by Marian Keyes
Suddenly the three men stiffened as if sensing danger. Ashling looked. Two policemen at the top of the road seemed to be the problem.
‘They look bored.’ JohnJohn sounded worried.
‘Come on!’ Boo urged, and they scooted away. ‘Bye Ashling.’
When she arrived at the pub, Marcus was there already, sitting in combats and a T-shirt, a pint of Guinness in front of him. Something jumped in Ashling at the sight of him. He’d turned up. This was really happening.
Ambiguity wrestled within her – how did she feel about him? Was he the enthusiastic freckled eejit whom she’d refused to bellez? Or the confident performer whose phone call she’d longed for? His appearance didn’t do anything to clear up the confusion, being neither wildly attractive nor laughably geeky. There was no getting away from it – he looked ordinary. His hair was an auburny-brown buzz-cut, his eyes weren’t any obvious colour, and of course there was the small matter of the freckles. But she liked ordinary. She deserved ordinary. No point flying too close to the sun.
And even though he was ordinary, his height meant that at least he was the deluxe version of it. He had a nice body.
When he saw her he stood up and beckoned. There was a space beside him on the bench and she squeezed in.
‘Hello,’ he said solemnly, when she was settled.
‘Hello,’ she replied, equally solemnly.
Then they both sort of giggled. Now he was at it.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ he asked.
‘You can. A vodka-and-tonic, thanks.’
When he came back with her drink she flashed him a relaxed grin. He was so friendly-looking it was hard to take this seriously. Which trickled a dispiriting stream of disappointment through her. She didn’t fancy him. All that anxiety waiting for his phone call, wasted. She probed a bit more, leapfrogging from his freckles to her feelings and back. No, she definitely didn’t fancy him. The hairs could have stayed on her legs. Ted could have been spared the humiliating trip to the chemist. Ah, well. But maybe they could be friends. In fact, he could probably help Ted’s stand-up career, after all.
Brazenly she smiled at him and demanded, ‘So what have you been up to lately?’
Abruptly she remembered that this was the man who was about to, in Lisa’s words, ‘go stellar’, and there and then her lighthearted disrespect evaporated. Only seconds before she’d have gaily told him her most embarrassing moments, but perplexingly her brain had just wiped itself clean of all topics of conversation.
‘A bit of this, a bit of that,’ he replied.
Her turn. What should she say? The last thing, the very last thing she should mention was his career as a comedian. It would be naïve, and because he was so successful he must be sick of being praised and commended.
So it came as a right surprise when into the tongue-tied silence he said, ‘So you enjoyed the gig last Saturday?’
‘I did,’ she said. ‘Everyone was very funny.’
She sensed an anticipation from him, so she continued carefully, ‘I thought you were fantastic.’
‘Ah, it wasn’t one of my best,’ he twinkled, with a shadow of his on-stage goofy vulnerability. The air of relief from him was palpable.
Ashling’s turn again. ‘Do you have a job, you know, apart from, er, being funny?’
‘I write software for Cablelink, to do with upgrading the network to fibre optics.’
‘Er, is that so?’
‘Fascinating stuff,’ he smiled ruefully. ‘No wonder I have to do stand-up. And what do you do?’
Oh-oh. ‘I work for a women’s magazine.’
‘What’s it called?’
‘Ah, er, Colleen.’
‘Colleen?’ His expression changed. ‘They’re on at me to write a column. Lisa someone.’
‘Edwards. Lisa Edwards. She’s my boss,’ Ashling admitted, feeling guilty even though there was no need.
Suspicion altered his face into something hard and cold. ‘Is that why you came out with me? To persuade me to write a column?’
‘No! Not at all.’ She had a horror of being thought pushy. ‘I’ve nothing to do with it and I don’t care if you never do it.’
Not exactly true. If he agreed to do the column it’d be a feather in her cap, but she wasn’t going to press it. But she was moved by his insecurity and out of nowhere a protective urge sprang to life in her.
‘Honestly,’ she said softly, ‘I’m only here with you because I want to be. Nothing to do with anything else.’
‘OK,’ he nodded thoughtfully. Then he laughed, ‘I believe you, you’ve an honest face.’
Ashling screwed up her nose. ‘God, what an awful thing to have.’ She indicated his empty pint glass. ‘More tea, vicar?’
‘Oh? No. Ashling, can I ask you,’ his tone was apologetic, ‘would you mind if we dropped into a comedy gig? Just for half an hour? There’s someone that I’d love to have a look at.’
‘Sure, why not?’ This clearly wasn’t going to be a soft-lighting-and-expensive-dinner kind of date. Just as well, really.
The gig was only a couple of streets away, in another pub. Marcus was greeted at the door like royalty and, to Ashling’s amusement, both of them were waved through without having to pay. In the crowded room, people kept coming up to him – mostly other comedians – and Marcus introduced Ashling to all of them. I could get used to this, she thought.
