by Tara Heavey
‘Paul....’ Iseult’s voice was wheedling and needlessly loud. ‘Will you help me put my necklace on?’
‘Sure.’
I knew I shouldn’t look, but I couldn’t help myself. My eyes were inextricably drawn towards them, as if to a horrific car accident.
Iseult had somehow managed to manoeuvre her body in between Paul’s knees, her back to him. She held up her hair with one hand, exposing the nape of her neck. She met my eye gleefully.
Paul’s face was a study in concentration. I watched him fiddling around with the delicate catch of the necklace, his brow furrowed.
‘There.’ He succeeded in fastening it, and Iseult let her hair fall back down over her neck. She turned and kissed him on the mouth.
‘Thank you, darling.’
Paul failed to respond, either physically or verbally. I could tell he was conscious of the weight of my stare.
After what seemed like several aeons, the two lovebirds gathered up their jackets and made to leave.
‘Bye, guys. Oh, hold on, Paul – I just need to pay a quick visit to the bathroom.’
What, again? I sincerely hoped that the poor girl didn’t have diarrhoea.
Paul was left standing like a spare part in the centre of the room. He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other.
‘Lainey?’
‘What.’ I didn’t look up at him.
‘I’m really sorry if this was awkward for you. I wanted to meet in the pub, but Iseult said she’d prefer to meet here.’
I bet she did.
‘You see, she gets nervous waiting for people in pubs on her own.’
Yeah, right. That girl had never been afraid of anything in her entire life.
I looked up at him. ‘Don’t worry about it, Paul. You two go out and enjoy yourselves. No hard feelings on my part.’ I could have won first prize in a fake-smile competition.
‘Night, then. Night, Chris.’
And he was gone.
I felt Chris looking at me.
‘You all right?’
‘I need a drink.’
Several vodka smoothies later, I was nearly all right. It was just like old times.
Minus Hazel.
The row that had broken the camel’s back sounded laughably pathetic. Chris had used the last of the milk to make a ‘health drink’. When Hazel came into the kitchen to fix herself a coffee and discovered that there was no milk left, she went bananas.
‘And I was just about to go down to the corner shop to replace it.’
‘I’m sure you were.’
‘I was!’
‘I believe you, Chris. I wasn’t being sarcastic.’
‘Oh – sorry. Well, I was. And I told her so. I even offered her a glass of my health drink to tide her over until I came back, but she just went mental.’
I could picture the scene. Chris’s health drinks were evil-smelling concoctions made of stuff like wheatgrass juice, tripe and diced frogs’ legs (I made the last two up).
‘So I said, “Calm down, Haze,” and she went absolutely bonkers and said not to call her Haze ever again, that she wasn’t a bloody air freshener. Then she stormed out. About half an hour later I heard the front door slam. I just peeked into her room, and half her clothes were gone –’ She could tell this just by peeking through the bedroom door? ‘– and so was the suitcase she keeps on top of her wardrobe. Then, when I got home late the next evening, the room was empty and this note had been shoved under my bedroom door.’
She leaned over to the coffee table, picked up a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.
Gone to parents. Won’t be back. Ever. One hundred euro enclosed to cover my share of upcoming bills. If more owed, please send details to parents’ house.
The note was unsigned.
Was that it?
‘Did you try and contact her or anything?’
‘No,’ Chris said. ‘It was lucky Iseult could move in right away, otherwise we would have been stuck paying Hazel’s share of the rent until we found a replacement.’
‘Yes, I know. But it might have been better to leave it for a while – let the dust settle. Maybe we could have convinced her to come back.’
Chris shook her head vehemently. ‘No way.’
I stared at her in surprise.
‘I’m glad she’s gone. I don’t want to live with her any more. The last few months have been awful. You don’t know the half of it, Lainey. I was on the verge of moving out myself.’
I was gobsmacked. This was Chris, who never got ruffled about anything – who always seemed blissfully unaffected by slights and insults.
