Champagne Kisses

by Amanda Brunker

  My first call had been to Lisa, when I had wrongly shouted at her, asking, ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’ But she had had no idea Maureen was a close friend of Annette’s. After all, Lisa had just left for her Bramble Hill Retreat adventure the day of the Four Seasons Fiasco. Wounded and apologetic, she did her best to soften the situation, which made me feel terrible.

  She suggested she could ask Daddy to move Maureen somewhere else, but I pointed out that if anyone was to move it should be me.

  Somehow I kept failing to learn from my mistakes.

  I needed to start being nicer to people.

  Unlike Lisa, my journey to enlightenment was stalled. I was never getting to heaven.

  But was there somewhere worse than hell?

  Parker later suggested my wardrobe …

  By Sunday I was really ready to rock ’n’ roll. Snubbing the chance to see Robert and his pals take part in their annual skinny-dipping swim at Dun Laoghaire’s Forty Foot rocks, myself, Parker and some gorgeous young French boy called David – who sounded just like the chef Jean-Christophe Novelli if you closed your eyes – were making our way to Lisa’s family home in Dalkey, which had the most amazing view of Dublin Bay, and Bono’s house. Well, the roof of Bono’s house.

  Every year her folks threw legendary parties, with the cream of Dublin’s social scene in attendance. Rich builders were always seen as sexy in Ireland. And the Tiswells were no exception. They had been quite the building dynasty, well, at least until Patrick and Patricia failed to produce any sons and neither Lisa nor the Joy-less daughter had any interest in taking over the company.

  Since Parker had only got acquainted with his new friend a few nights earlier after meeting on the internet site Gaydar, we didn’t really know what to expect. But he had a really fit body, which was exaggerated by his tight fitted black shirt and tight jeans, and he seemed game for a laugh, even though his English didn’t stretch much further than, ‘Pleased to meet’, and, ‘Repeat please?’

  He was really just a stopgap though.

  The handsome Jeff, or Hairy Hands as Parker called him, had enjoyed several mischievous evenings with Parker after he flew us to London, but had ended the relationship abruptly because Parker wanted to be more public about their romance than Jeff was comfortable with.

  Needless to say, he was a tad hurt by the rejection. But with David, he wasn’t looking for anything serious, just a good time.

  But none of us could fail to be in a mood to party with our regular taxi guy Johnnie Barret around, who sang to us the whole way up.

  We had met him one night several years ago outside Sophie’s Choice and we fell in love with him. Fanatical about Dean Martin, his life was to worship him and spread the Dino love.

  Anyone who had the good fortune – or misfortune, depending on your tolerance – to fall into his taxi would receive the full repertoire of songs. He was his own sycophant. And since I was ‘in the journalism game’, I was privileged to be given one of his CDs, ‘totally free’, of his classic covers.

  Poor ole Dino must have been turning in his grave as we murdered renditions of ‘Baby It’s Cold Outside’ and ‘Memories Are Made of This’.

  Giddy from the anticipation of having a play day Parker was in flying form and without consideration for anyone else’s eardrums wailed his way into ‘That’s Amore’, before demanding, ‘What the fuck is a tarantella supposed to be?’

  As Johnnie navigated his way up the narrow bumpy roads of Dalkey, I tried desperately not to stab myself in the eye with an eyeliner pencil as I finished doing my make-up. While the very likeable David won himself major brownie points for being extremely cute on mime percussion.

  What was even cuter was his face when he saw all the security guys in their black suits, wielding walkie-talkies as they requested to see our formal invites. He looked like he had died and gone to stud muffin heaven.

  Of course we had forgotten ours, as we did most years, but Lisa texted us the secret code, which was to tell the main guy, Vladimir, ‘Kiss me quick I’m Irish’ – Mrs Tiswell’s idea of a hilarious joke.

  Not a bad idea really, considering he was six foot four and ex-Russian army. He was built like a bull and could have been my McDreamy any day.

  Unfortunately Vladimir didn’t take us up on our offer, and just ushered us through with a wink and a cheeky smile.

