by Tara Heavey
‘Would you like a cool drink?’ I said, interrupting whatever it was he had been saying.
‘Um ... yeah, that’d be nice.’
I went back into the kitchen and rooted around in the fridge and presses. All I could find was Ribena. And it wasn’t even Toothkind. I remembered Paul’s mother serving it to me in a wineglass, the one and only time I’d been to dinner at the house – as if that was fooling anybody.
I could do better than that. I slipped out of the house and around the corner to the off-licence. What a wonderful thing to have right on your doorstep! Completely wasted on Paul’s mum, of course. I purchased a six-pack straight from the fridge and fairly skipped back to the house, delighted by my own ingenuity. I triumphantly handed Paul a beer.
‘There you go. What every working man needs after a hard day’s graft.’
‘What’s your excuse, then?’
‘I don’t need one. Does your mother not object to living around the corner from an offie?’
‘You know her. She objects to anything that might possibly lead to somebody somewhere having some fun.’
‘Where is she, anyhow?’
Paul took a large gulp of beer and sighed. ‘Mass. Where else?’
‘Is it a holy day, then?’
He looked at me solemnly. ‘Lainey, don’t you know that every day is a holy day in the O’Toole household?’
We both giggled, savouring the cool, bitter tang of the beer and the contrasting hot, sweet caress of the sun.
‘I could help you, if you like,’ I said.
‘With what?’
‘The gardening.’
‘What, you?’ Paul found this extremely funny.
‘Yes, me. What’s so funny about that?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that manual labour has never been your thing.’
‘How do you know? You’ve never seen me doing manual work.’ I was quite indignant.
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, the offer stands.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I wasn’t looking at him, but I could tell he was still smiling to himself. Oh, well; let him. Wasn’t it better than having him annoyed with me? I really hadn’t been sure what kind of reception I’d get. I should have known. Paul could never be mean to anyone for any length of time.
I still didn’t fully understand what I was doing there. And I still wasn’t sure what I wanted to say to him. All I knew was that I’d had to come.
‘When are you expecting your mother back?’
‘Any time now. Why? Are you afraid she’ll kick you out?’
‘She wouldn’t – would she?’
‘I don’t know.’ He smiled. ‘Maybe if she sees the beer.’
‘Tell you what. Why don’t I help you finish up here, and then we can go out for lunch? My treat.’
Paul looked doubtfully at me.
‘That’s if you don’t have other plans,’ I said. Involving Iseult, I thought.
‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘I don’t have plans. It’s not that. I’m just concerned about your clothes getting wrecked.’
‘Is that all? Don’t worry about my clothes. That’s what God invented washing machines for. Come on – the sooner we get started, the sooner we finish.’
Chapter Thirty
For the next hour, Paul strimmed while I collected branches and dumped them on the compost heap. It was all I was qualified to do, really. Paul was by far the more expert gardener.
Watching him when he wasn’t looking, I decided I liked him with his gardening hat on. It suited him better than the stuffy accountant look. He almost reminded me of that gardener bloke off the telly whom I fancied. Come to think of it, I fancied nearly all the gardeners on the telly, even the overtly gay ones. I didn’t know what it was. There was just something so earthy about what they did for a living. Some occupations were just more attractive than others. Photographers – I liked those, too; but they had to be proper ones, mind, not amateur photographers like my father who wore slacks. Building labourers, especially on hot days when they removed their checked shirts and performed daredevil stunts on scaffolding. Mechanics – all that oil. And cowboys.... What can I say? The ultimate in masculinity.
Accountants didn’t feature too high on the list.
By the time we’d finished the garden, my pristine white top wasn’t all that pristine any more. I didn’t care. I was happy. We decided that we each deserved another tinny after all our hard work. We were just cracking into them when the back door flew open and the Wicked Witch of the Southside stuck her head out. We instinctively hid our cans behind our backs like bold children.
‘Elena.’ Her greeting was cool.
