by Tara Heavey
I pulled away without warning.
‘What is it?’ His voice was husky and urgent.
Without saying a word, I pulled my top over my head and unhooked my bra. He stared for a few seconds and then pounced, alternately feasting his hands and his mouth on my breasts. All sorts of feelings were surging through me. I writhed on the couch beneath him, thinking I was about to explode.
When I couldn’t take any more, I wriggled free and stood up. Looking down at him, I held out my hand.
‘Let’s go inside.’
Jack hesitated. Something strange flitted across his features. It might have been fear, but I couldn’t be sure.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said. ‘Don’t you want to?’
‘No, it’s not that.’ He took my hand and allowed me to lead him into the bedroom.
Once inside, I closed the door, grateful that I’d fixed the lighting earlier so that it was soft and flattering. I hastily removed the rest of my clothes and jumped under the covers to hide my naked body. Jack stood at the end of the bed. He looked uncertain. I patted the space of duvet beside me in what I hoped was an inviting manner.
He put his hands on his hips and looked at the floor. ‘I don’t know, Lainey.’
I sat upright in the bed. ‘What don’t you know?’
‘Is this a good idea? I don’t want to rush you.’
I relaxed. ‘Is that all? Don’t worry. You’re not rushing me. I’m ready.’ And had been for the last month. I patted the bed again.
Jack removed his shoes slowly and – I hoped this was only my imagination – almost reluctantly. He lay down beside me, on top of the covers. He was flat on his back, one hand behind his head, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. I leant over and rained soft kisses all over his face. No response. I tenderly unbuttoned his shirt, exposing his flawless torso. I gently kissed his chest and treated it to feather-light strokes. He didn’t stir. I unbuckled his belt. He was motionless. It was clear that he didn’t have a gun in his pocket, and neither was he pleased to see me.
‘Jack ... what is it?’
I draped myself across his body in what I hoped was a seductive manner, my thigh pressing against his thigh, my nipples brushing against his. I kissed him on the mouth, hopefully – desperately.
‘Jack,’ I whispered. His name hung in the air. Still he wouldn’t look at me. With an exasperated sigh, I rolled over onto my own back so that our bodies were no longer touching. What was going on? I didn’t understand.
We lay beside each other in mutual silence. The inches that separated us could have been miles. Eventually, Jack made his move: he kissed me lightly on the cheek and got up off the bed. I watched impassively as he dressed himself. When he was fully clothed, he turned and looked down at me.
‘Lainey.’
I didn’t reply.
‘Lainey, answer me.’
‘What.’ I hadn’t meant the word to emerge from my mouth in a vicious hiss, but it did.
‘I’m sorry, but that was just too soon for me.’
Oh, you poor delicate flower.
‘I would have been happy with just a snog tonight, and then we could have met up for lunch tomorrow, or something.’
My apologies for being such a slut.
‘I mean, it’s not as if you don’t have quite a nice body....’
Quite a nice body? Don’t do me any favours.
‘I didn’t have a condom, anyway.’
I did. Thanks for asking.
‘And I have a very early start tomorrow. I’d be much better off sleeping in my own bed tonight.’
Don’t let me stop you.
Jack paused for a few seconds.
‘Good night, then.’
I didn’t reply.
‘Lainey. I said good night.’ He sounded almost angry. Accusing. As if it was I who had ruined everything.
‘Good night,’ I said tersely.
He seemed satisfied with this. He left.
I listened for the desolate sound of the front door opening and closing; then the door of his jeep, the slam echoing into the night; then the jeep taking off down the hill, the noise of the engine growing fainter and fainter. Then I pulled the covers up to my chin, turned my face to the wall and cried my eyes out.
Chapter Nineteen
I didn’t sleep much that night. Neither was I afforded those few moments’ grace you sometimes get when you wake the next morning, as yet blissfully unaware of your problems. I recollected last night’s debacle the second I regained consciousness. I groaned inwardly and curled up into the foetal position, wishing I were a tiny infant again with no problems or responsibilities.
