by Tara Heavey
‘You know I hate doing that. It’s too much hassle.’
I shrugged. The waitress approached to take our order. Her vibrant ginger hair clashed spectacularly with the scarlet kimono she was forced to wear. She looked like she knew it, too.
I went for my usual lemon chicken (Paul had been right).
‘And would you like some wine with your meal?’ the waitress asked in a thick Louth accent.
‘Yes, please,’ I said.
‘No, thanks,’ said Paul, at precisely the same time.
‘We’ll have a bottle of the Chilean red, please.’ I could feel him glaring at me, but I refused to look at him; I continued to smile pleasantly at the waitress.
‘I told you I was driving tonight,’ Paul said, when she had gone.
‘I know. You’ll be able to have one glass anyway, and I’ll have the rest.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise?’
‘No, Paul, I’m not sure it’s wise,’ I spat, ‘but I don’t feel like being wise. I’ve had a shit week, and I just want to chill out and have a few drinks and a nice relaxing time with my boyfriend. Now, is there anything wrong with that?’
‘No. No, of course there isn’t. I’m sorry, Lainey. Tell me all about your week. I want to hear everything.’
And the thing was, he really did. That was one of the great things about Paul: he was such a good listener. He sat there with his chin on his hand, not saying much, but paying rapt attention as I waxed lyrical about all my woes and grievances. He even laughed in all the right places and asked relevant questions. At times like this, I could almost fool myself into believing that I had the perfect boyfriend. Almost.
‘So,’ he asked me later, as I was tucking into my slab of pecan pie (worth three million points in the Weight Watchers handbook), ‘what do you want to do next weekend?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Nothing special. I’ll probably be knackered again. What do you want to do?’
He gave me a funny look. ‘I thought I might book a weekend away somewhere. In the circumstances.’
In the circumstances. Oh, dear.
‘Yes, I think it’d be a great idea to go away for our anniversary.’
‘I can’t believe you forgot, Elena.’
Elena. Whoops!
‘I didn’t forget.’
‘Yes, you did.’
I reached out and placed my hand on his. It lay beneath mine like a dead fish. It was very tough at times, going out with such a sensitive man. Served me right for taking up with a Cancerian, I supposed. Paul was so easily hurt, and I was getting so tired of walking on eggshells whenever I was with him. Half the time, I really didn’t understand why women wanted sensitive men. Give me an insensitive lout any day of the week.
‘I’m sorry, Paul. I’ve just had a million and one different things on my mind, what with the move and everything.... I’d love to go away with you. How about Kerry?’
‘Whatever.’
‘Please don’t be mad with me.’
‘I’m not mad with you.’
I’d have liked to believe him, but, judging by the way he was brutally stabbing his lemon meringue pie with his fork (classic passive-aggressive behaviour), it seemed unlikely that I’d been forgiven.
‘I think you’ve killed it.’
‘What?’ He looked up at me, a sulky expression on his face.
‘The pie. I think it’s officially dead.’ I gave him a big smile, so he would know I was joking. He looked down again and put down his fork. I could tell from the way his dimples were half-showing that he was trying not to break into a grin.
‘Do you want coffee?’
‘No, let’s just get the bill and go home.’
Ah. Home. Now, what home would that be, exactly?
‘Um ... did you want me to stay with you tonight, then?’
‘Course I do.’ Paul looked alarmed. ‘You weren’t thinking of going back to your flat, were you?’ His eyes were wide with hurt.
‘Oh, God, no!’ I said quickly.
‘Yes, you were,’ he said accusingly. ‘I can’t believe you’d rather go back to Bimbo Central than stay with me.’
‘Bimbo Central? Thanks very much. It’s nice to know what you really think about me and my friends.’
‘I wasn’t talking about you and Hazel. I meant the other one.’
‘Christiana has a name, you know.’
‘Bloody stupid name, if you ask me.’
‘That’s rich, coming from someone whose girlfriend was named after a Russian ice-dancer.’
He laughed in spite of himself. Emergency averted.
