’t suppose he’s working the weekend.’

  ‘That bastard! You must be joking. Golf in Killarney again.’

  ‘You should tell him where to go, Hazel. He’s really taking the piss.’

  ‘I know, but it’s only temporary. Things will calm down once this deal is through.’

  ‘Until the next deal. You’ve been saying that ever since you started working there. It’s never going to calm down. Can’t you see that? You work all the hours God sends, and you’re never on top of things.’ I peered over her shoulder at the rows and rows of minute figures. ‘I don’t know how you and Paul don’t go cross-eyed looking at all those numbers.’

  A persistent thudding was now emanating from the general direction of Christiana’s bedroom.

  ‘What is she up to in there?’

  ‘God knows. Probably “creating” new dance routines. She could be committing hara-kiri for all I care.’ Hazel sounded really annoyed.

  ‘Deary me. Is she still getting on your nerves a little?’

  ‘A little! It’s like living with a cross between Bubbles from Ab Fab and Samantha from Sex and the City. She never stops. She’s driving me demented.’

  ‘But she’s always like that.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I just dread to think what it’s going to be like with you gone all week. You’re like the buffer. It’s not as – I don’t know – not as intense when there are three of us. I need another person to help take the strain.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you felt this way. Is it really that bad?’

  ‘Worse. I’m thinking about looking for my own place.’

  ‘No way!’

  Hazel nodded wearily.

  ‘But you’ve known each other since you were six.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You sat beside each other all through school.’

  ‘Only because our surnames start with the same letter. It wasn’t by choice.’

  ‘But you’ve told me a million times how you braided each other’s hair and bought gobstoppers together and swapped marbles –’

  ‘Yeah. And then she lost her marbles.’

  ‘But I don’t understand. She lost them years ago. She’s your best friend.’ Along with me, I hoped.

  ‘Used to be my best friend. I don’t know, Lainey. I think we’ve just grown apart.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s just a phase,’ I said hopefully. I didn’t want our cosy little set-up to change. ‘And I’ll be back in a few months to help smooth things over.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’ Hazel didn’t look or sound convinced.

  Talk of the devil....

  ‘Hazel, will you help me put my fake tan on ... Lainey! You’re here!’ Christiana burst through the door and ran over to me, flinging her arms around my neck. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Quelle surprise,’ Hazel muttered under her breath, just loud enough for us both to hear.

  ‘I’m only here a few minutes.’

  ‘Hazel, this is what I thought you could wear tonight.’ Chris waved a wisp of shocking-pink material in front of Hazel’s face. Believe it or not, this constituted an entire outfit – a skirt and top, to be precise. It wasn’t exactly what I would have described as Hazel’s style.

  ‘Would you ever fuck off with yourself? I’m not wearing that.’

  ‘But I wore it last week and it was lovely on me.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to look like a tart.’

  ‘Hazel!’ I was shocked. I’d never heard her speak that way to Chris before. But I was ignored: Hazel stomped out of the room, roughly pushing past Chris.

  Jesus! Things were worse than I’d thought.

  ‘Don’t mind Hazel,’ I said gently. ‘She’s just been working too hard. I mean, look at that.’ I gestured to the pile of papers on the table. ‘On Saturday night, of all nights. I mean, it’s just ridiculous.’

  Christiana nodded vacantly.

  ‘Did you say you needed some help with your fake tan?’

  Chris silently handed me the bottle of Clarins spray (the best fake tan there was, in her expert opinion) that she had been clutching, and sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar.

  ‘Where do you want it?’

  ‘On my back.’ She pulled her top over her head and slipped out of her bra. She was as unself-conscious as a child. I started spraying the tan on her shoulders and rubbing it in.

  ‘What are you wearing tonight, Chris?’

  ‘My new Whistles jumper.’

  I thought about this for a few seconds. ‘But that means nobody will be able to see your back.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I’ll know it’s there.’

  ‘Oh.’ My friend the fake-tan junkie. ‘You know, pet, if you had a baby it would come out orange.’

  ‘Yeah? Do you think it would have ginger hair, too?’

  ‘Most definitely.’

  ‘That’s good. I love red hair.’

  She got distracted then; drifted off into one of her daydreams. Who knew what went on in that girl’s head? I retreated into my own little world, and for a few minutes all was quiet between the rubber and the rubbee. Until:

  ‘Lainey, I have something to tell you.’

  I stopped rubbing. ‘What?’

  ‘You know how I said I’d arrange your going-away?’

  ‘Yes.’ My gut told me that this wasn’t going to be good.

  ‘And you know how you said it was just to be you, me, Haze and Paul?’

  ‘Chris, what have you done?’

  ‘Well – I might have invited a few extra people along by mistake.’

  ‘How can you invite people by mistake?’

