by Tara Heavey
And then I heard the sound of a zipper. I looked out through my fingers; Paul was tearing open a condom and preparing to assume the position. Oh, no. Too soon. I sat up on the bed, and he looked at me in surprise.
‘What?’ he said to the expression on my face.
‘Let’s have some fun first.’
He frowned. ‘I thought this was fun.’
‘It is,’ I said urgently, grabbing at his arm, ‘but look – we have this whole hotel room at our disposal. A four-poster bed, for God’s sake. When are we going to have the chance to sleep in a four-poster again?’
He shrugged.
‘Not to mention the mirror in the wardrobe at the end of the bed.’
Still nothing. All I seemed to be doing was making him look uncomfortable. I pressed on regardless.
‘I have a pair of silk hold-ups with me. Why don’t you tie me to the bed?’
‘I don’t know, Lainey –’
‘Oh, come on. This bed is perfect for it. You can even blindfold me if you want.’
‘Why? So you can pretend that I’m somebody else?’
‘Oh, don’t be daft, Paul. It’s nothing to do with that. It makes the sensations more intense, that’s all.’
‘So you’ve done this before, then.’
I blushed. ‘Might have done.’
‘Who with?’
‘For God’s sake, Paul. I had other boyfriends before I went out with you – you know that. Now are you going to tie me up or not?’ I already knew the answer.
‘We don’t need all that kinky stuff, Lainey. We love each other.’
Did we?
I climbed over to the other side of the bed and got under the covers.
‘What are you doing? Don’t you want...?’ Paul put his hand on my shoulder.
I shook it off. ‘No, I don’t want. I’m going to sleep.’
I lay stiffly under the covers, staring at the edge of the bedside table, until Paul eventually got under the covers himself and turned off the light. Some anniversary weekend this had turned out to be.
I lay there, wide awake, staring into the gloom, for what must have been an hour. Shortly before I fell asleep, Paul whispered my name.
‘Lainey.’
I didn’t answer.
‘Lainey? Are you awake?’
Just pretend you’re asleep.
‘I love you, Lainey.’
It was two o’clock the following day, and we were having afternoon tea. This consisted of cheese, ham and turkey finger sandwiches – with the crusts cut off, of course – and home-made fruit scones, still warm from the oven, served with real butter on a silver butter-dish, strawberry jam and whipped cream. I wondered how Bridie and Patricia would rate the jam; it tasted pretty good to me, but, then again, I was no expert. This was all washed down with coffee or tea, depending on your preference, served in a little antique silver pot. But the pièce de résistance of the entire afternoon-tea experience was the dessert of the day: strawberry mousse on a perfect, light piece of sponge, served on a silver cake-plate.
Did the people serving us not realise that we were only plebs who would have settled for a lot less?
I sat with my face obscured by the Living section of the Sunday Independent. I wasn’t really reading it; I just wanted to avoid looking at Paul, who had his nose buried deep in the Sports section. Every now and then he would make some comment about speculation over the new manager of the Irish soccer team, and I would say ‘Mmm’ in response.
At one point, I looked across at him. Was he really that oblivious to what was going on in this relationship? He acted like we had no problems. Was it all a big macho show, or did he genuinely think we were doing okay?
I was considering another (solitary) walk when a shadow fell across me.
‘Hello, Lainey. I thought it was you.’
I looked up to find that the owner of the shadow was an ex-boyfriend of mine.
‘Oh. Hello, Eric.’ I sucked in my stomach involuntarily.
Eric had been my first love. I had met him when I was nineteen and in second year at UCD, and we had been inseparable until almost the end of third year. At least, I had followed him around with puppy-like devotion, waiting for him to throw me the odd scrap of affection whenever it suited him. It tended to suit him on Saturday nights and whenever he fancied a quick blow-job. He was the type of man who takes the spark out of a woman and then dumps her because she’s lost her spark. In short, he broke my hymen and my heart.
I realised he was looking expectantly at Paul.