‘Oh, you haven’t forgotten that we’re having lunch with my parents on Sunday?’
‘No, I haven’t forgotten. I’ll be there.’
Paul got on remarkably well with my parents. This freaked me out no end.
‘And Annie is home from China.’
‘Brilliant.’ This seemed to cheer him up even more. He got on great with Annie, too.
Maybe he was just going out with the wrong sister.
Chapter Ten
Paul and I headed over to my parents’ house at about one that Sunday, after staying the night in my apartment for a change. We had spent most of the evening sitting on the couch, drinking wine with Hazel and listening to her give out about Chris and her boss. She left for the office at around noon; there was no stopping her, hangover or no hangover.
I voiced my concerns to Paul on the way over. We were driving along in my beautiful car, which I’d retrieved from the garage the previous day – no more smelly hackneys for me. It felt so good to be back behind the wheel. I smiled and stroked the dashboard lovingly as I drove along. My baby!
I tore my attention away from the Audi to talk to Paul, who was sitting stiffly in the passenger seat beside me, waiting for me to make a mistake.
‘How does Hazel seem to you lately?’ I asked.
‘She’s cracking up.’
‘You think so too? Why didn’t you say anything to me?’
‘It’s obvious to anyone with two eyes in their head. She’s out of control.’
‘Mm. You should have heard the way she spoke to Chris last weekend.’
‘Well – I wouldn’t let that worry you too much.’ Paul couldn’t understand how anyone could be alone with Chris for five minutes without blowing a gasket. ‘Jesus, Lainey! You just went through a stop sign without stopping.’
‘It’s Sunday lunchtime. There’s no one on the road.’
‘Even so. I thought you were supposed to be an officer of the law.’
‘Oh, shut up. I’m off duty.’ And with that (but without indicating, as Paul kindly pointed out), I swung into the cul-de-sac where my parents lived.
Home was a four-bedroomed, two-storied, detached dwelling in the leafy suburbs of south County Dublin, distinguishable from the other houses in the estate only by the colour of the garage door and the number of shrubs in the front garden. I pulled up alongside my father’s Volvo. He disapproved heartily of my choice of vehicle; something about standards, I think it was.
My mother answered the door, all floaty scarf and Yardley perfume.
‘Come in, come in, you’re most welcome.’ She planted a resounding kiss on each of my cheeks and then held me by the shoulders and examined my face.
‘It’s great to see you, Elena. But you look tired. Have you been taking that tonic I gave you?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ You mean that vile stuff I poured straight down the sink?
‘And Paul. Long time no see. Let me have a look at you. Handsome as ever! You’ve filled out a bit, too. It suits you.’
Life isn’t fair. Who ever heard of a woman being told that she’s filled out and that it suits her?
‘Dinner will be ready in two ticks. Go into the sitting room and keep your father company.’
‘Where’s Annie?’
‘Tatiana’s only getting up now, would you believe. She says it’s the time difference, but if you ask me, that’s just an excuse. She was always
a terror to get out of bed in the mornings.’
Everything but my father’s legs was obscured by The Sunday Times.
‘Hello, Dad.’
He peered around the side of the newspaper.
‘Ah, hello.’ He put the Business section to one side and rose stiffly to greet us. ‘Good to see you again, Paul’ – he shook his hand – ‘and you too, Rosie.’ He patted me on the shoulder and sat back down in his armchair. He looked so out of place in the ultra-feminine, rose-chintz living room that it was almost laughable.
‘You all right, Dad?’
He sighed and shook his head. ‘I was just reading about the shocking state of the economy. You two young people don’t know how lucky you are to have secure jobs. Just be sure you hold on to them.’
Here we go....
‘I’d give my company another six months at the most. Things are looking very bad.’
My father: the ultimate prophet of doom and gloom. For at least the last twenty years, he had been predicting the bankruptcy and closure of the firm where he worked.
‘You’ve been saying that for ages, Dad, and nothing bad has happened yet.’