‘Hello, Mrs O’Toole.’
‘Paul, what about that fruit tree? It needs pruning.’ I’d forgotten what an annoying, high-pitched, nasal Cork accent she had.
‘I’ll do it later. Me and Lainey are just heading out for a spot of lunch.’
She sniffed. ‘But I’m just after buying us a couple of lovely chops.’
‘I’ll have mine for my tea.’
‘Okay, so.’ She slammed the door shut, her face like a slapped arse.
‘Oops,’ I said. I looked searchingly into Paul’s face. ‘We don’t have to go out for lunch, you know. I could piss off and leave you both here to enjoy your chops.’
‘No! Don’t mind her. I’m just going to run upstairs and have a quick shower – five minutes at the most, I promise. Will you be okay?’
‘Yeah, fine. Go ahead.’
I watched as he hid the remaining cans in the shed and then disappeared into the kitchen. He flashed me an encouraging smile as he left. I could see his mother quizzing him inside. ‘What’s she doing here?’
I tried to see things from her point of view. She was probably lonely. And the one day of the week when she got to see her only son, I – brazen hussy that I was – spirited him away for the afternoon. I could see her moving around in the kitchen. I supposed I should go in and talk to her. I could hardly stand out here when she was only a few feet away, behind the door, and there was no way she was going to make the first move. It was up to me. Time to make nice.
I knocked gently and opened the door into the kitchen. I gave Mrs O’Toole my best conciliatory smile, but all she did was look me up and down disapprovingly. The top I was wearing, which had seemed perfectly acceptable two minutes earlier, suddenly felt obscenely low-cut and tight-fitting. Mrs O’Toole herself could easily have been mistaken for a plain-clothes nun. She was wearing what could only be described as a smock – grey – and she had a plain gold crucifix around her neck. Her hair was atrocious. It was as if she’d gone to the hairdresser’s and said, ‘Make me look as unattractive as possible.’ And as for make-up – forget it. She was poles apart from my own mother, who wouldn’t be seen dead without her lipstick. (I’m serious. She’d literally given me instructions as to the exact shade and brand of lippy she wanted to wear when she was being laid out. Dad had told me that she’d tried to include this in her will, but that the family solicitor wasn’t having any of it. I think he might have been having me on.)
It was a pity about Mrs O’Toole, because you could tell she was pretty, deep down. Her features were regular and her bone structure good. Her waist was still tiny, too – must have been all that fasting and clean living. I mentally sifted through the selection of oul’ fellas I knew in Ballymuck, bachelor clients and Power’s regulars alike. There had to be somebody I could set her up with.
‘Cup of tea, Elena?’
‘Yes, please!’ I said this as if she’d just offered me a free week in the Algarve. A breakthrough!
I did my best to make desperate small talk, as the red light of the Sacred Heart shone down on my head. Had she been away recently? Oh, yes; she’d just come back from ten days in Lourdes. And had she had a good time? Oh, yes. She’d had a lovely time pushing wheelchairs around and attending candlelight vigils. (I prefer candlelight dinners, myself.) She’d ev
en bought a brand spanking new holy-water font for the hall. She showed it to me. Blue and white plastic. ‘Isn’t it gorgeous!’ I said. Honestly, I made myself sick sometimes. I was going straight to hell, I had no doubt about it.
When I had run out of things to say – after about two minutes – Mrs O’Toole said, ‘So how long have you been back on the scene, then?’
I was taken aback. ‘What? ... Oh, no – Paul and I aren’t together. I just called by to say hello. As a friend.’
She shot me an incredulous look and said, ‘I was wondering why that skinny girl hadn’t been around much lately.’
Skinny girl? It had to be Iseult. Did that make me the fat girl?
I was just about to reiterate that I was no longer her son’s girlfriend when said son burst through the door. That had to have been the quickest shower in history. There were clearly advantages to having little or no hair. Paul was most likely terrified of leaving me and his mother alone in the same room for any significant length of time. He’d probably been imagining all manner of carnage while he was upstairs.
