by Tara Heavey
I stirred another packet of sugar into my coffee. Was that true? It had to be, or why would she say it?
‘Anyway’ – she patted my hand encouragingly – ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s only with her because he can’t be with you.’
I stopped stirring.
‘That’s rubbish.’
‘’S’obvious.’
‘But he practically ignored me earlier.’
‘Only because she was there. I’m telling you, he’s still carrying a big, flaming torch.’
I didn’t quite know what to do with this piece of information.
But I did feel something inside of me soar.
When we were in imminent danger of overdosing on caffeine, we finally left the café. I cajoled Hazel into coming to the cinema with me. She wasn’t up to browsing around the shops – too many people for her to cope with just then, she explained. She also apologised for ignoring my phone calls before Christmas. She said she just hadn’t been able to cope with talking to anyone – and she still found it tough. Getting through today’s lunch unscathed had been a personal triumph for her. Hell – if you could cope with Iseult, you could cope with anything.
But the cinema was the perfect place for her. Because it was mid-afternoon, the Savoy was half-empty. I love going to the cinema in the daytime; it always makes me feel like I’m playing hooky. We chose the least highbrow film there was. Think of the most mindless action movie ever, combine it with the cheesiest chick-flick you’ve ever seen, and multiply that by ten. It was much worse than that.
We both loved it. Arms cradling massive tubs of popcorn, feet illegally up on the seats in front of us, we hugged ourselves in anticipation. I loved the whole spectacle – the curtains edging back from the screen, the larger-than-life ads, the trailers, even the warning to turn off your mobile phone.... They all heralded the start of two hours of escapism and fantasy. We forgot ourselves, forgot the world around us and lost ourselves in the magic of Hollywood.
Chapter Twenty-six
I left Dublin at half-two the next day. I had planned to stay longer, but there’s only so much one daughter can take. And, besides, I couldn’t wait to get back to Ballyknock.
Matt had arranged to call around at eight. But I got back at five, and there was no way I was waiting three hours. I decided to call to his surgery instead. As I pulled up outside, I could hardly suppress the excitement that was threatening to burst right through my chest. Lucky I had an airbag. I smiled goofily at myself in the rear-view mirror as I hastily brushed my hair and applied a coat of lipstick. It was a new, cutting-edge, shimmery shade that the woman in the shop had talked me into buying. It was really me, apparently. She must have seen me coming a mile off.
At the sight of the surgery, Terence began to shake and whimper in the back seat. He hadn’t relished getting his stitches out.
‘It’s all right, boy,’ I told him. ‘It’s not your turn this time.’
I stepped out of the car and ran lightly across the gravel and up the steps. The waiting room was empty. There was one other car outside; Matt was hopefully finishing up with his last patient. Even the receptionist had gone home. I sat down in one of the plastic chairs, crossed my legs and admired the fake tan I’d oh-so-professionally applied to my legs that morning. For once, it didn’t look as if somebody had poured Bisto haphazardly down my shins. The toenails were looking good, too – new hot-pink shade I’d also been conned into buying. And I was wearing the new underwear I’d furtively bought in Knickerbox the day before. Even though I’d entered the shop wishing I were wearing shades and a fake beard – you’d have thought I was buying a giant dildo, going by the embarrassment I’d caused myself – I had emerged triumphant, head held high, bearing a pretty little bag brimming over with frothy pink lace. I couldn’t wait to take my matching bra-and-knickers set for a test drive and see if Matt liked it too. For years, I’d been a slave to white cotton briefs and sensible matching bras; now that seemed like eating vanilla ice-cream all your life, when there were so many other flavours to choose from.
The door to the surgery was slightly ajar, and I could hear the conversation within. It sounded like it was winding up.
‘So give him one of these tablets twice a day.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Power.’ A woman’s voice.
‘Oh, please – call me Matt.’
‘How much do I owe you – Matt?’
‘Tell you what – let’s forget about it, since it’s your first visit. If the tablets don’t work and he needs more treatment, we can talk about payment then.’
‘That’s very decent of you, Matt. I’m really grateful.’
‘Yeah? How grateful?’
My leg froze mid-swing.
A high-pitched giggle. ‘Oh, very.’
‘Enough to come on a picnic with me next week?’
‘Maybe.’
I’d heard enough. I ran out of the waiting room, down the steps, across the gravel and towards my car. I fumbled around with my car keys, which no longer seemed to fit the lock. I dropped the bunch of keys on the ground with a clatter.
‘Shit!’ I couldn’t help exclaiming loudly. Finally, I was in my car. I slammed the door shut and turned the key in the ignition. The engine revved angrily.
The last thing I saw as I swung out of the driveway was Matt’s face, a picture of horror, freeze-framed in the surgery window. So I did what every woman worth her salt would do in the circumstances.
I gave him the finger.
Back at the ranch, I waited for the deluge of tears. I waited in vain. I must have been shell-shocked.
So I tried indignation instead. How could he? I’d just wasted the best six weeks of my life on him (mind you, he was the reason they had been the best six weeks of my life). And the very minute my back was turned – the first weekend I went to Dublin – he’d asked another girl out! And maybe she wasn’t even the first. There could have been a new girl each week, for all I knew.
