by Roddy Doyle
–Think so, he said.
I decided I’d talk to the wife about it – my only wife, by the way – but, not for the first or the last time, I forgot.
Anyway.
I’d be worried she’d tell me she had three more husbands in Cambodia and a toy boy somewhere in Kimmage. Do toy boys still exist, even? I haven’t heard mention of one in ages. Maybe they’re all retired, or upskilling.
Anyway.
It’s my own fault, forgetting to let the grandson say night-night to the tattoo before I left the house. The child is entitled to the real thing, the flesh and blood SpongeBob.
–Mind my pint, I say, and I leg it home.
Legging it isn’t what it used to be. Legging it these days means running for three or four steps, then holding my jacket shut and walking as fast as I can without toppling over. But I make it home and up the stairs – just have a short break on the landing. In to the grandson – he waves at SpongeBob. Then I leg it back to the local.
So here we are.
The pint is fine and the Secret Woman is still sitting where I left him. We say nothing for a bit. And I like that, saying nothing. But there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask him.
–What sort of men do you go for?
–I don’t, he says.
–You identify as a woman, I remind him.
–Yeah, he says. –But I’m kind of a retired woman.
I want to ask him about the whole internet thing, dating and that. I thought maybe he’d have been surfing for mature men who like men who identify as women, or mature women who identify as men. I never bought a book on the net, never mind a life partner, so I haven’t a clue. And I’m worried about the son – a bit.
–I’m not gay, he tells me now. –Just to be clear. –Grand.
–It’s just—, he says, and stops.
He’s said nothing about my new shirt or jeans, by the way – the ones the daughter made me buy in town. He might think he’s a woman but he’s still a bollix.
–It’s the gentleness and that, he says. –You know, the things that women have that we don’t?
–Yeah, I say.
–That’s it, he says. –That’s what I want – to be near to, I suppose. The gentleness and the – I don’t know. The feminine stuff. Am I making sense?
I don’t remember his wife being particularly gentle or anything. She was a nice woman and all but she gave me a dig once – a friendly dig at a party, like – and let’s just say I felt it. Let’s just say I took a couple of Nurofen when I got home. But I do know what he means. The wife – my wife, like – takes no prisoners but when she puts her hair behind her ear, the way she does that, the little flick, it makes me feel like the luckiest man in the world.
–Yeah, I say. –You’re making sense.
–I’m taking steps, he says.
–What?
–To becoming a woman, he says.
–What? I say. –You’re taking the tablets – the hormone yokes?
–No.
–Not the whole shebang? The operation?
– Calm down, for Jaysis sake, he says. –No, I’m after joining a book club.
–That’s your first step to womanhood?
–It’s a start, he says.
He’s right, I suppose. I never met a man who was in one. I asked the wife once what her book club involved and she told me to mind my own business; it was a secret world, she said, that not even the Russians could penetrate.
Anyway.
I’m happy for him – I think.
–You didn’t notice my shirt, I say.
–Is that you? he says. –For a minute there I thought I was sitting beside Jamie Redknapp.
5
The wife wants to go to a spa.
I asked her what she wanted for her birthday and that’s what she came up with. It serves me right. Why didn’t I just get her a scarf or one of those One4all vouchers – or even both?
The problem is, she expects me to go with her. I went to a Christian Brothers school and it wasn’t a happy time; they were mad bastards there. But I’d rather go back to the Brothers for a year than go to a spa for a long weekend. You knew where you were with the Christian Brothers. But I’m not even sure what a spa is.
I’m looking at one on the laptop when the daughter walks into the kitchen.
–What’s that? she asks.
–A spa, I tell her.
It’s actually a photo of about ten women in white dressing gowns, and a man – he’s in a dressing gown too. The women look like they’re having a great time but the man looks a bit lost. Not lost, exactly – his face reminds me of Fredo’s in The Godfather when he knows he’s going to be shot.
–It looks fab, says the daughter.
–Does it?
–Ah, yeah, she says.
I point at the man.
–Look at that poor sap.
–What’s wrong with him? she says. –That’s just a projection, Dad. He probably thinks it’s epic. Oh, wow – massage therapy, body treatments, hot stone massage.
I whimper. At least, I think I do. Some sort of noise comes out of me.
–What’s wrong with you? she asks me.
–Would I have to do all that? I ask her back. –If I went.
She sits beside me. Actually, she shoves me off the chair and I’m standing beside her as she takes over the laptop.
–There’s loads of stuff for men as well, like, she says.
–Is there?
My eyes are swimming, she’s hopping from page to page so fast.
–Look, she says. –Cool. There’s a man package.
–A what?
–Deep tissue massage, hammam, and Indian head massage. Will I book one for you?
I whimper again.
–Poor Dad, she says. –The first two days are the worst, like.
I point at the screen.
–Would I at least be able to watch Soccer Saturday while they’re doing the Indian thing to my head?
–Mammy will love it, she says.
She’s right, and that’s the main thing. I try really hard to believe that.
–Perfect, says the daughter.
–What?
–There’s a couples pamper package.