‘Ready?’
As ready as I’ll ever be.
Half an hour later, we were sitting in a hotel in Dalkey. The lunchtime rush was over, so we managed to get a table by the window, overlooking the sea. The waves lapped indolently against the rocks and the horizon disappeared into the haze. I broke the habit of a lifetime and ordered a salad, shocking us both.
It came to light, in the course of the conversation, that Paul had the next two weeks off work.
‘Are you going away?’
‘No.’
‘What are you going to do, then?’
‘Don’t know, really. Just hang about.’
‘That’s a bit of a waste of your annual leave, surely?’
He shrugged. ‘There are a lot of jobs to be done in my mother’s house – painting, tiling, that sort of thing. It’ll be good to get them out of the way.’
‘Two weeks with your mother? You’ll go nuts.’
‘Will you just drop it, please?’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘Take the head off me, why don’t you?’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.’
‘But you did.’
‘Look, if you must know, I was supposed to be going on holiday with Iseult. Today.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I should have been landing in Ibiza about now.’
That shut me up. The great unmentionable had finally been mentioned. I speared a piece of cucumber with my fork and chewed it solemnly, keeping my focus on my plate.
‘Well?’ said Paul.
‘Well what?’
‘Don’t you want to know why I’m in Dalkey instead of Ibiza?’
‘Only if you want to tell me.’
‘We broke up last week. It was too late for me to swap my leave with anyone else. So here I am – two weeks on my hands, and nothing to do with them.’
So many questions were buzzing around in my head. What had gone wrong? Who had dumped who? Why hadn’t Chris told me? Who had dumped who?
‘Did you – I mean, I’m very sorry to hear that.’
‘Are you really?’
‘Of course.’
‘I finished with her, by the way.’
‘Did you?’ I tried to keep my tone as neutral – and as sincere – as possible. ‘Poor Iseult. Was she very upset?’
‘Hardly. She’s brought her new boyfriend to Ibiza with her.’
‘No! You mean they’ve gone on your holiday together?’
‘I don’t mind. She paid me back my half, so she can do what she likes.’
‘Who is he?’
‘Some hot new actor. She met him while he was being interviewed for the magazine.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Dylan Mayberry.’
‘Never heard of him. He must be crap.’
‘He’s got a bit part in the new James Bond.’
‘Everyone knows you don’t have to be able to act to be in a Bond movie. I’m telling you, he’s probably crap.’
Paul was laughing. ‘You don’t have to do this, Lainey. I’m not upset.’
‘You sure?’
‘Positive.’
He played around with his food for a bit. ‘I thought you’d have heard already.’
‘How would I hear?’
‘From Chris.’
‘That one? You know what she’s like. It wouldn’t even occur to her to let me know. Although, of course,’ I added quickly, ‘why would she?’
‘Yes, of course. Why would she?’ he answered equally quickly.
We both ate silently for a while. It occurred to me that Paul must have thought I knew about his single status when I’d turned up at his house that morning. I tried to work out what that told me, and came to the conclusion that it told me absolutely nothing.
I couldn’t resist asking the next question.
‘Paul, can I ask you something? Just one final thing about Iseult, and then I promise I’ll shut up.’
‘Shoot.’
‘Why on earth did you go out with her in the first place?’
Paul sat back in his chair, folded his arms and laughed. ‘So it wasn’t my imagination. You really didn’t like her.’
‘Oh, I’m sure she would be lovely if she weren’t so horrible. I wasn’t exactly her favourite person either, was I?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I used to think she was jealous of you.’
‘Of me? Why?’
‘Can’t think of a good reason.’
‘Thanks.’
He grinned at me. ‘No, she was always pumping me for information about you.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’
‘Why did I go out with her?’
‘Yes. You’d want to have a pretty good explanation.’
‘If I tell you why, you have to promise not to tell another soul.’