The gig was similar to the others Ashling had been at. Loads of people crammed into a small dark room, with a tiny patch of stage in the corner. The comedian Marcus was interested in modelled himself on a manic depressive and called himself Lithium Man.
When he finished his ten-minute stint, Marcus touched Ashling lightly. ‘We can go now.’
‘But I don’t mind if we stay…’
He shook his head. ‘No. I want to talk to you.’
He smiled through the gloom, and Ashling suddenly noticed that though he was ordinary, he erred on the good-looking side of it.
When they were resettled in another pub, Marcus asked, ‘So what did you think of Lithium Man?’
Ashling paused. ‘To be honest, I didn’t really like him.’
‘Yeah? How so?’ Marcus seemed very interested in her opinion, and she was flattered.
‘I don’t think it’s clever to make fun of mental illness,’ she admitted. ‘Not unless you’re really funny, and he wasn’t.’
‘And who do you think is funny?’ he asked, intently.
‘Well, you obviously.’ She laughed a bit shrilly at that, but he didn’t seem to mind. ‘Who do you like?’
‘Well, me obviously.’ They giggled conspiratorially at that. ‘And Samuel Beckett.’
Ashling squealed with laughter until she realized he was serious. Shite.
‘I think he’s the best comic writer of the century,’ Marcus enthused.
‘I once saw Waiting for Godot,’ Ashling said tentatively. No need to mention that it was a school outing and she hadn’t been able to make head nor tail of it. But apart from the Beckett hiccup, the evening passed without incident. The drinks flowed and Marcus was charming and interested in her. Because of his freckles, she was relaxed around him and told him lots of things. About her salsa classes – she had to admit she was thrilled she’d actually taken it up because she must seem like a person with ‘interests’ – her fondness for handbags and how, lots of the time, she loved her new job on Colleen. ‘Although that’s not a hint,’ she said, suddenly anxious.
‘I know. But be honest, is the pressure on you to bring them the head of Marcus Valentine?’
‘N-no;,’ she stuttered.
‘And they’re not leaning on you at work about it?’ he asked again.
‘No way.’ Ashling was adamant. ‘There’s been no mention of it, actually.’
‘Oh.’ After a spell of silence he added, ‘I see… I see.’
Looking out from under his eyelashes, he smiled slightly at her, and with a sudden warmth burring in her solar plexus, Ashling realized that she
found him attractive. He must be the kind of person who grows on you. And he wasn’t really like his stage persona at all. Just as well – goofy gobshites weren’t exactly bedroom fodder.
Then he shifted, tilted his head against Ashling’s and said in a low, meaningful tone, ‘Would you like a bag of chips?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘So we’ve had a drink, you don’t want chips, all that remains on the agenda is…’ The rampant sex!
Though she’d lost count of the number of drinks she’d had, the idea filled her with sudden, inexplicable paralysis. Not exactly fear, but not exactly not fear either. She really liked him, she found him attractive, but…
‘Oh, would you mind… You see, I hadn’t planned to be out late tonight. Work in the morning and all that.’
‘0h right. Sure,’ he said evenly, but he wouldn’t look her properly in the eye. ‘We’d better get going then.’
He kissed her when he dropped her home, but somehow she wasn’t convinced by it.
33
Soft, pudgy hands stroking her face… Halfway between sleeping and waking, Clodagh dreamily savoured the heat of Molly’s hands touching the sensitive, yielding skin of her face. Lying on Clodagh’s chest, Molly breathed with earnest weight as she trailed her tender, sticky fingers along Clodagh’s chin, her cheeks, around her nose, her forehead and… OW! Ouch! Stars went off in her brain.
‘You punched me in the eye, Molly!’ Clodagh yelled, in shock from the violent awakening.
‘Mummy woke up,’ Molly said, in fake surprise.
‘Oh course Mummy woke up.’Clodagh cupped her hand over her blinded eye, which was sluicing water as though from a burst dam. ‘Getting a belt in the eye usually does that to a person.’
Shrugging Molly off her, she stumbled to the mirror to check the damage. She needed to look her best today because she had an appointment at an employment agency.
One side of her face was normal, the other was collapsed into tearful, bloodshot disaster. Damn. Then she noticed the pile of clothes on her chair, and went into her usual pre-Flor frenzy of tidying and hanging.
‘Get dressed, Craig,’ she called. ‘Molly, hurry, put your clothes on. Flor will be here.’
Thundering down the stairs, breakfast was the usual war-zone.
‘Don’t want the All-Bran,’ Craig screeched and bawled. ‘Want the Coco Pops.’
‘You can’t have the Coco Pops until the All-Bran is eaten,’ Clodagh said, pretending for a moment that she might be obeyed.