I felt sick to my stomach when I thought about the events of the previous night. It wasn’t just the humiliation – although, God knows, that was acute enough. It was also the utter demise of hope. I hadn’t realised until now that I’d had my hopes pinned on Jack to such an extent. I’d really thought that this was It. That he was The One. I shook my head at my own stupidity – imagine still believing in The One at my age. You’re nearly thirty, Lainey. For God’s sake, cop on to yourself. You’re meant to be sensible, together, pragmatic.... The thing was, up until that point, I had assumed that I was all these things. But no. It transpired that, when it came to the male species, I was as clueless now as I had been at eighteen.
Grey light filtered in through the curtains. I heaved myself out of bed, even though it was still too early to get ready for work. I couldn’t stand to lie there any longer with just my self-destructive thoughts for company. I dragged myself into the kitchen – carefully avoiding Mary Power’s gaze – and cursed loudly at the sight of the flotsam and jetsam of the night before. It was like returning to the scene of a crime, seeing the telling evidence of the disaster that had occurred in that very room. Maybe I shouldn’t touch anything, just cordon off the whole area until the love police arrived and carried out their investigation. They could draw a chalk line around my body: the victim. Verdict: crime of no passion.
Unable to bear looking at the scene any longer, I rapidly began to clear away the dirty plates and glasses. Seldom had I felt such enthusiasm for a cleaning task that didn’t have a deadline attached to it (imminent arrival of visitors, for example). But how else was I to start the process of putting it behind me?
This task accomplished – you’d never have guessed he’d been there – I made myself an almost solid cup of coffee and forced myself to drink several glasses of water in order to counteract the damage I’d inflicted on my thumping head. I was sure I was having some kind of minor brain haemorrhage. The coffee was comforting and revived me somewhat.
Next, I took a long hot shower to wash off his scent, such as it was. I was about to dress myself when I decided, in my infinite wisdom, that I hadn’t yet been tortured enough. I walked slowly towards my full-length mirror. Gazing directly into my own bleary eyes, I let the blue towel I was wrapped in fall into a cloth puddle at my feet. Then I began the delicate process of dissecting my body, inch by inch, to work out which particular part of me had so disgusted Jack.
Jack.
I could barely bring myself to think – let alone say – his name.
It’s never an easy thing to do, stare at one’s naked body in the mirror, with nothing to hide behind. The unflattering early-morning light flowed through the window and added to the horror. Every flaw was laid bare, exposed in all its glory: the stretch marks on my breasts; the slackness of my stomach muscles; my dimpled buttocks; and, worst of all, my raw-sausage-meat thighs. As I pummelled the mottled flesh, I reached levels of self-hatred that I hadn’t thought possible. I resolved never to let a chip or a morsel of cream bun pass my lips ever again. The next time Jack Power laid eyes on me, I’d be a svelte supermodel. Then he’d be sorry. I’d have him crying into his beer.
When I’d finished putting myself down, I got dressed for work. I considered ringing in sick, but what was the point? The last thing I needed was to hang around the house all day with nothing to do but think. So I bra
ved the cold. I braved the wind. I braved the driving sheets of rain. And I went into the office and tried to be brave.
When I look back on those few weeks leading up to Christmas, I don’t remember all that much – just a kind of Ground Zero of the soul. What I do remember is that the bright, crisp, promising days of early December had given way to a deluge of almost biblical proportions. The whole countryside was afloat, the sky was on the ground and my walks with Terence had become few and far between. Sunny south-east, my arse.
Work was manic – young couples anxious to get into their new homes by Christmas. Normally this attitude irritated me somewhat, but this year, I was almost pathetically grateful for it. I threw myself headlong into my work; I came home most evenings feeling as if my brain had been sizzled on a frying-pan, sunny side down. And my eyes felt sore and overheated, like overworked electrical appliances. But this suited me just fine. Work I knew. Work I could do. Work I was good at.
Men, I clearly wasn’t good at.