‘The only reason I lasted so long was that she was hardly ever here. She worked late every single night – she was never in before nine – and she’d go into the office every Saturday and Sunday morning. When she was here, she’d go round the place slamming doors and biting the head off me every time I opened my mouth. And that’s not all. Remember how fussy she used to be about her appearance?’
I nodded. I remembered, all right. Although she dressed even more conservatively than I did, Hazel was fastidious when it came to her looks. She got her hair trimmed and the colour touched up every six to eight weeks, without fail, and she got a monthly manicure, facial and eyebrow-pluck. Her clothes were always immaculate – there was never a stray hair or a speck of dust on the black trouser suits she wore for work. Her morning preparations had frequently had Chris and me banging on the bathroom door in frustration.
‘Now she only seems to shower every few days,’ Chris told me, ‘and she hardly ever bothers to wash her hair. As for make-up – forget it.’ And this was a woman who used to get a Christmas card every year from her beauty therapist.
I shook my head silently. I had known things were bad, but I hadn’t realised they were this bad. Of course, I should have known. If I were a proper friend I would have known. But I had been wrapped up in my rapturous thoughts of Jack. I thought of the frantic phone messages that I’d ignored, and cringed.
‘I’ll ring her first thing in the morning.’
Chris shrugged. It seemed that the treatment she had suffered at Hazel’s hands over the last few months had deadened any sympathetic feelings she might have had. And they’d been so close!
I felt compelled to remind Chris of how warm and witty and fun Hazel had once been. ‘Do you remember our holiday in Majorca?’
Chris smiled faintly at the memory.
‘We had such a brilliant time,’ I said. ‘Remember that night Hazel got high and took over the karaoke bar? She wouldn’t let anyone else have the microphone.’ The poor girl didn’t have a note in her head.
‘She wasn’t so uptight in those days, either,’ said Chris. ‘She had it away with two different Spanish waiters that fortnight.’
‘Oh, yes! What were their names again?’
Chris frowned. ‘I think they were both called José.’
‘I think you’re right.’
Maybe all Spanish waiters called themselves José, to avoid complications and future identification.
‘Talking of having it away, have you given Matt a go yet?’
‘No, I have not. And will you stop talking about him as if he were a fairground ride?’
‘He’s the best ride I’ve ever had.’
‘Well, it won’t be happening. Remember his brother Jack?’ I smiled shyly. ‘I’ve been seeing him.’
‘Really?’ Her face was a study in amazement.
‘Yes, really. What’s so strange about that?’
‘Nothing, I suppose. I wouldn’t have thought he was your type, that’s all.’
Not my type! Since when was a kind, funny, muscle-bound love-god not my type?
‘Lainey?’ Chris’s voice was childlike as she changed the subject. ‘Am I very difficult to live with?’
‘Well – you play your music too loud sometimes. But, apart from that, no.’
‘Hazel says I am. She says I’d try the patience of Job.’
‘Tha
t’s not true. You’re a brilliant flatmate. Hazel’s just not herself at the moment. I wouldn’t take anything she says right now to heart.’
After a few moments’ silence: ‘Who’s Job?’
‘Bloke in the Bible.’
‘Was he very patient, then?’
‘Must have been.’
I was silent again. And worried. Very worried.
I sighed. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I think we should have one more vodka smoothie and go to bed.’
Chapter Eighteen
I rang Hazel’s home number first thing in the morning. Her dad answered. No, Hazel wasn’t there, she’d gone into the office. There was no point talking to him – he was a big eejit; I asked for Hazel’s mum, but she was out shopping.
I rang Hazel’s office number and got her voicemail. Then I tried her mobile and got her voicemail. Sometimes I hated technology. I even went into town and tried to go to her office, but the security guard – jobsworth bastard – wouldn’t let me in.
I tried to contact her again on Sunday but got nowhere. Frustrated, I decided to go and spend some quality time with my parents. Anything was better than hanging around the flat, waiting to be assaulted by Iseult. I got the hell out of Dodge.
My mother was literally bursting with news and gossip. Not only had my first cousin in the States given birth to twins (Shawn and Shannen. Eek!), but – wait for it – Tatiana and Chen were coming home for Christmas.