–Ah, Jesus.
I go out the back for some air. There’s a rope in the shed and I might hang myself while I’m out there. The dogs think I’m bringing them for a walk but then they see that I’m shaking and they sit – all of them – and stare at me.
–No walkies today, lads, I tell them. –Daddy’s having a coconut rub.
The thing is, there’s something up with the wife. It’s not anything midlife – we left that behind years ago. It’s nothing bad or too dramatic but there’s definitely something up.
–How many menopauses does the average woman have? I ask my pal, the Secret Woman.
–Give us a chance, he says. –I’m only after getting here.
–We’ve been here for hours, I tell him.
We’re in the local, looking at the third pints settling.
–I mean becoming a woman, he says. –It’s all new to me.
–The shift from male to female, I say. –Maybe that’s your menopause.
He stares at me.
–Maybe you could take that idea and shove it up your hole, he says.
–I rest my case, I say back.
But back to the wife. She’s restless, constantly wanting to do stuff. She’s always been like that and it’s one of the things I’ve always – well – loved about her. But this is different, somehow. She’s on the go all the time.
–It’ll force her to relax, says the daughter.
And she’s right – again.
–Book it there for us, love, I say. –Where is it, by the way?
–Roscommon.
–Ah Jesus, is there nowhere a bit nearer?
But that’s us, me and the wife – we’re heading to Roscommon for the wife’s birthday. I’m driving and she has the spa website up
on her phone. She’s booking the treatments she wants. She’s excited – I can tell. And it’s nice.
–What sort of a wrap do you want? she asks me.
–A wrap? I say.
Things are looking up.
–Tandoori chicken.
–It’s not on the list, she says. –You can have a muscle-ease ocean wrap, an exotic frangipani body nourish wrap or a dry flotation.
We’re going past Mullingar, so there’s no turning back.
–Fuck it, I say. –Put me down for the dry flotation.
It sounds harmless enough.
–Does it come with chips? I ask her.
–I doubt it, she says. –Unless you’re floating in vinegar.
6
I’ve found out what spas are really about: cakes.
And gin.
I’m stuck in a spa in Roscommon for the wife’s fifty-ninth. There’s candles all over the place, on the floor and all. I’m tripping over the things everywhere I go. I nearly set fire to myself. Actually, I do set fire to myself. I don’t know how I do it, but I manage to drag the cord of my dressing gown right across the flame of one of the bloody candles and, before I even know I’m close to death, a beautician and a masseuse are charging at me with matching fire extinguishers. I’m only in the place half an hour!
My eyebrows are singed and the young one – the beautician – offers to fix them, half-price. I think she’s afraid I’m going to sue them for nearly cremating me. But she isn’t looking at my eyebrows when the offer comes in. She’s staring at SpongeBob on my chest. What’s left of the dressing gown is on the black tiles, beside the line of candles. I’m standing there in my boxers and socks, and I’m wondering if I should maybe have taken the socks off before I left the room, and I’m thinking I probably should have. I’m feeling far from home; I’ve woken up in Mean Girls or something.
–Nice tatt, she says.
I’m guessing that ‘tatt’ is short for ‘tattoo’.
–It’s not really mine, I tell her, and I explain that it belongs to the grandson and I’m only minding it for him. And, suddenly, I’m not in Mean Girls any more; I’m in Bambi, surrounded by little woodland creatures and a few fairly big ones, all of them smelling of nail polish and marzipan. It’s the sweetest thing they’ve ever heard. I’m Celebrity Grandad and they all want selfies with SpongeBob.
I’m mortified but, really, it’s not too bad. Tara the beautician follows West Ham and the lad who does my nails has a cousin who knows Conor McGregor. It’s a pleasant way to kill an hour and I come away with a voucher for €50 and a brand new pair of eyebrows.
I’m back in the room before I think about the wife. Where was she during my remake of Towering Inferno? I’m thinking about sending the Secret Woman a picture of my eyebrows – Feast your eyes lol – when a text comes in from the wife. In the thermal suite x.
It’s the x that does it. It’s her birthday, the reason we’re here. So I’m back slaloming through the candles, and I find her sitting in some kind of a big egg, looking out at a couple of trees and a field. It’s hot – it’s very hot. She’s been reading her book but it’s become a bit warped and some of the pages have fallen out.
–It’s lovely here, she says.
–Yeah.
–Really lovely, she says.
–Yeah.
–So tranquil, she says.
–Yeah.
–Time for a drink, she says.
–Now we’re fuckin’ talking.
She smiles at me – and stops.
–What happened to your eyebrows?
–They’re new, I tell her. –I’m thinking of getting a power booster facial as well. They said it’ll take five years off me – at least. I’ll fill you in when we get to the bar.
And that’s when we discover the cakes.
The place is full of women eating cakes. They’re all in their dressing gowns, some with their faces covered in mud, and they’re sitting at round tables – there must be forty tables. And they’re scoffing cakes off those tiered cake stands that you used to see in Bewley’s years ago. Some of them are laughing and chatting. But most of them are just keeping an eye on one another, making sure no one gets a bun she’s not entitled to.
