by Tara Heavey
My mother reported that he was driving her demented. I thought it best to refrain from commenting that she’d been demented for years, probably since long before she had met him. It wasn’t just his failure to assist in the holiday preparations that was driving her to distraction – although he probably thought he was preparing, in his own special way.
Since he’d retired, his mission had been to find himself the perfect hobby. First there had been bridge. Mum didn’t mind that – it got him out of the house and meeting new people – but his interest waned after a few short weeks. Then there had been the photography. Dad had reportedly bought thousands of pounds’ worth of equipment (‘Think of it as an investment, Teresa’) – and that obsession had lasted exactly twelve days (she’d been keeping count). I meekly pointed out that this would come in handy to take pictures of LuLing, but Mum was not to be dissuaded from her frustration. Then he’d been all set to take up wood-turning (‘It’s something I’ve wanted to do my whole life, Teresa’); Mum couldn’t even get the car into the garage any more, what with all the equipment; and had he produced so much as one bowl? I think you know the answer. His latest passion was for home brew. You couldn’t get near the airing cupboard for pipes and bubbling cauldrons. It was the last straw when Mum discovered that all her clean knickers smelt of beer.
Of course, she just wanted him to go back to work. He was clearly invading her territory.
After about an hour, I couldn’t wait to vacate the premises. Before I left, I fed Terence and shut him out in the back garden. It was for his own good. Witnessing such a high level of domestic un-bliss couldn’t be good for him.
This brings me to my second reason for travelling to Dublin on this particular weekend. It seemed that Hazel was finally ready to face the world again. Chris, Paul and I were meeting her for lunch.
I was the second person to arrive. Hazel was sitting alone in a booth at the back of the café. I tried to quell my nerves as I walked towards her. The last time I’d seen her, she’d been in St Catherine’s.
Hazel looked up from her menu just as I reached the booth. She smiled weakly.
‘Hi, Lainey. It’s good to see you.’
I struggled to control my emotions as we embraced. It felt like squeezing a bag of bones. As I settled in opposite her, I tried not to make it too obvious that I was scrutinising her face for clues. Was this the old Hazel? The new Hazel? (The mad Hazel?) She was wearing her glasses. Her hair was down and unadorned, but freshly washed; her face was devoid of make-up, but she’d lost her deathly pallor. She was wearing jeans and a pale-grey top, simple and pristine. In other words, vintage Hazel.
‘You’re looking well,’ I told her, relieved that I didn’t have to lie.
‘So are you. I love your hair.’
‘Thanks.’ I was bashful. I’d decided to leave my hair loose again today. It now extended halfway down my back. A few days before, I’d taken a few strands on the left-hand side and worked them into a plait. Matt had liked it. Now the hairstyle was making its maiden voyage to Dublin.
I was about to ask her how she really was, when the others arrived – or, I should say, the others plus one. Whose bright idea had it been to bring Iseult along? Hazel’s first foray back onto the Dublin social scene, and somebody had to bring along her nemesis. I glared at Paul and he looked away, embarrassed. There was no point glaring at Iseult, because she was talking shrilly into her mobile phone, and there was no point glaring at Chris because – well, because she was Chris.
Paul and Chris hugged Hazel as if she were breakable. Then Chris turned her attention to me.
‘Lainey! What have you done to yourself? You look amazing. Let me have a look at you.’
Had I really looked that bad before? And was the fact that Chris thought I looked amazing actually a good thing? Before I could decide, Chris – much to my embarrassment – forced me to get out of my seat and give her a twirl.
I was wearing a long, floaty skirt that contained all the colours of the universe in a vivid haze, and a simple white linen top with ruched sleeves and a lace-up neck. My boots were tan suède, and my short, fitted jacket matched them. I wore giant gypsy-style earrings and colourful bangles. Chris heartily approved.
‘I’ve never seen you looking so good. If you were showing a bit more leg, you’d be perfect.’
Showing plenty of leg herself, she clambered into the seat beside me.