I greeted this piece of information with mixed feelings. Sure, it would be great to see Annie again, and I couldn’t wait to meet her new man; but I hoped he knew his kung fu. He’d need it when Dad got his hands on him. It wasn’t every day that one of Dad’s precious daughters became a fallen woman.
I didn’t voice my concerns to Mum. It would have been mean, when she was so elated by the news. She was already planning to enlist Chen’s help to feng shui the entire house. (That should improve Dad’s mood no end.) She was also swotting up on Chinese medicine so she’d have something to talk to him about. I felt sorry for the poor bloke already.
I asked how Terence had got on for the last two nights.
‘Oh, famously! He was a bit excitable after you left, but I gave him a shiatsu massage and he was grand after that. And you’re not to take this the wrong way, now, but he was a little mucky, being a country dog and all, so I gave him a good shampoo and he’s all the better for it.’ She let Terence in from the back garden and he charged into the sitting room, tail and legs and tongue flying. He was euphoric at the sight of me, even though I say so myself. The mutt smelt like the perfume counter in Boots. He was wearing a tiny green bow above his right ear. It wasn’t Mum’s fault. She was only used to dressing girls. I’d remove the bow as soon as we got back to Ballyknock. I didn’t want the other doggies to make fun of him.
I entered the working week feeling as if I’d had no break. The weekend’s revelations had taken their toll. I knew it wasn’t reasonable to be so affected by Paul’s new relationship – I mean, he had the right to go out with whomever he wanted; I had relinquished my claim. No doubt it was just a reflex reaction to feel so rotten. We’d only been apart a wet week. That Iseult certainly couldn’t be accused of letting the grass grow under her feet. Come to think of it, neither could Paul. It had hardly been a decent mourning period.
Luckily, I had Jack’s attentions to look forward to. I was keener on him than ever and felt an urgent desire to see him again – to make sure he still liked me; to have my worth affirmed. It must have been the weekend away that did it. Absence did make the heart grow fonder, after all.
I hoped it made the dick grow harder too.
I decided to give him one more opportunity to make his move. If he didn’t, I was going to make it for him.
When a pleasant Tuesday evening ended with no more than a polite kiss, I resolved that Thursday night was going to be The Night. My very limited stockpile of patience had exhausted itself.
I invited Jack to dinner at ‘my place’. Why, I hear you wonder, did I do that, when a) I couldn’t cook and b) I had sampled his mother’s amazing food?
Well. Apart from desperation, the reason was that I’d temporarily forgotten that I no longer lived in Dublin and, as a result, was no longer within spitting distance of Marks & Sparks. Preparations for previous dinner parties had involved a swift trip to Marks, after which I bunged everything I’d bought into the oven for however long it said on the packet. Pretty foolproof – even for me. Now what was I going to do? Mild panic started to set in. I even considered taking a half-day on Thursday so I could drive up to Dublin, stock up on provisions and make it back down to Ballymuck in time for dinner. That was Plan A. Too stupid, even for me. Plan B involved a mixed grill ... no. I couldn’t possibly do that. But if he was still around for breakfast the next morning ... I decided to stock up on rashers and sausages, just in case.
Eventually, a café in town saved the day. I discovered in the nick of time that they sold some of their delicious produce. I emerged on Thursday evening with a lasagna, a quiche and a cheesecake. I could just about handle salad and garlic bread myself – with the aid of Superquinn.
So that was the food sorted. What about me? I rushed home to commence preparations. By the time I’d bathed in rose-scented bubbles and sprinkled myself with matching rose talc, I felt like a Turkish delight – hopefully, good enough to eat. Good enough to melt in Jack Power’s mouth. I dressed, made up my face and pinned up my hair with more care than usual. I decided on a messy chignon kind of affair, with a few carefully contrived tendrils escaping at the side. That way, he could fantasise about taking it down. Maybe I should wear my reading glasses so that he could take them off too (But, Miss Malone, I had no idea you were so beautiful...).