‘Eric, this is Paul. Paul – Eric. We knew each other in college.’
Paul stood up and shook hands with Eric, and the two of them sized each other up. I could tell that Paul had immediately copped who Eric was. I had told him a little bit about Eric, but not too much, as Paul had a tendency to become insanely jealous for no good reason. He knew, however, that Eric had been my first proper boyfriend and that he had been the captain of the rugby team in his last year in college. The latter fact in particular irked him no end.
‘Romantic weekend away from the Big Smoke, is it?’ Eric asked me.
‘Something like that. You?’
‘I’m down with a few of the lads. Golf.’ He gestured to three men who were gathered around the bar, similarly attired in tank tops, baseball caps and stupid-looking trousers.
‘Do you play, Paul?’
‘I do, as a matter of fact.’
‘Are you in a club?’
‘Clontarf.’
‘Really? Nice course.’
Paul looked pleased.
‘What’s your handicap?’ Eric asked.
‘Ten.’
‘Not bad.’
‘Yours?’ I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist.
‘Three.’
Paul was crestfallen; there was no other word to describe the expression on his face. Eric smiled that smug smile that brought me back a decade in time. So you’re still a self-satisfied bastard, then.
‘What are you doing with yourself these days, Eric?’
‘I’m a management consultant.’
‘Really? I didn’t know a degree in history and rugby qualified you for that sort of thing.’
He laughed. ‘You’d be surprised what it qualifies you for.’
He’d put on a couple of stone – most of it beer, no doubt – since the last time I’d seen him. Not that I could talk: I was considerably softer around the edges too. And was it my imagination, or was he already thinning on top? I sincerely hoped so. He had always been so vain about his shiny black tresses.
In college, Eric’s hair had been shoulder-length. For some reason, in those disastrous romantic formative years I had been wildly and irresistibly drawn to long-haired lovers, especially if they had beards. Maybe I thought that if they resembled Jesus Christ they were less likely to use and abuse me, or maybe I’d just fancied Robert Powell when he played Jesus of Nazareth. Most of these boys were the type who would invite me up to their rooms to show me their poetry – and when they got me up there, they actually wanted to show me their poetry (always terrible angst-ridden mush). Eric, however, had wanted to show me something entirely different.
Back in the present, I tried to imagine him with a comb-over.
‘Better be off. It was nice seeing you again, Lainey. We must meet up in Dublin some evening for a few scoops.’
‘Yes. We must.’ Not.
‘Bye, then.’
‘Bye, Eric.’
He went back to his cronies. I shook my head and resumed reading the book reviews. I wondered what I had ever seen in that prat, and it was a good feeling.
After a while, I glanced over at Paul. His face was like thunder.
‘What’s up with you?’
Paul continued to glower.
‘Come on, spit it out.’
‘You know what’s wrong,’ he spat.
‘No, Paul, I don’t know. Did Arsenal have the crap kicked out of them by Man United again?’
‘I
just can’t believe you did that.’
‘Did what?’
‘He asked you out, and you said yes! Right in front of me!’
‘Oh, come off it, Paul. I was just being polite – and so was he.’
‘No. It was more than that. He obviously still fancies you. I suppose you used to tie each other up and have lots of showers together.’
‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous.’ I slapped the newspaper down on the table, picked up my bag and stalked out to the lobby. I pressed the button for the lift about fifteen times, as if that was going to make it come any quicker. At last the empty lift arrived and I got in. As the doors began to slide shut, I saw Paul running towards me.
‘Hold the lift. Press the button. Elena!’
Ha! I watched the door slide shut on Paul’s stunned features with satisfaction.
Back in room 101, I began to fling my possessions – which were scattered to the four corners of the room – into my overnight bag. The key sounded in the door and Paul came in.
‘I hope you’re proud of yourself.’
He was greeted by a stony silence.
‘That was very mature–not holding the lift for me.’