  Beefy bodyguards aside, even as a seasoned visitor I couldn’t help but be impressed by the pomp and glamour of the occasion. I had counted over thirty security men on the road, all in monkey suits, and we hadn’t even got close to the massive marquee yet.

  Thousands of large white lanterns lined the road of the manicured garden, which would look stunning later, and even though the weather forecast had promised hailstones and perhaps snow, the party people were out in force as they queued in their Mercedes to get the ladies and their heels as close to the front door as possible.

  Once we were inside, leggy models in short green cocktail dresses and pretty boys in green dickie bows offered us a variety of novelty drinks on trays, which included everything from Green Frogs to Green Diamonds.

  Although Parker thought it was very uncool to drink such nastiness he managed to grab a Green Fantasy off some poor innocent young Matt Damon look-alike; I think he scared the poor boy by whispering, ‘You can share my fantasy any time!’

  Appropriately, I grabbed a glass titled Green with Envy, and our little French boy went all patriotic and picked himself up a Green Guinness. We made our way through to the main marquee where a fella who looked like the fat bloke from the Commitments was belting out a version of ‘A Nation Once Again’.

  Positioning ourselves at a corner which was near the bar, loo and had a clear view of the stage, we settled in for an afternoon of craic agus ceol, aka fun and music.

  After doing her welcoming rounds Lisa joined us, as did some of her cousins, whom I had met several times before, but even though they told me their names again they left my head the second they entered. Either way, they were a good bunch and were just as able to entertain as the next.

  As the afternoon progressed into the evening, we had worked our way through the Green Monsters and Green Demons and had moved on to Absolut Hunks and Mad Cows. Neither were on the menu, but the very accommodating barman Jordan, who didn’t seem to mind us telling him that he looked so much better since he got the boob reduction, was keen to match a ‘Bitchin’ cocktail’ to our personalities.

  Of course Parker was thrilled, but then he had told Jordan that he worked in the film business and that they were currently looking for fresh faces.

  It was a cheesy line, but it worked more times than not.

  There was a powerful smell of stew wafting from the other side of the marquee, but Parker told us all that ‘Eatin’ is cheatin’!’ and that a game of Truth or Dare would take our minds off the hunger.

  The craic really kicked off when one of the girls who was clearing our table of glasses got caught up in our high jinks.

  In the middle of Lisa’s story of how she was a girl who liked to swallow rather than spit out bodily fluids, Parker piped up, ‘Eh, sorry, as a matter of interest, do you spit or swallow?’

  Although I was half cut I was mortified, but she didn’t seem fazed.

  Not flinching for a second, she revealed in a deep Aussie accent, ‘Oh mate, I gargle!’ Everyone at the table fell about the place laughing.

  By this stage the live rebel music had been replaced by a DJ and it was time to express ourselves.

  Dancing around the table we swung our arms in the air and gyrated like strippers in a rap video. People began to stare, but their disapproving faces made us want to dance bigger and bolder as if we were auditioning for Louis Walsh.

  Thankfully the Tiswell family had seen this all before, and even though Lisa’s mum came over to say hi just as I had knocked over somebody’s pint, she just gave one of her own half-sozzled waves and told us, ‘I’m dee-lighted you’re all having fun.’

  We were h
aving the perfect day, and everyone was in high spirits; that is, until Parker’s ex, Jeff, walked into the marquee.

  I spotted him walking in our direction and had to warn Parker, who was now sitting on the bar singing to our new pal Jordan.

  What a tragedy, to interrupt such a pitch-perfect rendition of ‘Can’t Get You Out of My Head!’. Parker literally fell off the bar as I pointed Jeff out as he chatted to Lisa’s dad just a few feet away. Instantly he turned to David and said, ‘Take your top off.’

  A little confused, he said, ‘Pardon?’

  But Parker wasn’t taking no for an answer. ‘I said take your top off,’ he demanded. ‘You’re not bringing much else to the table, so the least you can do is take your top off and show us those muscles of yours.’

  And then like something out of a Diet Coke break ad, he did, clearly chuffed to be back at the centre of Parker’s attention.