Disastrous relationships from my past that I hadn’t dwelt upon for years came back to haunt me, like ghosts of Christmas past. I wasn’t even going to try any more. From now on, it was lesbianism or the nunhood for me.
In all this time, I didn’t see hide nor hair of Jack Power.
And then, all of a sudden, it was Christmas. Thank God for Christmas.
I didn’t really care if Dad murdered Chen. I was just happy to be away from Power’s Cottage and Ballyknock and all its associations. To be in familiar surroundings with the people I’d known since birth was strangely comforting.
I buried myself in Christmas preparations. Mum was delirious with excitement at the prospect of Annie’s homecoming, and I allowed myself to be carried along on her wave. Let’s face it, I had nothing else to get excited about.
Since each of my parents had asked me approximately twelve times if Paul would be coming over for Christmas, I had no choice but to finally tell them the terrible truth. They were both devastated. You’d think I’d dumped them too. Of course, I could hear the subtext in their heads: I was as good as thirty now, and ne’er a suitable match in sight. Even though they had the good sense not to voice this concern, I was as indignant as if they had said it to my face. Did I have a sell-by date stamped on my forehead or something? Invisible, indelible: Consume this woman before the thirtieth or she’ll start to go off, begin to smell. That was me – overripe. Soon young men would offer me their seats on the bus. I’d start buying bumper packs of Mass cards.
Mum bombarded me with endless questions about the whys and wherefores of the break-up. ‘Why don’t you invite him around anyway?’ she suggested. I could see the plotting and scheming going on behind her eyes. I silenced her by telling her that Paul had a new girlfriend and that she was a very glamorous fashion editor. That shut her up.
Dad’s only comment was a barely audible mumble to the effect that he supposed that now I was going to take up with some foreigner too. Mum turned on him fiercely and warned him once again that if he caused any trouble while Chen was a guest in their house, she’d divorce him. Dad hid behind his newspaper for protection. I didn’t blame him. My mother could be pretty terrifying when it came to the protection of her children.
At least now that Annie was paired off and knocked up, some of the pressure would be taken off me. Mum and Dad’s thoughts would be distracted from my impending spinsterhood. I considered telling them about Jack (not all the gory details, you understand), just to prove that there was life in the old dog yet, but they were disappointed enough already.
We went unashamedly overboard with the decorations. This year we had many new additions to our usual tacky streamers, baubles and twenty-plus-year-old decorations that Annie and I had made in primary school (sections of egg carton sprinkled with glitter. I think they were meant to be bells). My parents had been to Long Island earlier that year, to visit the then-expectant mother of twins Shawn and Shannen (eek!); while they were there, they’d stocked up on all kinds of outdoor lights, including a sparkling reindeer and an illuminated plastic Santa. Mum and I were ludicrously proud of our efforts and fully believed that our house resembled the famous Budweiser ad. Dad, however, informed us that our home was in danger of being mistaken for South County Dublin’s answer to Amsterdam’s red-light district.
So we were all set. The excitement had nearly reached fever pitch by Christmas Eve, when Annie and Chen were due to arrive. Dad went to the airport to meet them, in his newly hoovered Volvo. Terence was wearing his reindeer-antlers headband. Mum and I busied ourselves putting out little bowls of peanuts and crisps, to the accompaniment of Christmas with the Rat Pack. The aroma of mince pies and mulled wine filled the air. (You must be able to get a spray for that too.)
By the time we heard the car pulling into the drive, we had been waiting for such a long time that I’d begun to worry that Dad had taken a detour into the Dublin mountains to kill Chen and bury his finely chopped body. But no: there was Chen, strolling through the front door, smiling easily at everyone. At least, I thought it must be him.
‘Lainey, this is Chen.’
It was.
I hugged Annie fiercely. Chen was instantly overpowered by Mum, who started clucking all over him: ‘Let me take your coat.... You must find it dreadfully cold over here.... Are you tired after your journey?... Would you like a drink? A nice pint of sake, perhaps?’