I moved forward in my seat. This sounded gripping.
‘I won’t tell anyone. Brownie’s honour.’
‘Why do you always say that?’
‘It’s a long story. Now, come on. Spit it out.’
‘Okay. The night we got together, I was out with the lads after soccer practice. We went to this poxy new bar that we normally wouldn’t be caught dead in. But we couldn’t get into O’Brien’s, and we had to watch the Arsenal match somewhere.’
‘Naturally.’
‘So there I was, minding my own business, watching the match, when who walks in but Chris and a bunch of her noisy mates. Iseult was there, and so were all those losers that were at your going-away At half-time, Iseult comes and sits down next to me. She’s sidling up to me and doing those things that girls do when they’re interested.’
‘Like what?’
‘You know – smiling too much, giggling, hair-flicking, touching your hand all the time ... that sort of shit.’
‘Do I do that?’
‘No, you’re different.’
‘Well, don’t say it’s the kind of thing “girls” do, then.’
‘All right. Point taken.’
‘Go on.’
‘I will if you’ll let me. So the second half starts, and she’s still sitting there. And I’m thinking, What’s she playing at? The match is back on. Why doesn’t she feck off back to her friends? But she just sits. And you’ll never guess what happens next.’
‘What?’
‘Do you remember that guy Diarmuid, who was hitting on me that night in the restaurant?’
‘The model.’
‘That’s him. Well, doesn’t he come over to join us? Lainey – he starts to come on to me. Right in front of my mates.’
‘No!’
‘Lainey, he touched my knee.’
‘No!’
‘I’m not joking. I didn’t know where to look. It’s not funny, you know.’
‘I never said it was.’
‘Then why are you laughing?’
‘I’m not. Come on, tell the story.’
‘So, anyway, all my mates are looking at me. No one’s even watching the match any more. I had to do something. So I pretended to be into Iseult. I mean, what else could I do? I was mortified. To cut a long story short, I ended up kissing Iseult, and Diarmuid went off in a huff. Next thing I know, we’re a couple and she’s organising dinner parties at my flat and inviting all my friends.’
‘Poor Diarmuid.’
‘Fuck Diarmuid. I didn’t even get to see the second half. And that match was crucial.’
I couldn’t contain the laughter any more. Poor Paul. Caught between Diarmuid and Iseult. Between a rock and a hard place. Between a pair of rocks and a hard-faced bitch.
Paul watched me laughing, the ghost of a smile on his lips, his dimples coming out to play.
‘Did you like my little story, then?’
‘Yes, thank you. Highly entertaining.’ I was wiping the corners of my eyes with my napkin.
‘Will I order coffees?’
‘Please.’
I attempted to size him up as he played with his cappuccino, chatting amiably on and off, the rest of the time staring unselfconsciously out to sea.
This was my opportunity.
My reason for coming here seemed so clear now. I took a deep breath.
‘Paul?’
‘Yes?’ He tore his eyes away from the ocean and smiled deeply and warmly into mine.
‘Since you have all this time off and nothing to do with it, why don’t you come and stay with me in Ballyknock? I mean, not for the whole two weeks, obviously; just for a few days, at first, and you can see how you get on – not that you’re not welcome to stay for the two weeks if you like. I have a spare room. You could stay there and I could show you around. There’s loads to see and do, and people to meet, and you could see where I work, and there’d be no strings – honestly.’
I finally ran out of breath. I sat looking at him looking at me, feeling totally exposed.
At last he spoke.
‘I’d love to.’
Chapter Thirty-one
I drove us back down to Ballyknock that Sunday. The journey was a little like that scene at the end of The Graduate, when Dustin Hoffman and Katherine Ross – still in her wedding dress – are sitting at the back of the bus. He’s just burst in on her wedding to another man, and they’ve run off together. Then they both comprehend, at the same time, the full enormity of what they’ve done. And they can’t think of anything to say to each other.