I smiled at the result in the mirror. ‘Tonight’s the night, honey child.’
As I peered at my reflection, checking for flaws, I caught Mary Power’s eye in the mirror. I turned to face her – her dark, mysterious eyes staring right into me, as usual; that enigmatic Mona Lisa half-smile.
‘I suppose you don’t approve of this kind of behaviour, do you?’
Funnily enough, she didn’t reply. Encouraged, I continued.
‘I’m not a slag, you know. I really like your grandson. I might even marry him someday. But times have changed and people don’t wait until they’re married any more. He’s being a bit slow off the starter’s block, and I’m just giving him a little push in the right direction. A woman has her needs – you know that.’ It sounded daft, but I felt like I owed her an explanation. It was her house, after all.
If Mary Power was unhappy with this, she certainly wasn’t letting on. Satisfied, I resumed my attempts to make the house look respectable. I had just removed the worst of the dog hair from the carpet – and dimmed the lights so that the rest of it wasn’t too visible – when the jeep pulled into the driveway. Jack made his entrance, a bottle of wine in each hand.
‘I’m starved. Let’s eat!’ he proclaimed loudly.
I couldn’t argue with that.
You may have heard women of a certain age say of a man, ‘He made me feel like a teenager again.’ Well, that goes a little way towards describing how I felt about Jack Power that night. (Not that I was a certain age, you understand. Only twenty-nine and a half. A mere pup!) For the first time, I felt uneasy in his presence – tongue-tied, unable to be myself. I don’t know if he noticed. He kept the conversation going, in any case, with that easy charm of his.
Finally, dinner demolished, I bit the bullet and suggested that we adjourn to the couch. He agreed without any hint of awkwardness. He’d probably been in this situation a zillion times before.
At this stage, we’d managed to polish off both bottles of wine. I offered him an Irish coffee, which he accepted. That part of the plan was going okay, anyway – the part where I got him so sozzled that even he wouldn’t consider driving home. There wasn’t exactly a taxi rank in the vicinity. However, the other part of the plan, which invol
ved me remaining relatively sober so that I could be in control of the situation and my faculties, had gone horribly pear-shaped. Obviously, a big, rebel part of me had decided I needed double-Dutch courage.
We curled up on the couch with our coffees. The log fire crackled comfortingly before us, and Mary Power looked down imperiously from above. I had to congratulate myself at least on the setting of the scene. You could almost imagine you were in a log cabin in the Canadian wilderness. All that was missing was the sheepskin (mooseskin?) rug – something upon which Jack could throw me and make mad passionate love to me.
After a while, he took the glass out of my hand and placed it on the floor beside him. ‘Here. Snuggle up properly.’ He grabbed my legs by the knees and swung them up so that they rested across his legs.
‘Now. Isn’t this cosy?’ he said, handing me back my glass.
Yes, it was. Very cosy. And very nice. In ordinary circumstances I would have been delighted with this result. But tonight was no ordinary circumstance. Did I mention that tonight was The Night?
I sat quietly, only half-listening, as he chatted away. I was conscious of the rain rattling against the Velux, the wind whipping around the corners of the cottage, Jack’s proximity and body heat.... It took me a few moments to notice that he’d stopped talking.
I tore my mesmerised gaze away from the fire and looked into his ocean-coloured eyes. The flames were reflected in them, lending them an eerie, flickering glow. All at once I felt afraid. Jack looked deadly serious.
In what seemed like an agonisingly slow movement, he leant over and brushed my lips with his. That one feathery touch sent sensations shooting around my whole body. Several tortuous seconds passed, in which I was aware of nothing but his hot breath on my face. Please, sir, can I have some more?
I wasn’t disappointed. He brought his lips down onto mine again. This time the kiss was long and soft and deep. He pulled away again – but only for the briefest moment. Then he brought his hand up and cupped my face, kissing me again and again and again. All the time the kisses grew stronger. Longer. More probing. In no time, his massive hands were on my neck – my shoulders – on my breasts, moulding their shape. I arched my body into his, making strange little whimpering noises.