You can tell – it’s in the body language and the eyes: they’re here for the cakes. That’s the real purpose of the dressing gowns; the crumbs and the goo can go everywhere.
–Do you want a tray of cakes? I ask the wife.
–I don’t, she says. –I’m having a gin.
–Grand, I say.
–A Hendricks and Fever Tree.
I leg it to the bar before I forget the name. I give the barman €20 and I wait for the change. He stands there and waits for more money. I give in first.
There’s a slice of cucumber in her glass.
–He put vegetables in your gin, I tell her.
I’m worried now that he sneaked diced carrots into my pint. It might be what they do to the drink in spas.
A fight’s after breaking out at one of the tables. There’s a woman skulling her mother – she looks like her mother – with a cake stand. There’s blood on the dressing gowns.
The wife picks up her glass.
–A journey to tranquillity, harmony and balance, she says. –Cheers.
And – head right back – she laughs.
7
I’ve no idea where I am; I haven’t a clue. I’m not at home. The room’s all wrong, I’m on the wrong side of the bed.
I’m staring at a candle.
–We’re still in the spa.
–We are.
–Did you hit me?
–No, she says.
It’s the wife, by the way.
–I nudged you, she says.
–Nudged?
–Yeah.
–Cassius Clay nudged Sonny Liston, I say.
–I tapped you with one of my toes, she says. –Because, first, you were snoring and, second, you’ve gone viral.
–I’ve gone what?
I sit up in the bed – I try to sit up. It usen’t to be a problem; sitting up came naturally. Now I need a crane and planning permission. Things creak, things wobble, things teeter and threaten to collapse. But I make it.
–Don’t pretend you don’t know what going viral means, she says.
–But I don’t know what it means.
–I know you, she says. –You’re going to pretend you think going viral means catching the bird flu or AIDS or something.
She’s spot on.
–That’s rubbish, I say.
I have to deny it. It’s either that or admit I’m hopelessly predictable and a bit of a gobshite.
–Look it, she says.
She’s holding her phone the way Wyatt Earp used to hold his gun. And it’s aimed at me.
I’d better be clear here: she isn’t being aggressive – at all. She’s just kicked me awake but she’s smiling; she’s enjoying herself, having the crack.
The screen of her phone is swimming in front of me.
–Hang on, I say. –I need my reading glasses.
I’ve three pairs of glasses – my ordinary ones, my reading ones, and a pair for driving. I once drove all the way to Wexford wearing my reading glasses. I’d picked up the wrong ones on the way out of the house and I was going through Kilmacanogue before I realised that the only thing I could see clearly was the dashboard.
Anyway.
The specs are on the floor beside the bed. I get them on and see what’s gone viral. My chest, nipples and all – and SpongeBob. And a young lad, right under my armpit, pointing at SpongeBob and grinning.
–That’s Brendan, I say.
–Who’s Brendan?
–He did my nails yesterday, I tell her. –Nice enough chap. He trimmed the hair in my ears as well.
–Look, she says.
She’s pointing at the number under the pic. 207K.
–Is that Facebook? I ask.
–It is.
–And two hundred and se
ven thousand people have ‘liked’ the picture?
–So far.
–And that’s what ‘going viral’ is, is it?
–I think so, she says.
–At least it’s just my chest, I say. –My face isn’t in the picture.
She flicks her finger across the screen and there I am, all of me this time, with Tara the beautician under my other armpit.
–Oh.
–‘Oh’ is right, she says. –You don’t want to read the comments.
And she reads them to me.
–‘Gross’, ‘barf’, ‘blech’, ‘yucky’, ‘sick’, ‘who’s the paedo?’, ‘who’s the leper?’, ‘is that Donald Trump or SpongeBob between his boobs?’, ‘nice legs, shame about the face’.
She looks up from the phone.
–I could go on, she says.
–It might be better if you don’t, I say. –Did no one say anything nice?
–There was one, she says. –Somewhere – hang on.
She reads.
–‘When did you get the job in the undertakers, Tara?’
–Is that the only positive one? I ask.
–There’s a few more, she says. –‘Sweet’, ‘ah, bless’, ‘you’ve done worse, Bren’.
She climbs out of the bed and grabs her dressing gown.
–Are we heading down to the thermal suite? I ask her.
–No, she says. –We’re rocking up to the bar.
–It’s still dark out, I say.
–We can watch the dawn together, she says.
Do they have dawns in Roscommon?
–Come on, Groucho, she says, and she heads for the door.
Why did she call me Groucho? I’m going to check my new eyebrows with the reading glasses on. But then I remember: the last time I looked at myself when I was wearing reading glasses, I confronted my own mortality – and all I’d wanted to do was brush my teeth. So I throw the glasses on the bed and follow the wife.
I find her outside on the patio, with a bowl of muesli and a gin and tonic.
I sit beside her.
–D’you not like it here? I ask.
–Love it, she says. –But—.
She puts down her spoon and picks up her glass.
–The whole harmony and tranquillity thing, she says. –It’s not for me.
She looks at me.
