by Marian Keyes
The relief! It was as though someone had just unlaced the tight, tight knot of tension in my chest.
‘Yes,’ I breathed, delighted to be with someone who felt the same way as I did. ‘I couldn’t believe it. I’ve never heard anyt…’
With pursed lips she nodded along with me for a moment or two as she did things with an ice-pop stick to her nails. Then, out of the blue, she demanded ‘Are you married, Rachel?’
‘No,’ I said. I’d managed to stop thinking about Luke for two seconds, but her question had pitched me right back into it. My brain tightened because for a second I simply could not believe it was over with him.
‘Are you married?’ I managed to ask.
‘Oh Lord, yes!’ she tinkled. She rolled her eyes at me, to indicate long-sufferingness.
I realized that she wasn’t interested in me at all. She had simply opened the conversation to bring it round to her.
‘For my sins!’ She gave me a dazzling smile. ‘My husband’s name is Dermot.’ She pronounced it ‘Durm’t’ to let me know she was posh.
I smiled weakly.
‘Twenty-five happy years,’ she said.
‘I was married straight out of school,’ she added hastily. ‘A schoolgirl bride.’
I forced another smile.
Suddenly she flung down her ice-pop stick with force.
‘I can’t believe Durm’t put me in here!’ she exclaimed. She moved closer and to my alarm she had tears in her eyes. ‘I just can’t believe it. I’ve been a devoted wife all these years and this is how he repays me!’
‘You’re in for, er, alcoholism?’ I asked discreedy. I didn’t want to sound as if I was accusing her of anything.
‘Oh please,’ she said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Me? An alcoholic?’
She opened her well-made-up eyes wide in disbelief.
‘A few Bacardis and coke with the girls once in a while,’ she went on. ‘To let my hair down. God knows I deserve it, considering that I work my fingers to the bone for that man.’
‘But why did Durm’t put you in here?’ I asked in alarm. A few Bacardis and coke didn’t sound serious.
And I wished I hadn’t called him ‘Durm’t’. It was an awful habit of mine. Talking in the same accent as the person I was with.
‘Don’t ask me, Rachel,’ said Chaquie. ‘Do I look like an alcoholic to you?’
‘God, no.’ I laughed with the warmth of understanding. ‘Do I look like a drug addict to you?’
‘I wouldn’t know, Rachel.’ She couldn’t keep the disgust from her voice. ‘I don’t move in those sort of circles.’
‘Well, I’m not.’
Stupid cow, I thought. I was hurt. Especially when I’d been so nice about her not being an alcoholic.
‘Where are your family from?’ she asked, with another abrupt change of subject.
‘Blackrock,’ I mumbled sulkily.
‘What road?’
I told her. She obviously approved. ‘Oh I know it. A friend of mine used to live there but they sold it and bought a lovely one in Killiney with a view over the bay and five bathrooms. She got a famous architect over from London to do it for her.’
‘Is that right?’ I asked snidely. ‘Who is he? I know a bit about architecture, myself I didn’t know the first thing, of course, but she had annoyed me.
‘Oh, what’s that his name is?’ she said vaguely. ‘Geoff something or other.’
‘Never heard of him.’
She didn’t turn a hair. ‘You can’t know that much about architecture, then,’ she said airily.
Which served me right for being bitchy. I had learnt my lesson.
Oh yes, I thought bitterly, I had learnt my lesson, all right. Next time I’d be far nastier to her.
Then she started to talk about her house. She had an unnatural interest in en-suite bathrooms.
‘Our house is perfect, an absolute showhouse!’ she declared. ‘Although we had no architect over from London to do it.’ More humorous rolling of the eyes, inviting me to smile with her.
I did. I was anxious to please, even if I hated the recipient of my pleasing. My pleasee.
‘It’s in Monkstown,’ she said with pride. ‘You’ve been away for a good while, so you mightn’t know, but Monks-town is very up and coming. Oh, pop stars galore. Chris de Burgh is only down the road.’
I shuddered.
‘The singing eyebrow? Well, there goes the neighbourhood.’ I mean, she couldn’t really be glad, could she?