‘Oh, but things have never been this serious. You mark my words.’
Words duly marked. There was no use arguing. Besides, he enjoyed talking this way; why spoil his fun?
‘Lainey!’
The atmosphere in the room instantly lightened.
‘Annie!’
I hadn’t seen my sister for six months. We hugged each other tightly.
‘You look fantastic.’
‘So do you. What did you get me?’ It was a time-honoured ritual.
‘Don’t worry, I have a pressie for you upstairs. And one for you, Paul.’ She grinned at him.
Tatiana is brilliant. We’re five years apart – close enough to make us close, not close enough to make us rivals. It probably helps that we look completely different: I inherited the blue-eyed, blonde looks of my father’s family, while Tatiana has my mother’s dark curly hair and brown eyes. She’s a lot taller than me, too, with a chest like a shelf.
As soon as I was born, she took it upon herself to look out for me. She had been my mini-mammy for as long as I could remember, ever ready to beat up any kid who had the bad judgment – and bad luck – to tease or torment me.
‘How’s Beijing?’ asked Paul.
‘Overcrowded,’ she smiled, ‘but apart from that, it’s great.’
She was taking a well-earned two-year sabbatical from teaching Home Economics to Irish teenage boys. It wasn’t only the school kitchen that they had managed to burn out. Teaching English to Chinese businessmen had turned out to be a far more rewarding and civilised experience.
‘It’s high time you came back home and found a nice Irish boy to marry.’ This was from Dad, of course.
‘There’s another six months to run on my contract. I might think about coming home then,’ she replied good-naturedly. She had always been more patient with Dad than I had. Still, I could probably have had patience with him too if I’d lived thousands of miles away and only had to see him twice a year.
‘About time, too. I need someone to look after me in my old age.’
‘Don’t worry, Dad. We’ll find a lovely nursing home to put you in. I have one in mind already.’
You should have seen his face. We broke into peals of laughter. It was always fun, ganging up on him like this.
He muttered under his breath as he got up from his chair and went to the bay window.
‘I see you’re still driving that fancy car of yours, Rosie.’
‘Whose car should I be driving, Dad?’
‘Don’t get smart with your father. Remember whose money put you through college.’
Tatiana made a face behind his back, and I bit back more giggles.
‘Did you ever get that steering-wheel lock I was telling you about?’
‘Um – not yet.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because there’s already an alarm on my car.’
‘Do you really think those fellas would let the likes of an alarm stop them? They can get into anything they want to nowadays. There was a documentary about it last week on the English channel. Did you see it?’
‘No.’
‘I saw it,’ said Paul. ‘It was fascinating.’
Congratulations, Paul O’Toole. You have just won yourself two hundred brownie points!
My father gave Paul an approving look. ‘Don’t you think she should get herself a wheel lock, son?’
‘I do, yes.’
Traitor.
‘You hear that, Rosie? You should listen to your young man.’
‘What my “young man” doesn’t know is that there hasn’t been a car stolen in Ardskeha in the last ten years. I know because I checked. The locals don’t even lock their car doors, for God’s sake.’
‘Well, you don’t want to be the first in ten years, do you?’ Dad nodded sagely.
‘I wonder what Mum’s doing in there. Dinner should be ready by now.’ Tatiana the peacemaker strategically changed the subject.
I took her cue. The last thing I wanted to do was ruin Annie’s homecoming by having one of my regular spats with Dad. ‘I’ll go see if she needs any help.’ On my way out to the kitchen, I bent down and hissed in Paul’s ear, ‘Lickarse!’
I heard Mum before I saw her. She didn’t see me; she was fully occupied in dancing and humming around the kitchen with a bowl under her left oxter and a whisk in her right hand. The kitchen was flooded with the strains of beautiful classical music, which mingled wonderfully with the pungent smell of burning. With the instinct that had been bred into me over the twenty-nine years that I had been my mother’s daughter, I headed straight for the cooker and simultaneously switched it off and opened the oven door. I coughed, waving frantically in an effort to disperse the plumes of black smoke, and removed a distressed-looking chicken from the oven.