‘No offence, but your grandson is a right dickhead,’ I told Mary Power. She stared back at me impassively.
But, try as I might, I couldn’t work up a good head of steam on my anger. I had got a shock, all right; but, behind it all, if I was entirely honest with myself, I wasn’t all that surprised. Deep down, I knew the deal. I wasn’t in love with Matt any more than he was in love with me. All my life, I’d been taught that you couldn’t have good sex without being in love. Well, Matt had blown that particular myth out of the water. Why I’d ever bought into the concept in the first place was beyond me now. It had never proved to be true in my own life.
I had let myself be played, by a player of virtuoso standard, and I had enjoyed every note. I had used him as much as he’d used me. But ‘used’ wasn’t really the right word. We had enjoyed each other – taken pleasure from each other’s company, not to mention each other’s body. There had been genuine respect and affection. I knew there had been.
As my feelings came into focus, I realised that my overwhelming emotions were disappointment and a sense of loss. I’d so enjoyed our little trysts, and now they were over. Our fling had been flung. Even if Matt wanted to carry on regardless, it wasn’t in my nature to share a man with goodness knew how many other women. And it would have been selfish to try to keep him all to myself. A talent like his should be shared. No doubt he felt the same way.
The phone rang. Anticipating this, I had put it on answerphone.
‘Lainey, are you there? If you are, will you pick up, please? ... Lainey, it’s me – Matt. Look ... I’m very sorry you had to hear what I think you heard. Give me a ring if you like, and we can discuss it. Bye, then.’ He hung up.
I sat in silence for a few minutes, thinking how much I’d miss him. Then I got to my feet and started unpacking my overnight bag. Enough moping. I had things to do and stuff to get ready for work in the morning. I comforted myself with the thought that at last I’d found the one thing at which Matt Power didn’t excel: monogamy.
And then I thoug
ht of someone who’d never treat me like that in a million years.
At times like this, I found there was only one thing to do: throw myself into my work. It was the one constant that could always be relied upon in an ever-shifting universe. There was always work, and plenty of it.
That Monday was district court day in Ballyknock. Brendan Ryan and I were on opposing sides of a case – a ludicrous traffic accident that had been caused in equal parts by the stupidity of both of our clients. The judge clearly agreed; he made an order for fifty-fifty liability. Couldn’t say fairer than that. Having convinced our respective clients that we were mortal enemies, Brendan and I went for lunch together.
‘How are you getting on with that dog?’ he asked me as we were waiting for our food.
‘Great. I called him Terence.’
‘Terence? Really? That’s unusual.’
‘Brendan, remember that day in your office, when you told me that you were going to bring him to the pound and that he’d probably be put down?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, did you mean that?’
‘Of course not.’
Didn’t think so.
Was it just me, or were all men lying bastards?
Talking of lying bastards, I was relaxing at home one evening the following week when there was a knock on the front door. I was understandably irritated, as there were still ten minutes of EastEnders left to run. Who could be calling at such an inconvenient hour?
The last person in the world I expected to see, that’s who. If Elvis Presley himself had turned up at my front door, sporting a white sparkly jumpsuit and singing ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, I couldn’t have been more surprised.
I didn’t recognise him at first. His hair was transformed, for a start: dyed blond, shaved at the sides, gelled into a disorganised peak at the top. He seemed sleeker, less chunky. He was wearing dark-grey flared trousers and a tight-fitting black polo-neck.
He looked like a hairdresser.
‘Come in.’ What else could I say?
Jack nodded at me and sheepishly entered the house. Hands deep in pockets, he looked around as if seeing the place for the first time. He sat on the couch, his tense body leaning forward. I tried not to think about the last time he’d sat there.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said. Well, it always worked on EastEnders. When in doubt, make a nice cup of tea.
I handed him his mug, taking special care not to touch his hand with my own. Then I sat down next to him, balancing precariously on the edge of the couch.
‘How have you been?’ I asked.
‘Fine. You?’
‘Fine.’ There was that word again.
There followed about thirty seconds of the most uncomfortable silence I’d ever endured. When I couldn’t stand it any more, I said, ‘Did you cut your trip short?’
He nodded. ‘By about a month. I needed to come home and sort a few things out. I might be going back. I haven’t decided yet.’
‘How was New York?’
‘Brilliant. Loved every second of it. I was only there for a couple of months, though; I spent the rest of the time in San Francisco.’
Oh. I took several sips of reviving tea, which luckily was hot and sweet.
‘Lainey ... I have something to tell you.’
‘Go on.’ I looked up at him and our eyes locked. He gazed at me imploringly. He looked as if he was about to speak, several times, but the words always seemed to get jammed in his throat.
‘Oh, Jesus. This doesn’t get any easier.’ He hid his face in his hands.
‘Just say it, Jack.’
A pair of turquoise eyes looked searchingly into my own.
‘I’m gay.’
I nodded and took another sip of tea. I had already known. I’d just needed him to come out and say it. I could feel his eyes burning into the side of my face, but all I could do was stare at the floor.
‘For Christ’s sake, Lainey, say something – please.’