‘I hope you don’t hear him practising,’ I went on. ‘That would be just the pits alt…’
I trailed to a halt when I saw the expression on her face.
Oh dear. Oh, oh dear. We had not got off to a good start. I hoped to God she was getting out soon.
‘Er, how long have you been here, Chaquie?’
‘Seven days.’
Shite!
Then, to my great alarm, she started to talk. Really talk. I had thought my comment on Chris de Burgh had put an end to dialogue, which suited me more than I could say. But suddenly, before my weary eyes, she mutated into the Duracell bunny of trivial chat. The stuff about bathrooms and husbands had been mere messing around as she waited for the runway to clear. And now in response to some signal that only she could hear, she had gone into overdrive. Full throttle, firing on all cylinders, foot pressed firmly to the conversational floor.
The gist of her bitter monologue was that you couldn’t trust anyone. From gynaecologists to milkmen to husbands.
Especially husbands.
Her words swam giddily at me.
‘… I told him that there couldn’t be two pints of milk for Tuesday because Durm’t and I were away that day…’ (Her milkman was under suspicion.)
‘… And how am I supposed to trust him the next time he puts his hand up my skirt…?’ (Her gynaecologist was having an affair with one of her friends.)
‘… I still can’t believe he put me in here! How could he!?…’ (Durm’t had upset her.)
‘… I shudder when I think of all those times I took my clothes off in front of him…’ (I think that was the roving gynaecologist. Although I later found out stuff about Chaquie which meant it could just as easily have been the milkman.)
I felt faint and queasy and kept losing the thread of what she was saying. I hoped I would pass out or have a fit or something but every so often I would come to, only to find she was still at it.
‘… And they were full-fat pints anyway, and Durm’t and I only have skimmed milk, well you’ve got to take care of yourself haven’t you…’ (The milkman again.)
‘… Any time I’m with him now, I feel that he’s looking lustfully at me…’ (Either the gynaecologist or Durm’t. Although on second thoughts maybe not Durm’t.)
‘… What did I do to deserve being shoved in here? How could he?…’ (Definitely Durm’t.)
‘… And he said there was nothing he could do, that the bills were generated by a computer. And I said “Don’t talk to me like that, young man”…’ (Possibly the milkman.)
‘… And they were six inches too short for the bay window. So I refused to pay…’ (No idea, sorry.)
On and on she went, while I lay against the headboard as though flattened by centrifugal force. I wondered if I looked as desperate as I felt.
I nodded mutely, unable to speak. Just as well, because she didn’t stop to draw breath.
Maybe it was just because I’d had a long, strange day, but I really felt that I hated her. I didn’t blame Durm’t for putting her into the Cloisters. If I was married to Chaquie, I’d be happy to incarcerate her in an institution. In fact, I’d want her dead. And I wouldn’t pay a hired killer to do it, either. Why deny myself the pleasure?
Battling against the hail of her words, I dragged myself off the bed and decided to try to get some sleep. But I didn’t want to get undressed in front of her. I mean, I didn’t know the woman from Adam. Although, as Adam was the name of my sister Claire’s live-in-lover, perh
aps that was the wrong analogy. Because I did know Chaquie from Adam. And I would have been delighted to share a room with Adam. He was about eight foot ten, knicker-meltingly gorgeous and Claire had promised me that when she died I could have him.
As I wriggled like a contortionist into Mum’s nightdress, trying not to let an atom of my shameful flesh show, Chaquie scolded, in a school teachery voice, ‘You’d want to watch that cellulite, Rachel. At your age you can’t afford to ignore it.’
As my face burned with shame, I climbed into the narrow bed.
‘Have a word with Durm’t,’ she said. ‘He’ll sort you out.’
‘PARDON?’ I was shocked! What kind of woman was this who offered her husband to sort out the cellulite of a stranger?
‘Durm’t runs a beauty salon,’ she explained.
That explained a lot. It certainly explained how she managed to look so glamorous.
‘Well, I say he runs it,’ she tinkled, ‘I should really say he owns it. We own it. As Durm’t always says “There’s great money in cellulite.” ’
Then her face darkened. ‘The louser,’ she hissed.