That did it. I threw down the blouse I’d been holding and rounded on Paul. Looking back, I think I might even have shoved him in the chest once or twice; I was in such a blind rage, it’s hard to recall. What I do remember is the expression of shock on his face.
‘Mature? Don’t talk to me about mature! You’re the most immature, uptight, anal, sulky, annoying, pathetic son of a bitch I’ve ever had the misfortune to meet, and I want nothing more to do with you – nothing! Did you hear me? I’m going to walk out of this room, and I never want to see you again!’
I paused to see if my words were having the desired effect. If the desired effect had been to make a grown man cry, I had succeeded admirably.
‘Paul – Paul.... I didn’t mean it. I just lost my temper.’
But it was too late.
Paul walked over to the bed, as if in slow motion, and sank down heavily. His face was a distinctly unhealthy grey-white, and his eyes were wide and glistening with unshed tears that he may not even have been aware of. I felt as if I’d shot a newborn fawn at point-blank range.
In desperation, I sat down on the bed beside him and put my arm around his shoulders. He didn’t respond, didn’t sink comfortably into me like he usually did.
‘You don’t want to go out with me any more, do you?’
‘Paul, I ...’
‘You don’t, do you?’ He turned and looked me in the eye. At that moment, the one thing I wanted to do more than anything else was to lie. But I couldn’t.
‘I don’t think it’s working out.’ Why was there no better way to say it? Why did it sound like such a cliché?
He stared at me for about ten seconds, then hauled himself up off the bed as if he’d just run a marathon.
‘Tell me what I need to do to change your mind.’ He went to the window and looked out, his back to me, evidently trying to compose himself.
I crumpled further down onto the bed and hid my face in my hands, trying to block out this terrible scene. Maybe if I couldn’t see it, it wouldn’t really be happening.
‘Just tell me what I have to do,’ he said again.
What could I possibly say? That I wanted him to change his whole personality, become a different person entirely, be more fiery, flamboyant, challenging, passionate, dangerous? That just wasn’t him. He was good, safe, kind, considerate, reliable Paul. Boring Paul. That was all there was to it. He just wasn’t what I’d imagined myself ending up with. He was an accountant, for God’s sake; what had I expected? Who ever heard of a dangerous accountant? But how could I tell him this?
Instead I came out with, not exactly a lie, but a half-truth.
‘It’s the constant rowing, Paul. Over absolutely nothing. I can’t handle it any more.’
‘But we can sort that out. I’ll make a big effort. I promise.’ He half-turned to look at me, renewed hope in his eyes.
This visible glimmer of hope alarmed me more than anything else. Because I already knew for certain that it was misplaced.
‘It’s not just that,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s the jealousy and suspicion – like just now, with Eric. I need to be allowed to have a past.’
‘I know, Lainey, and I’m sorry. I just can’t stand the thought of you being with anyone else.’
He was facing me fully now. I found the naked truth in his expression unbearable. I had to get out of that room.
I recommenced packing. It didn’t take long – two minutes at the most. (What with all the palaver, I didn’t notice until I got home that I’d forgotten all the freebies.)
I stood in the centre of the room, jacket on, bag on shoulder. Paul was still staring out of the window.
‘You’re really going, then?’ His eyes were open as wide as they could go and there was a choked-up quality to his voice.
I nodded.
‘You won’t even stay and try and work things out?’
‘No, Paul. It’s over.’ And still the clichés came thick and fast. I felt as if I were in a play. But the words were shocking to my ears, too. I hadn’t intended to utter them this weekend.
I walked over to him and put my hand gently on his arm. He wouldn’t look at me.
‘Don’t.’ His voice sounded funny. Thick.
‘I’ll give you a call during the week to see how you are.’
He nodded out the window.
There was nothing else to be said.
I checked out.
I’d like to point out, here and now, that my decision had absolutely nothing to do with Jack Power.