I was aware of Iseult, still talking loudly into her phone, looking me up and down. She was speaking at her assistant.
‘No, no, no, Samantha. I told you not to listen to that one; she wouldn’t know Prada from Primark. You should always do what I tell you. The whole thing will have to be re-shot. The hippy-chick look went out with the Ark.’ She snapped her mobile shut.
‘Hi, Elena.’ She bared her teeth at me; it was probably meant to be a smile, but it reminded me of a programme about sharks I’d recently seen on the National Geographic channel. She proceeded to kiss everyone, once on each cheek. What was all this continental-style kissing? I must have missed its introduction. Had it been brought in with the euro? Irish people couldn’t be doing with all this kissing stuff. It wasn’t natural.
Paul sat next to Hazel, opposite Chris and me, and Iseult squashed in beside him. As Hazel, Chris, Paul and I ordered coffees and sandwiches, Iseult ordered salad and mineral water and loudly informed us that she’d just returned from a photo shoot in the Caribbean. Puke!
A situation that could have been horribly awkward was made less so by Chris’s blessed aimless chatter. She was very excited because the company she worked for was going to allow her to direct her first short film. She was undaunted by the prospect, despite the fact that she had not the first clue what the film would be about. She did have ideas, however – plenty of them, each more outlandish than the last.
Hazel was unusually quiet – although who knew what was usual in these circumstances? She seemed afraid of the crowds of people in the restaurant. Maybe we should have picked somewhere quieter. But it was Grafton Street on a Saturday afternoon; quieter didn’t exist. Her body language was different, too. She sat holding her coffee mug in front of her face, gripping it tightly in both hands, her eyes darting from side to side. She was aeons away from the cool, calm, collected Hazel I knew so well – the girl who could sum up a person in one succinct phrase, thereby reducing me and Chris to tears of laughter. At least her eyes had lost that eerie, faraway look.
The East European waitress brought over Iseult’s order. Iseult held up the bottle of water that had been placed before her and shook it from side to side, pinky finger extended.
‘Excuse me. What’s this?’
‘You ordered a bottle of water, did you not?’
‘I ordered a bottle of still water, dear. As in no bubbles. Capiche?’
‘I am very sorry. I will get you another bottle right away.’
Iseult rolled her eyes in despair. One just couldn’t get the staff nowadays.
‘That kind of thing drives me mad. Oops – sorry, Hazel.’ She held her hand up to her mouth and tittered.
Hazel and I exchanged a look that was just like old times. I glanced at Paul, but he was concentrating hard on his sandwich. He appeared oblivious, but I knew him and I knew he must be uncomfortable, to say the least.
How could he stand being with her? Okay, she was good-looking. And, God knows, not an ounce of fat clung to her taut thighs. But, really, was that adequate compensation for everything else he must have to put up with? And, even more worrying, what did that say about me? A lot of men routinely go for a certain type – just look at Rod Stewart. Was I the same type as Iseult? I knew we didn’t look alike, but.... What a horrifying thought. I’d have to ask Hazel when she got a little better. I could hardly ask Chris. (Hey, Chris? You know your friend, the complete pain in the arse? Please tell me I’m nothing like her.)
I wasn’t mad about the effect she was having on Paul, either. He’d barely acknowledged me since they’d arrived. The odd thing wa
s, I kept catching him looking at me; but every time I tried to meet his gaze, he looked away a split second too soon. Was he not allowed to so much as look at other women any more?
Why did he have to bring her along, anyway? The more I thought about it, the more annoyed I got. How on earth were we supposed to have a heart-to-heart with Hazel when Cruella DeVil was breathing down our necks?
As soon as there was a lull in the conversation (Chris had taken the first bite of her sandwich), I said impulsively, ‘Paul, how are things with you?’ I was determined to draw him out.
‘Um ... like what things?’
‘Well – work. How’s work? Not doing crazy hours, I hope.’ That was very tactful of me in the circumstances, wasn’t it?