Chaquie had no shame about getting undressed. She positively flaunted herself in front of me. I tried not to look, but it was unavoidable because she stayed in her knickers and bra for far longer than was necessary. And although it galled me to admit it, she was in pretty good shape. A bit saggy, but only a tiny bit. She was just showing off, I thought with gritted teeth, as I wished death and destruction to rain down on top of her and her lean, tanned thighs.
She spent several hours taking off her make-up, a lot of dabbing with fingertips and patting and stroking and gentle massage. On the rare occasions when I removed my slap at all, I just threw a lump of cold cream at my face, like a potter throwing wet clay onto a wheel, and swirled it round with the palm of my hand as if I was cleaning a window. Then gave it the briefest wipe with a tissue.
I desperately wanted to get to sleep. I’ve had enough of today, I thought, I really, poxing-well have. I’d like a bit of oblivion, please, any time you like. But Chaquie wouldn’t let me. She kept talking, even when I tried to hide behind my Raymond Carver book. Which I’d only brought because Luke had given it to me, but all the same. I might have wanted to read it.
And even when I put the (scratchy, odd-smelling) blankets over my head and pretended I was asleep she still didn’t stop. I tried ignoring her and faking deep, regular breathing, but she said ‘Rachel, Rachel, are you asleep?’ Then when I didn’t answer she shook my shoulder and said sharply ‘Rachel! Are you ASLEEP?’
It was awful, I was nearly in tears with exhaustion and frustration. I felt as if I was a thin sheet of glass about to shatter under unbearable pressure. If only she would SHUT UP! I thought, as molten rage surged through my veins.
I was so angry that I would have glowed in the dark. At least I would have if she ever put the fucking light out!
Then I wanted a drug. Or twenty. I would have given anything for a couple of handfuls of Valium. Or sleeping tablets. Or heroin. Or anything really. All contributions gratefully received.
I craved chemicals. I didn’t think that wanting drugs under such unbearable conditions made me a drug addict. Because I also craved a sawn-off shotgun. And that didn’t make me a murderer. Not under normal circumstances, anyway.
To drown her out and the awfulness of it all, I tried to think of something nice. But the only thoughts that came to me were ones of Luke.
15
The first morning I found myself in bed with Luke I could have died.
It took me a moment or two, after I woke up, to realize that I wasn’t in my own bed. ‘Mmmm,’ I thought contentedly, my eyes still closed, ‘I wonder who’s bed I am in? I hope it’s somebody nice.’ Then, with the shocking impact of a bucket of ice-cold water, it all rushed back to me. The Rickshaw Rooms, the Real Men, the carry-on in the taxi, the sex with Luke, and worst of all, the fact that I was currently located in his bed.
In my head, I sat bolt unright, tore at my hair and screamed, How could I? In reality though, I lay quiet and still, very keen not to wake Luke. Very keen indeed.
My senses had returned with the daylight and I was in the horrors. Not just that I’d slept with one of the Real Men, but that I hadn’t had the wit to wake up in the middle of the night, dress in the dark and tiptoe from the room, leaving the man, my earrings and something embarrassing like my cold sore ointment behind me, never to be again retrieved. Not that I’d have cared, I’d have happily left a tube of piles ointment on his pillow as a farewell note, if I could only have been spirited out of there.
Trying not to move, I carefully opened my eyes. I was facing a wall. From the heat and the sound of someone else’s breathing, I gathered there was another person in the bed.
Someone between me and escape.
Like a caged rat, my brain lurched hither and thither, wondering where my clothes were. Oh, how I bitterly rued that I hadn’t woken at three in the morning!
No, I had to be honest and admit that the problem had started a bit earlier than that. How I passionately regretted the moment I let Luke Costello kiss me. In fact, I decided the rot had set in the moment I put foot inside the Rickshaw Rooms. Why couldn’t the bouncer have just told us to fuck off like they did usually? The more I thought of it, it became clear that the day I’d first heard of New York was the start of all the trouble. If only I’d liked Prague none of this would have happened. If only they’d had a couple more night clubs there.