Chapter Thirteen
At least the cat was pleased to see me. She was sitting on the gate, waiting for me, when I arrived back at Power’s Cottage. She proceeded to wind herself around my legs at least thirty times. I knew she only wanted food, but her enthusiastic welcome helped me to feel a little better about myself. When she’d finished eating she jumped up on my knee, looked up at me in what I chose to believe was an adoring fashion and purred so loudly that I had to turn the TV volume up several notches. She dug her claws into me rhythmically, making herself a nice comfy bed, and rubbed up against me as if in ecstasy. I stroked the back of her head.
‘Good Cat,’ I said. ‘I can’t keep calling you Cat, can I? What’s your name? Is it Smudge?’
The cat stared up at me solemnly. I’d seen prettier felines.
‘Is it Patch? Brownie? Kitty? Sheba? Blossom? Slinky?’
As soon as I said ‘Slinky’, the cat upped her purring by several decibels.
‘Slinky,’ I said again.
This time she rolled over onto her back, paws quivering in the air, furry stomach exposed.
‘Slinky it is.’
That week I was to close the sale of the first house in the new estate in Ballyknock. I was acting for the builders; Brendan Ryan – he of the mad red hair and copious freckles – was representing the buyer. He seemed to have grown several more freckles since I’d seen him last, but he was still wearing the exact same ensemble.
He led me up a dark, narrow staircase to his office. The first thing I noticed upon entering the room was a fishing-rod leaning up against the wall. The second thing I noticed was a dog sitting on an antique chaise longue in the corner.
I decided not to ask.
‘Take a seat.’
I sat down on what appeared to be an ancient, gnarled dining-room chair. The dog’s seat looked a damn sight comfier.
‘How have you been getting on?’ asked Brendan.
‘Very well, thanks.’
‘I’ve got the money here. Will I just call out the documents and you can hand them to me?’
‘Fine.’ He clearly wasn’t going to introduce the dog. So the dog decided to introduce himself.
He jumped off his throne and made a beeline for me, tail wagging frantically. Brendan continued to ignore him. I didn’t have tha
t option: the dog placed his chin in my lap and gazed up at me imploringly with soft, droopy eyes. Any second now, he’d start to drool on the documents.
‘Hello, doggy.’
His tail thumped repeatedly on the carpet.
Brendan smiled. ‘So you’ve met my friend, then.’
‘Yes. What’s ... I mean ...’
‘You want to know why I have a dog in my office.’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s a stray. He’s been wandering around Ballyknock like a lost soul for the last few weeks. He decided to attach himself to me, poor mutt. Follows me everywhere. Trouble is, I can’t take him in. I’ve already got three Dobermans at home; they’d make mincemeat out of him.’
‘What’s going to happen to him?’
‘I’m taking him to the dog shelter this afternoon.’
‘Really? But won’t they ...’
‘Put him down if they don’t get a home for him within five days? Yes.’ Brendan was looking at me carefully.
I looked down at the dog, who now had his paw on my lap. He panted up at me. He almost looked like he was smiling.
And that was how, in the space of a fortnight, I managed to achieve the following:
• Acquire one cat
• Acquire one dog
• Lose one boyfriend.
I had been putting off ringing Paul all night. It was amazing what you could find to do around the house when you were trying to avoid doing something unpleasant. The removal of dust from upper shelves suddenly became a matter of life and death. But I could stave off the evil moment no longer. It was 9.45, and Paul went to bed at about ten on weeknights. Besides, my head wouldn’t get a moment’s peace until I took the dreaded plunge.
Holding my breath, I speed-dialled Paul’s number.
As is so often the case in life, the thing I’d wasted so much precious time worrying about never came to pass.
I got Paul’s voicemail. I left a short, formal message, saying that I’d just rung to say hello and to see how he was, and that I’d call again next week if I didn’t hear from him in the meantime. Not that I expected to hear from him. He was probably there, screening his calls. If I’d been him, I wouldn’t have wanted to speak to me either.
I felt a strange sense of anticlimax. All that adrenaline that my body had been producing in preparation for my conversation with Paul was going to waste. I decided to ring the flat.