‘Do your parents know?’
He slumped back into the couch. ‘I told them last night. Not long after I got in.’
‘How did they take it?’
‘Mum was great. I mean, she cried a little at first. But, as she said to me, it’s not as if I’m her one shot at having a grandchild.’
‘You’re her favourite son anyhow. Now you can be the daughter she never had.’
Jack checked to see whether or not I was being bitchy. Then we both started to laugh.
‘Another cup?’
‘Yes, please.’
I boiled up the kettle again.
‘How about your dad?’
‘Not so good.’
I gathered from the pained expression on his face that this was an understatement.
‘Maybe he just needs some time to get used to the idea.’
‘Maybe. But I don’t think either of us will live that long.’ He sounded utterly miserable.
My own mood, however, was becoming more jubilant by the second. You may find this strange; but, you see, for five months I’d thought that Jack had rejected me because I was physically repulsive. But his rejection had had nothing to do with me at all. He couldn’t have fancied me if he’d tried. Not even if I’d had the body of Naomi Campbell. Unless ...
‘You’re not bi, are you?’
‘Nope. I’m afraid I’m a one-hundred-per-cent bona-fide poof.’
Hooray! He was gay! That meant I was okay!
He was queer. A shirt-lifter. A woolly woofter. An arse-bandit. A sausage-jockey.
What fantastic news!
‘You know, you’re taking this very calmly. I thought you’d freak.’ Jack was studying me carefully.
‘I’m just glad you didn’t run off to America because of my disgusting thighs.’
‘Is that what you thought? I’m so, so sorry.’ He took my hands in both of his. ‘I felt so terrible after the way I left things that night. And then just leaving the country without any explanation ... what must you have thought of me?’
‘I thought you were a right prick.’
‘Of course you did. You had every right to. But I never meant to hurt you, Lainey.’
‘But you did. I just wish you’d told me the truth. I would have understood, you know.’
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’
‘What did you think you were at, anyway?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I was in denial, I suppose. And I was under a lot of family pressure to get a girlfriend.’
‘You mean you went out with me to keep your mammy off your back?’
‘Something like that. I suppose you think that’s terrible.’
‘I do, as it happens.’
‘I don’t blame you. But look at things from my point of view. Do you think it’s easy being a gay farmer in Ballyknock?’
No, I didn’t suppose it was.
‘So can we get over this and be friends?’
‘I don’t know, Jack.... It all feels very weird.’
‘It’s bound to. You’ve only just found out. But in time you might feel differently. I mean, we always got on great, didn’t we?’
This was true.
‘And if I was straight, I’d definitely choose a girlfriend like you.’
I wasn’t sure about this one. ‘Is there something masculine about me, then?’
‘God, no! Just the opposite. That’s another reason I thought you’d be the perfect cover. You’ve got long blonde hair and – if you don’t mind me saying – quite a large chest.’
He should know. He’d seen it in all its glory.
‘You reminded me of the women I used to pretend to fancy in the girly magazines that the lads would pass around in school.’
I didn’t know how to take that. Did I really look like a Page Three tart? The perfect cover for a gay boyfriend? Maybe I could hire myself out.
‘You’ve gone all quiet again. Say something – please,’ said Jack.
‘I was just wondering....’
‘What?�
�
‘When you went to San Francisco – did you wear flowers in your hair?’ ‘Only on special occasions.’
Jack stayed for a few hours. He didn’t seem to be in a big hurry to go home. It was odd, but kind of nice at the same time. He told me about this man he’d met in California. Jack liked him a lot, but he wasn’t sure how serious the other guy, Chuck (no, honestly), was about him. It was a typical girly chat, really.
As he was leaving, he asked me, ‘Will you come to the pub with me tomorrow night?’
‘Which pub?’
‘Power’s. Where else?’
‘I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.’
‘Ah, come on. I need the moral support.’
‘Well, the thing is, I’m kind of trying to avoid Matt.’
‘What’s wrong with Matt?’
‘Nothing. It’s just ...’
‘Oh, no. Don’t tell me you and him ...’
‘’Fraid so.’
‘How could you? And me barely cold in the grave.’ He was smirking at me.
‘I needed someone to help me get over you.’
‘So you picked my own brother? Shame on you!’ Jack was enjoying occupying the moral high ground for the first time that night.
‘Actually, he picked me.’
‘I don’t doubt it. He’s like a bitch in heat, that lad. But you needn’t worry about bumping into Matt. He’s probably forgotten all about you by now and moved on to the next blonde.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean. He doesn’t have a faithful bone in his body. If you were the last woman on earth and he were the last man, he’d still find some way to cheat on you. Granny Mary was right about him. “That Mattie would flirt with a gatepost,” she used to say. But I shouldn’t be hard on him. He took my news very well – said he’d known all along.’
‘I wish he’d told me,’ I said.
‘I wish he’d told me, too. Would have saved us both a lot of bother. So, anyhow, you needn’t worry about him.’
‘Well, it’s not just Matt. It’s your mother too.’
‘What’s wrong with Mam?’
‘Nothing. I’m afraid she’ll blame me for turning you.’