‘Mum, sake is a Japanese drink,’ said Annie, in amused exasperation.
I was in the process of following them into the sitting room when Annie grabbed me urgently by the elbow and dragged me back into the hall.
‘Has Dad said anything to you about Chen?’
‘Not really. He’s been warned to be on his best behaviour, on pain of divorce.’
She let out a deep breath. ‘Thank goodness for that.’
‘How was he just now in the car?’
‘Silent.’
‘Better than violent.’
She nodded. Just then, Dad brushed past us carrying two suitcases. We both automatically flashed him a smile.
‘What are you two up to?’
‘Nothing.’ A reflex response that dated back to our teenage years.
Christmas Eve that year in our house was something of a success. Dad behaved impeccably – the super-civil host – while Mum kept the conversation going by firing round after round of ever more probing questions at the travellers. Poor Chen looked quite overwhelmed – so much so that, after only a couple of hours, Annie suggested that they should go to bed because of the jet lag. If you ask me, they were only trying to get out of the game of charades.
I had convinced my mother to let the visitors sleep in the same bedroom. She had agonised about it until I’d pointed out that Annie was already up the duff, so what harm could it possibly do?
She stopped her future son-in-law as he was about to climb the wooden hill to bed.
‘Chen, if you don’t mind, tomorrow after dinner I’d love to get your expert opinion on a few ideas I have up my sleeve. I want to re-design the kitchen so that it’s auspicious from a feng shui point of view.’
‘Okay. But only one problem ...’
‘Yes?’
‘I think that feng shui is ... How you say?’ He glanced at Annie for help. ‘A lot of bollix.’
There were a few moments of silence; everyone was frozen to the spot. Then, from the deep recesses of the living room, came the sound of Dad’s roaring laughter. Then we all started to laugh, like at the end of an episode of Scooby Doo. I knew then with certainty that everything was going to be all right.
My mother went into paroxysms of delight upon discovering that Chen was Catholic (she had been too afraid to ask before) and would be only too delighted to accompany the family to Christmas-morning Mass. So, after the great annual present-opening ceremony around the tree (Chen’s presents were impressively apt – and expensive), we all trotted down to the usual half-past-eleven service.
The church was packed. Everyone was in good form a
nd showing off their new clothes. The sermon was light on the fire and brimstone, as befitted the day that was in it. But still I couldn’t help thinking that the priest spoke too slowly. You’d think I could be patient for one hour out of my life, but the truth was, Mass bored me to tears. The fact that I hadn’t been since last Christmas hadn’t boosted the novelty factor. The choir, however, were superb and performed a wonderful rendition of ‘A Spaceman Came Travelling’ – again. It was like Christmas déjà vu. Apart from the Chinese bloke standing to my left. And apart from Annie’s burgeoning bump.
The night before, when Dad was out of the room, she had shyly shown us the five-month-old swelling, which she was keeping discreetly hidden beneath voluminous jumpers. It was weird, in a nice sort of way. Her boobs, which I hadn’t thought could possibly get any bigger, were even more enormous than usual. She confided that she now had to order her bras off the Internet (I’d long suspected that breasts that big only existed in cyberspace).
Christmas dinner was the traditional roast turkey with all the trimmings. Surprisingly, it didn’t come out burnt. This was due in no small part to the mysterious disappearance of the remote control to the kitchen TV. It had taken all my skills as a lawyer to convince my mother not to attempt aromatic duck as an alternative Christmas dinner. I couldn’t, however, stop her from putting a bottle of soy sauce on the table along with the gravy. When she brought out two bowls of prawn crackers, purchased from the local Chinese take-away, for the starter, Annie, Chen and Dad collapsed into fits of giggles. This was very interesting for me; I’d never seen my father giggle before and hadn’t thought he was capable of it. Chortling, maybe; chuckling, perhaps; but giggling?
After dinner, Mum caused further hilarity by suggesting that Chen entertain us all with ‘some origami tricks’. He politely declined, after explaining that origami was in fact an ancient Japanese art.