My mother didn’t appear to notice. She was transfixed by the portable television that she had nagged my father into installing on top of one of the presses. I glanced up just in time to see Katarina Witt execute a particularly skilful triple toe-loop (or maybe a double axel – who knew? Mum did, of course).
‘Mum,’ I said gently. It didn’t do to be too harsh in these situations. ‘What are you doing? The dinner is getting burnt.’
The music took a dramatic turn, and Mum gripped my forearm.
‘Bizet’s Carmen on ice!’ she said urgently. ‘Rita lent it to me! It’s fabulous, Elena – you have to see it! Just give me a minute, it’s almost over.’
I looked at the tears streaking down my mother’s rapt face. There were funny stripes where the salt water had come into contact with her cream blusher. She always got a bit weepy while watching ice-skating (‘I could have been a contender...’). I prised the ceramic mixing bowl from underneath her left arm, noticing that one end of her floaty scarf had been trailing in it.
‘Here, give that to me. You’ll never get the cream to thicken if you keep crying into it like that. Why aren’t you using the electric whisk that Dad bought you for your birthday?’
‘Hmph! Electric whisk, indeed! The old bollix knew I wanted an aromatherapy starter kit. I’d like to tell him where he can shove his bloody whisk!’
‘Mum!’ I was scandalised. It was okay for me to use language like that, but she was my mother, for God’s sake. A little decorum, please!
‘Besides, I can’t hear the music over that thing.’ She wiped each eye with the corner of her apron and showed signs of starting to compose herself.
‘Come on. I’ll help you bring in the dinner.’
‘No, no. You go inside and tell everyone to sit down at the table. I’ll be quicker doing it myself.’ I doubted it.
I stuck my head around the living-room door. ‘Dinner’s up, ladies and gentlemen. Take your seats at the table, please.’
I followed Tatiana, Paul and Dad as they filed into the dining room. The best crystal and china
had been dusted off for the occasion. We all automatically sat in our allotted places, like programmed robots.
‘I bet she’s watching that Carmen tape again,’ Dad said to me. I shrugged. ‘I knew it. The dinner will be burnt, you mark my words.’
‘I hope you all like your chicken well done,’ Mum said gamely as she swished into the room, carrying a plate in each hand.
‘Blackened chicken is one of my favourites, Mum,’ said Tatiana. Mum smiled fondly at her and exited the room again.
‘I knew it,’ said Dad. ‘I’m going to confiscate that bloody telly.’ I noticed that he waited until Mum had gone before he said it.
Paul, who, along with Dad (the two men, don’t you know), had received his food first – a dubious privilege in the circumstances – shot me a very worried look. My hidden hand patted his knee comfortingly under the table.
‘Just do your best,’ I whispered, smiling at him sympathetically.
Mum came back in with the rest of the plates and set them down with a flourish.
‘Now, everybody – enjoy.’
We’d try. We really would.
‘Would you like some gravy, Paul?’ said Mum pleasantly.
I administered a swift sharp kick to Paul’s ankle. I wouldn’t recommend the gravy today, sir. Luckily for him, he got the message.
‘No, thanks, Mrs Malone. I don’t take gravy.’
‘For the last time, call me Teresa. I won’t say it again. Now, will you have some butter instead?’
I sensed Paul glancing over at me quickly. When no kick was forthcoming, he answered, ‘Yes, please.’
The general rule in the Malone household was that anything that came straight from the packet and didn’t require any input from my mother was safe enough.
‘Well, isn’t this lovely?’ said Mum, beaming around at all of us. ‘My whole family together.’
Except that Paul isn’t one of the family, I had to restrain myself from reminding her. Although I knew she badly wanted him to be.
Down at the other end of the table, my father snorted, no doubt to convey his opinion that, no, this burnt offering wasn’t lovely at all.
‘Oh, Tatiana, you have to watch Carmen on ice. It’s superb. I know you’ll just love it,’ my mother gushed.