I lay rigid, my head racing back through my life. If only I’d got that place on the hotel-management course in Dublin, if only I’d never met Brigit, she was a bad influence, that girl, if only I’d been born a boy…
Just as I had traced the origin of my problem back to the great disaster of my mother giving birth to me, I heard a voice. ‘Morning sweetheart,’ someone – Luke, I could only hope, unless the boys shared more than their leather trousers – said. So he was awake. That scuppered the last of my remaining hope that I could slink out without disturbing him. If I hadn’t been pretending to be a mute quadraplegic I would have put my face in my hands and wept.
To my alarm, I felt an arm snake around my naked body and pull me across the bed. Very macho behaviour, as I was no featherweight.
I slithered smoothly over the sheets until I came into contact with another body. A man’s one. I brisded at the nerve of him. I had no intention in joining Mr Hairy Real Man Luke in an early morning romp. He had got lucky, very, very lucky with me the previous evening. For a moment I wondered if I would get away with saying he took advantage of me, maybe even accuse him of a bit of date rape, and reluctantly decided against it. But it had been a terrible mistake on my part and it would never happen again.
‘Hello,’ he murmured to the side of my head. I didn’t answer. I had my back to him and I would not, could not look at him.
Instead I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for him to go away or die or something.
I had arrived at his side in exactly the same position as I had been in at the far side of the bed. While I lay as stiff and unyielding as a corpse he began to slowly stroke my hair away from the tender skin of my neck. Appalled at his cheek, I barely allowed myself to breathe. How dare he, I thought in anger. Well, he needn’t think I’ll be soft and pliant and malleable and eager. I’ll keep perfectly still so that he’ll lose interest in me and I’ll be able to escape.
Then I felt a strange sensation on my thigh, so gentle and faint that at first I thought that maybe I was imagining it. But I wasn’t. Luke was lightly running his other hand along the side of my thigh, raising all the downy little hairs. Tingly and shivery. Up to my hipbone, down to my knee, back up to my hipbone…
I swallowed.
I was almost hysterical to get out of there. But I didn’t want to make any grand gesture like flinging back the sheet (and maybe allowing myself the luxury of elbowing Luke in the kidneys) until I knew where I could locate at least some of my clothes.
&n
bsp; Why couldn’t we have drawn the curtains the previous evening? There was no hiding any of my nakedness in the harsh morning light.
Luke’s hand strayed along my thigh and his other hand tickled and tingled at the nape of my neck. Then a very pleasant sensation around my neck sent electric sparks through my body. What was going on? Further investigation showed that Luke had started to gently bite me.
It had gone too far!
I had to leave. But how?
I could brazen it out, I thought desperately. I could just hop out of bed and act as if I wasn’t mortified about groping round on the floor looking for my clothes. If I could only find my knickers and at least get my arse under wraps, I wouldn’t be so worried about the rest of me…
Or I might try and be funny about it, and pull the sheet around myself like a toga and… just a minute, what was he doing?
I swallowed with difficulty. The bastard had somehow managed to get his hand under the rigor mortis barrier of my arm and was stroking my nipples with the lightest, feathery strokes, so they were standing out like football studs.
But still I remained like an inanimate lump. He moved closer to me, lying the front of his body along the back of mine. All the better for me to feel the stirrings of his early-morning erection.
I love semi-tumescent penises, I thought dreamily. Obviously they’re not as much use as fully tumescent ones, but they feel so fat and swollen and alive, you never know what they’re going to do next, well you do, of course, but all the same…
To my surprise my groin seemed to be awake.
Not just awake but demanding its breakfast.
I couldn’t see Luke but I could smell him. Cigarettes and toothpaste and something else, something musky and sexy, a male smell. Essence of man.
And I felt the stirrings of my own arousal. He did feel good – big and solid, smooth and tender.
But he could fuck off with himself, I decided firmly. Last night had been a mistake.
He moved his legs so that his thighs were lying close against mine. I was acutely aware of the size and hardness of them. I was so sensitive to every touch from him it was as if I’d had a layer of skin removed. Nothing like a bit of desire to make me feel as if I’d spent the past hour exfoliating like mad.