‘No more than usual. Although I’ve had a few late nights recently.’
‘You’d need to watch that,’ said Hazel quietly. It was one of the first times she’d spoken. ‘You don’t want to end up like me.’
This silenced everyone – everyone, that is, except Iseult.
‘Well, I think Paul is absolutely right to work hard at his career. You don’t get anywhere these days without ambition. And it’s especially important for someone in Paul’s position.’
What position was that, exactly? Under her thumb?
As Iseult uttered her words of wisdom, one of her arms went around Paul’s neck and the other travelled under the table to his knee (I hoped). She snuggled up against him coquettishly, staring at me. Oh, stick it up your swiss, you stupid bitch! I had a good mind to mention Matt. I probably would have done, if Hazel hadn’t known that he’d already shagged Chris. And there was no guessing what Chris herself might come up with. No, I was better off keeping schtum.
We finished up our sandwiches amidst much mindless small talk, the blander the better.
‘Coffee, Paul,’ said Iseult.
‘Yes, please. I’d love another cup.’
‘No. Coffee, Paul. I want a decaf. And get me two sachets of sweetener.’
Nobody moved.
Then Paul turned his head slowly towards her and said, ‘I’m sure the waitress will be around any minute to take your order.’ His face was set like stone.
Iseult started to say something else, but thought better of it and closed her mouth. I resisted the urge to raise my clenched fist in the air and shout, ‘Yes!’
They left not long after that. Iseult didn’t really say goodbye; she was too busy barking orders at the long-suffering Samantha again. Paul trailed behind her, fury and embarrassment intermingling on his features.
‘I’ll give you a call next week, Hazel. Bye, Lainey, Chris.’
Chris had to go too. She had an urgent jam-and-funk-dance class to attend. I got out of my seat to let her pass. As she moved out of Hazel’s earshot, she said to me, ‘He’s good, isn’t he?’
I reddened. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We both know who I’m talking about. Told you he was exceptional. And I’m glad to see you using that hair and those tits at last. High time. It’s a sin to waste such God-given talents.’ She smirked at me, and pranced off to go jamming and funking for the afternoon. Flabbergasted, I returned to my seat.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Hazel.
‘Oh, nothing. Just Chris being Chris. Anyway ... alone at last. We can talk properly now.’
Except the thing was, I couldn’t think of a darn thing to say. I wanted to act normally, I really did. But things weren’t normal, and there was no denying it.
‘Are you going to keep living at home for the time being?’ I tried.
‘Yes. It’s the best place for me right now, I think. Mum and Dad have been brilliant.’ She stared off into the blue yonder, as if recalling how great her parents had been.
‘And how about work? You’re hardly going back to that hellhole.’
‘God, no. Not that they’d have me back.’
‘Their loss.’
Hazel laughed without humour. ‘It’s nice of you to say so. But I don’t think they’d see it that way.’
‘Well, they should. You worked damn hard for that miserable shower of shites.’
She took a sip of coffee. ‘It doesn’t matter any more. It’s in the past. I have a job interview next weekend, anyway.’
‘Really? For where?’
She had applied for a position as a part-time bookkeeper in a small, family-run firm. Of course, she was completely over-qualified for the post, but her therapist thought it would be good for her. Imagine – sane, logical, sensible Hazel had a therapist.
‘You see,’ she explained to me, after a while, ‘like I was saying to Laura – that’s my therapist – the other day, I feel like I’ve been lied to all my life.’
‘By who?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Nobody. Everybody. Society, I suppose. I mean, I’ve played by the rules all my life – and look where it’s got me. I was told to work hard in school, so I did. “Keep at the books,” my father used to say. So I did. And I got a good Leaving Cert and I went to college, and my parents were so proud.... I was the first in our family to go to college. Did you know that?’
I nodded encouragingly.
‘So I decided to study accountancy. I was always good at maths, and it seemed like a sensible, practical option. I mean, people will always need accountants. And it meant I’d be considered a professional. Me! So I worked really hard and got all my exams. I came third highest in my class. Did you know that?’