  By now several women who had been looking on in disgust were drooling with lust. Just as I was thinking what cocktail they should order, Jeff approached the group and with a sheepish smile asked, ‘How have you been?’

  Pretending not to notice, Parker fondled David’s pecs while telling him to ‘Flex them again’, to hoots of laughter.

  Doing my best sober impression I told Jeff that things were great but if he was planning any more trips to London to count me out because the men there were shits. Paris or New York I could handle, but he’d have to dump Florence for a bigger bus.

  As soon as the word ‘dump’ left my mouth, I could see Parker’s back physically tense up.

  It was obvious to all that Parker was deliberately ignoring his presence, but Jeff put his hand on his shoulder and pinched him. He refused to turn around.

  After making the decision to recognize Parker, he wasn’t going to give up easily, so he stood his ground and asked, ‘Are you going to ignore me all night?’

  While the rest of us made loud gasping noises, Parker glanced down at Jeff’s hairy hand, which was still on his shoulder, before darting a bored look at me. I’d seen that pissed-off face before and it normally signalled trouble.

  After a cold silence he hissed, ‘Do we know her?’ It was totally mortifying. He was acting like a spoilt child, and he continued his tantrum by pushing Jeff’s hand away.

  Trying to stifle my nervous giggles I brushed past Parker and invited our naked chef to the bar, but Parker was having none of it.

  ‘He’s not going anywhere, Eva. If anyone is leaving it’s Jeff here, he’s very good at walking away. Aren’t you, Jeff?’

  After several requests for a word in private, a wounded Parker finally conceded, and the forlorn duo walked off in the direction of the gardens.

  They were gone about twenty minutes when we got the nod that the fireworks were about to start. As everyone was handed a hot whiskey and guided out on to the patio, the Tiswells’ legendary firework display blasted off into the sky. They always splashed out a ‘minimum of €200,000’, on fireworks, according to Lisa, just because they could. And that was loose change compared to the cost of the bar tab.

  The most my folks would fork out for a special occasion would be a couple of bottles of Lidl cheapo wine to wash down some vulgar beef curry. They were never big on entertaining, bless, as Mother dearest was forever worried about stains.

  Maybe it was her lack of social skills that made me go extrovert? Who knows? I’m not sure I have the energy to care any more. She says tomato – and I say where’s my next drink coming from?

  As a spray of green, white and orange lit up the cold dark sky, I could see in the distance that sexual sparks had started to fly yet again between Parker and Jeff. Although they weren’t kissing, there was a lot of laughter and tactile hand-holding. They looked really good together. It was just a pity that such a sweet guy as David had to be the pawn in Parker’s gambit to win back Hairy Hands.

  Four slices of white toast smothered in butter and marmalade, two cups of Barry’s tea and a large bottle of Ballygowan water later, and I felt somewhat ready to ring my mother.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’ I did my best to sound cheery.

  Her lacklustre attempt at ‘Eva’ didn’t!

  ‘I was just ringing to wish you happy St Patrick’s Day. How are things with you?’

  ‘I can’t talk now. I’m just out of the bath. Your sister is having us over for lunch.’

  ‘Oh. That’s nice …’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Eh, no. I suppose not. Just called to say …’

  The phone line had already gone dead.

  It might have been a bank holiday, but Parker still had to work, much to my irritation.

  Both Maddie and Lisa were spending the bank holiday with their families. Maddie said she was curled up on her couch, depressed and watching Pirates of the Caribbean with her nieces and nephews, which was ‘doing her head in’, as her folks spent the afternoon in the kitchen arguing again about her dad’s drinking; the Princess was skiing with her folks in Chamonix.

  So I invited Robert over to the apartment to keep me company.

  I had been avoiding his texts over the weekend, but I was bored and he was happy to oblige.

  Wanting to erase what a disappointment I was to my next of kin I planned to raid Parker’s champagne stash. He normally didn’t mind, once I admitted to taking it.

  ‘Laurent Perrier rosé is not for wasting on fools,’ Parker would say. ‘Dom Perignon is for footballers and Cristal is for gangster rappers. Laurent Perrier is for the more educated and cultured among us. Though if the fool is cute and you get a ride out of it, go for it!’