  ‘It just sort of slipped out.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘One or two.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Six! For pity’s sake, Chris. Who are they?’

  She reeled off a list of names that made me immediately lose my appetite. I could have clocked her one. Undaunted, she alighted on a new topic.

  ‘What are you wearing tonight?’

  ‘I hadn’t really thought.’

  ‘Oooh. You can borrow something of mine if you like.’

&nb
sp; ‘No, thank you.’ If I’d wanted to look like a clown I would have joined the circus.

  ‘Oh, go on. It’ll be fun.’ Fun for her, maybe. Apart from inventing appalling dance routines, Christiana’s main hobby was doing people up. When she was a little girl, her favourite toy had been Girl’s World. The reason I knew this was that she still had it in her room. Some people might have jumped at this opportunity for a free make-over. I, however, had seen some of her previous victims.

  ‘No, Chris. I’ve got plenty of perfectly good clothes of my own.’

  ‘But your clothes are so boring. You need to use your imagination more when you dress.’

  ‘I’m not supposed to have an imagination. I’m a solicitor.’

  ‘You need to express yourself more.’

  ‘By that you mean show more flesh.’

  ‘If I had your chest I’d show it off all the time. Oh, let me pick your outfit, please! Think of it as an extra-special going-away present from me to you. Oh please, please, please!’

  I looked down at her upturned little face, devoid of make-up, devoid of artifice. I thought of how hurt she must have been by Hazel’s behaviour, though she had tried so hard not to show it.

  ‘Okay. But just the top.’ What was I letting myself in for?

  ‘Oh, brilliant!’ She clapped her hands gleefully, jumped off the stool and ran to the door. ‘Oh – are you finished my back?’

  ‘One back fully tanned.’ I was already washing my hands at the kitchen sink, although I knew that, whatever I did, they’d be tangerine later on that night.

  ‘You won’t regret this,’ I heard her calling from the hall.

  I was regretting it already.

  I spent the next half-hour trying on at least fifty different tops, each one more outrageous than the last. Finally we agreed on a wine-coloured angora cardigan, trimmed around the neck and down the centre with what looked like feathers in varying shades of wine and pink. It was lower-cut than I was used to, but I could live with that. Chris wanted me to wear it with all the buttons open, except for one at the chest, and nothing underneath. It was all right for her, with her toned midriff and pierced belly button; I was a mere mortal, with a roll of fat to keep in check. A matching wine camisole was debated over and decided upon.

  I had to fight for the right to wear my own dressy black trousers and flat black boots. Christiana was most insistent on a pair of fake-snakeskin boots with four-inch spike heels. I won that particular dispute by giving a very convincing demonstration of my inability to walk in them. Chris herself was an expert at walking in high heels; at five foot one and three-quarters, she never wore heels lower than three inches. She was like a white, female version of The Artist Currently Known as Squiggle.

  Once I had dispatched Chris to her room to complete her own extensive titivations, I rapped gingerly on Hazel’s door.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Come in.’

  She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, reading a book and dressed in her all-black going-out uniform. She looked up as I entered.

  ‘She never got you to wear one of her tops!’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe you were so spineless.’

  ‘It’s not a question of being spineless. I was trying to cheer her up. She was upset.’

  Hazel didn’t reply.

  ‘Besides, I got away lightly. You should have seen some of the stuff she was trying to get me into.’

  ‘I believe you.’

  I sat down on the bed beside her. ‘I suppose you knew about those twats coming along tonight.’

  ‘Sorry about that. I was sworn to secrecy.’

  ‘Are you ready, then?’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘Well, how come you’re dressed to go out?’

  I could see her trying to think of an answer. ‘I got dressed and then I changed my mind.’

  ‘Well, change it back. Seriously, Hazel, surely you’re not going to miss this golden opportunity to take the piss out of Chris’s friends? It’ll be a laugh. Besides, I’ll need someone normal to talk to. You can’t abandon me like this. It’s like throwing a Christian to the lions.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind throwing a Christiana to the lions. Anyway, you’ll have Paul.’

  ‘Fat lot of good he’ll be. You know he’ll just sit there in silence, staring at them as if they’re all mad.’

  ‘He’d be right.’

  ‘Come on. We’ll make sure we sit together. We haven’t had a good chat in ages.’

  ‘Oh, all right, then.’

  ‘Good woman. Meet you at the front door in fifteen minutes.’

  I closed her bedroom door behind me. Phew!

  I had the distinct feeling that this was going to be a very long night.

  There was no need for introductions when we arrived at the restaurant. Unfortunately, we had already met. The two separate camps eyed each other suspiciously: me, Hazel and Paul versus Oisín, Diarmuid, Fionn, Neasa, Iseult and Mona. Sure, we were outnumbered – but we were confident we could take them, being of stronger moral fibre. We nodded to each other as we took our seats. Let the Cold War commence. Christiana didn’t know it, but she was Switzerland.