I shook my head. No, I hadn’t known that.
‘So then I get my first proper job, and it’s damned hard work, but I don’t mind. I’m prepared to put in the long hours, you see, because I want to do well. And I do. I get promoted. Then I decide to move on to that last dump of a place. Worst move I ever made. But I kept working hard, and at first I didn’t mind. I thought I could cope. I sacrificed everything for that job – my social life, my health, my relationships. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a proper boyfriend?’
‘How long?’ Actually, I knew, but at this point her questions were purely rhetorical. I didn’t like to interrupt her when she was on a roll.
‘Five years.’ She held up her open hand for emphasis. ‘Five – long – years. Do you remember that idiot Dinny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he was my last boyfriend. Just think of it – that fool! And what were they for? All those sacrifices?’
I shook my head.
‘For nothing, that’s what. Study hard. Go to college. Get a good job. Work hard. Lick the boss’s arse. Put off getting married. Put off having kids. And for what? Fuck all. I tell you, Lainey, it’s all a load of bollix. I would have been better off pissing around in secondary school for five years and then working as a checkout girl. Or going to Australia for a year. Most of my friends did that. Why didn’t I? Will I tell you why?’
She banged her fist on the table.
I nodded, fearful now that the floodgates had been opened. The couple at the next table had stopped talking and were eavesdropping avidly.
‘Because I thought I was being the smart one, that’s why. I thought, I know! I’ll stay home, work hard and get ahead while those other poor fools backpack around Australia. They’ll never get on in their careers. That’s what I thought. I mean, how smug can you get? Look at them now – thriving. And look at me. I’ve fucked up my life good and proper.’
‘No, you haven’t, Hazel. Don’t say that.’
‘But I have. What accountancy firm would have me now? I just walked out on my last job. I didn’t even give notice. I’d be afraid to ask them for a reference – God knows what they’d say about me. And what man’s going to want me now? I’ve been in the nuthouse, for God’s sake.’
‘Any man would be lucky to have you.’
‘You must be kidding. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair of me to inflict myself on a fellow human being at this time. And that’s the other thing.’
There was another thing?
‘I’m almost thirty-one. Wh
at chance do I have of ever becoming a mother?’
‘Hazel! You have loads of time. Look at Annie. She didn’t meet Chen until she was thirty-four, and she didn’t have LuLing until she was thirty-five.’
‘I suppose so.’ This pacified her somewhat. But then: ‘That’s the feminist movement for you.’
What did the feminists have to do with it?
‘They con you into believing that you’re going to be completely fulfilled by a career, and that you can put off motherhood forever. But it’s all damn lies. Look at all those women in their thirties on IVF programmes. They were lied to as well.’
The couple at the next table were preparing to leave. The woman was looking at Hazel strangely. All of a sudden, she came over to us and said rapidly, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing, and I agree with everything you’ve said. The best of luck to you.’ She held out her hand.
Hazel shook it, a bemused expression on her face. Then the woman practically ran out of the café, seemingly overwhelmed by her own impulsive behaviour. Her boyfriend scampered after her, looking equally self-conscious. Hazel and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
‘What was all that about?’ she said.
‘Well, it was a vote of confidence, anyway.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me I was talking so loudly?’ She looked sheepishly around at the rest of the punters sitting close by, but they were all ignoring us.
‘There’s an alternative career for you. You can become a motivational speaker.’
Still laughing, we ordered more coffee. I stirred my latte thoughtfully.
‘That Iseult is a piece of work, isn’t she?’
‘You can say that again.’
‘What on earth does Paul see in her? She treats him like a child.’
‘And I suppose you never treated him like a child.’ Hazel was smirking at me, one eyebrow raised.
Who? Moi?
‘I didn’t. Did I?’
She shrugged her bony shoulders, almost apologetically. ‘Well, yes, you did. Some of the time.’