  While the journalist in me had managed to extract plenty of details about Robert’s life, I had told him very little about myself.

  Totally out of character, I was a typical woman when it came to dating, and usually blabbed inappropriately about ex-boyfriends and my personal downfalls. Even though I know I shouldn’t reveal the particulars of previous relationships to new men, I’d forever find myself saying, ‘I once went out with this musician’, or ‘The doctor I used to go out with always told me to drink a glass of water within sixty seconds of waking up to kick-start your metabolism.’

  But with Robert I hadn’t bothered to try and impress him with the importance of my former lovers. I thought my world too vulgar to embarrass him with. To him I was a blank canvas. Someone who obviously had the luxury to take a career break – yeah, right! And now I was this chick who lived in a three-bedroomed penthouse apartment.

  On the outside it all looked very rosy.

  Despite my casual approach in getting to know Robert, when I heard his voice over the intercom I felt a flutter of excitement.

  As much to make myself feel good as in preparation for our date I had shaved all relevant areas, as there hadn’t been any cash for waxing of recent times. Applying my natural, I-look-like-this-all-the-time make-up, I spent twenty minutes with my trusty GHD styler getting a perfect sheen look and donned my favourite Rock & Republic jeans which give me the best bum, and my sexy gold chiffon top that hung low on one shoulder. Checking myself out in the hall mirror as I waited for Robert to come up in the lift, I thought I looked hot. Maybe it was the muted artificial lighting, but that mirror was always kind.

  I’m going to have sex today, I thought. And as soon as I saw him step out into the hallway, my mind was made up. I definitely fancied a mouthful of muesli.

  * * *

  ‘I never knew holy boys could get kinky like that!’

  ‘It’s good to learn something new every day, I think,’ smirked Robert.

  ‘Well thank you,’ I replied, quite stunned by what I had just experienced, ‘that was indeed quite a lesson.’

  Dumbstruck at this quiet boy’s sexual practices, I topped up my glass of champagne with the bottle I had brought into the bedroom, and took a large mouthful to cleanse the palate and settle my nerves.

  It had proved a very successful lubricant to slip us both into a state of undress. And in Robert’s case, had drastic
ally helped to alter his personality; although I hadn’t remained shy about my carnal intentions, with direct comments such as, ‘We should shag soon so we can bypass the awkward getting-to-know-one-another stage.’

  To be honest, I actually surprised myself by being so forward, but after recent events I wasn’t prepared to let any more opportunities get away from me.

  He had been utterly respectful and gentlemanly during our first date, not pushing past a romantic snog or placing his vice-gripped hands on the base of my back, and just about slipping the tips of his fingers inside the top of my jeans. Today though, he had let go of any inhibitions and truly let his animal instincts take over. No honestly, he seriously let himself go!

  The games all began when we had been sprawled on Parker’s couch watching Will & Grace and I had lost a handful of dry roasted peanuts down my top. I had lost interest in the episode as I’d seen it a hundred times before, when I started play-acting with the old pub trick of throwing a nut in the air and catching it in my mouth.

  Suggestively I opened my mouth, but playing the hapless girl I let several nuts disappear down my cleavage.

  After I’d sent out all the right signals, my date saw this as his moment to make a move and took on the role of bounty hunter.

  With a fresh confidence he winked. ‘Finders keepers,’ he said as his powerful fingers lowered my chiffon top to reveal my white lace bra and my breasts, which shimmered fantastically from a light dusting of Melon powder from MAC.

  Remaining still, I calmly looked down to his hand on my chest, and then raised my eyes to meet his. With the most subtle smile, I gave him permission to continue, and waited for him to make the next move.

  ‘You’re so very sexy, baby girl,’ he told me before lifting several peanuts away from my skin with his devilishly long tongue. And before I had a second to reply his hand delved into my bra, scooped out my left breast, and he wrapped his warm mouth around my nipple.

  Gently humming he curled and swirled his firm tongue, flicking and licking and sucking and biting. Darting me a playful look as he popped my second breast over the bra, he then nuzzled his face between my chest as he mumbled, ‘Hmmmm. Home.’