  Chris, Hazel and I were the last to arrive. We had been delayed by Chris’s last-minute nail-polish crisis: she had been torn between glittery blue and molten violet. Hazel still had a face on her as a result.

  And speaking of people having faces on them.... Paul, true to form, had been the first to arrive. This meant that he had spent the last forty minutes enduring a discussion on the latest trends in men’s trousers – not the type of thing he normally discussed with his soccer buddies. Judging by the cut of Diarmuid, Oisín and Fionn, brown corduroy flares appeared to be all the rage. As did blue rimless sunglasses worn on the crown of one’s head.

  ‘Hey, lads. Going on your holidays?’ Hazel said cheerfully as she sat down. She was going for a preemptive strike.

  The lads looked at one another blankly. Hazel pointed to the top of her head. ‘The sunglasses. Or maybe you’re expecting a sudden heat wave?’

  ‘Actually, that’s the fashion, Hazel,’ said Iseult.

  ‘Oh, is it, actually, Iseult? I didn’t actually know that. Tell me more.’ Hazel poured herself a massive glass of red wine. I sensed danger.

  ‘Has anyone ordered yet?’ I said.

  ‘No, we were waiting for you,’ answered Paul. Then, under his breath to me, ‘Where the hell were you? You wouldn’t believe the shite I’ve just had to listen to.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it. Now please be nice. It’s just a few short hours out of your life.’

  ‘That Diarmuid has already taken years off my life. He made a pass at me, you know.’

  I tried unsuccessfully not to laugh. Paul, like many red-blooded heterosexual males, had yet to be convinced that all gay men weren’t after his body.

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘What could I say? I pretended to misunderstand him.’

  I was sorry I’d missed it. ‘You must have said something to lead him on, Paul.’

  ‘You’re very funny, you know that?’

  ‘Anything in trousers. You just can’t be trusted.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘He’s a model, you know. I thought it was every man’s dream to go out with a model.’ Paul didn’t find this funny at all. I, on the other hand, was cracking myself up.

  ‘Shut up, Lainey.’

  ‘Slut.’

  He didn’t dignify that with a response.

  After a while he said, ‘I suppose those other two are queers as well.’

  ‘Who, Fionn and Oisín? No, they’re not gay.’

  ‘Thank God for that. I was beginning to think I was the only straight man here.’

  ‘They’re bisexual. So we might both get lucky.’

  ‘I’m going to the jacks.’

  ‘Careful you don’t get followed,’ I called after him. He glared back at me. Paul was deliciou
sly easy to wind up.

  I zoned in on the other conversation that was going on down our end of the table – between Hazel, Iseult and Diarmuid.

  ‘So tell me, Iseult,’ said Hazel, far too loudly. ‘I’m dying to know. What is the new black?’

  Iseult eyed Hazel coolly. The fashion editor of an Irish celebrity magazine, she was probably the most copped-on of the group. You could tell that she strongly suspected that she was having the piss taken out of her.

  ‘Well, Hazel, black is always in. But I can see that you’re well aware of that. I mean, just look at that lovely ensemble you’re wearing tonight.’

  ‘This old thing! Shucks, Iseult, I just threw this little number on as I was leaving the flat.’

  ‘You’d never guess.’ Iseult’s smile rivalled Hazel’s for tightness and insincerity.

  ‘Actually, I heard that aubergine was the new black,’ said Diarmuid. For Pete’s sake, don’t get involved, I felt like warning him. ‘Like Lainey’s cardigan.’ It wasn’t often that I was cast in the role of trendsetter. (I had assumed the cardigan was maroon.)

  ‘Aubergine! Really, Diarmuid?’ Hazel trilled. ‘Well, what I want to know is, what’s the new aubergine?’

  ‘Um....’ Poor Diarmuid was stumped.

  Just then the food arrived. Saved by the starters. I had ordered deep-fried Brie; I had wanted soup, but I was afraid that somebody might be tempted to use the accompanying bread rolls as ammunition.

  Paul came back and sat down.

  ‘What’s this supposed to be?’ He was staring at his plate in pure disgust.

  ‘I don’t know. What did you order?’

  ‘Pork wontons in plum sauce.’

  ‘What’s the problem? They look like wontons to me.’

  ‘But there’s only four of them!’

  Sure enough, four small pork parcels sat forlornly on a large, purple (inedible) lettuce leaf, surrounded by a trickle of brown sauce.

  ‘Hmm. They do look a little bit lonely, all right.’

  ‘Lonely! They’re practically in quarantine. I’ve a good mind to send them back to the kitchen.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, Paul. The chef will only spit on them and send them back. Here, have some bread.’ He had already asked the waitress for a new glass because of an imaginary lipstick-mark. He’d make a great health inspector.