Her weekly shop included six-pack selection boxes of cereal, of which the Sugar-Puffs and Coco Pops always got scoffed immediately, while the boring ones like All-Bran mounted up in an abandoned slush-pile. Until they’d been consumed, she tried to resist being bullied into opening a new selection. And always caved in. Particularly today because time was of the essence. Tearing cellophane from a virgin six-pack, she thumped the Coco Pops in front of Craig. Then in her nightdress she hurried out to the car, retrieving several shopping bags from their hiding place in the boot. She often did that when she bought something new to wear. Even though Dylan never complained about her spending money on clothes, it didn’t stop her feeling guilty.
But this was different. While Dylan had been at work on the bank holiday, Clodagh had dumped the children with her arthritic mother and gone on a mini-spree. The bags that she hustled into the house contained young, funky party clothes, clothes that she wasn’t entirely confident how to wear. She’d also bought a suit in honour of her visit to the employment agency – about which Dylan knew nothing. She didn’t know why she hadn’t told him but she had a vague, free-floating suspicion that he wouldn’t approve.
Back in her room, she frantically snapped price tags and labels from the grey skirt and jacket and got dressed. The suit had been expensive. Sick-makingly so, but she reasoned that she’d get to wear it again and again when she got a job. Fifteen-denier tights, high black shoes and a white shirt followed. After she’d applied lipstick and arranged her hair into a neat French twist, she felt she looked good.
Apart from her bloodshot eye, that is.
She wasn’t in time to escape Flor this morning. She was lumbering through the gate just as Clodagh was hustling Craig and Molly out the door.
‘How are you, Flor?’
‘I was over at Frawley on Friday,’ Flor replied. Frawley was her doctor. Though Clodagh had never met him, she felt she knew him intimately.
‘What had he to say?’
‘It’s got to come out.’
‘What has?’
‘My womb, what else?’ Flor hooted in surprise.
‘Bloody hell, that’s awful news.’ Clodagh summoned energy to administer sympathy and woman-to-woman understanding.
‘It is not!’
‘Aren’t you upset?’
‘Why would I be?’
‘Aren’t you worried that you’ll feel…’ Clodagh stalled. She’d been about to say, ‘Less of a woman?’ But that was way too tactless. Instead she settled for, ‘Aren’t you worried that you’ll feel a loss?’
‘Not a bit if it,’ Flor said gaily. ‘Whip it out. Sure, it’s only a nuisance. No good ever came of it. What would you like me to do for you today?’
‘Oh.’ Clodagh was mortified. ‘A little bit of ironing, if you’re able. And maybe the bathroom. Whatever you’re able for really…’
Pushing open the door of the city-centre employment agency, fear and excitement manifested themselves in Clodagh’s trembling hands. She stopped before a young girl with a pale-haired chignon, whose fresh, apricot-bloom skin was smothered with heavy foundation.
‘I have an appointment with Yvonne Hughes.’
The girl stood up. ‘Hello,’ she said coolly, with surprising confidence. ‘I’m Yvonne Hughes.’
‘Oh.’ Clodagh had expected someone a lot older.
Then Yvonne gave her the mother of all firm handshakes, as though she was in training to be a male politician. ‘Take a seat.’
Clodagh palmed over her CV, which had got slightly bent in her bag.
‘Now let’s have a look.’ Yvonne had a delicate, very deliberate way with her hands. She kept stroking the CV with the pads of her splayed, child-like fingers, flattening it out, straightening it up, realigning it with the edge of her desk. Then before she turned the page she took a moment to grasp the corner of it between her thumb and forefinger and did a brief frenzy of rubbing, just to make sure she hadn’t picked up two pages at once. For some reason, this really irritated Clodagh.
‘You’ve been out of the workplace for a long time?’ Yvonne said. ‘It’s… how many… over five years.’
‘I had a baby. I never intended to stay away so long, but then I had another child, and the time never seemed right until now.’ Clodagh defended herself in a rush.
‘I… seeeeeee…’ Yvonne continued to toy with Clodagh’s nerves as she studied her career details. ‘Since you’ve left school, you’ve worked as a hotel booking clerk, receptionist at a sound studio, cashier in a restaurant, filing clerk in a solicitor’s office, goods inward for a clothing company, cashier at Dublin zoo, receptionist in an architect’s firm and a booking clerk at a travel agent’s?’ Clodagh had made Ashling put down everything she’d ever done, just to show that she was versatile. ‘You stayed… three days at Dublin zoo?’
‘It was the smell,’ Clodagh admitted. ‘No matter where I went I could smell the elephant house. I’ll never forget it. Even my sandwiches tasted of it…’
‘Your longest stint was at the travel agent’s,’ Yvonne interrupted. ‘You were there for two years?’
‘That’s right,’ Clodagh said, eagerly. Somehow she’d moved forward so that she was sitting on the edge of her chair.
‘Were you promoted in that time?’
‘Well, no.’ Clodagh was taken aback. How could she explain that you could only be promoted to be a supervisor and that everyone both despised and pitied the supervisors.
‘Have you done any of the travel-
agency exams?’
Clodagh nearly laughed. The very thought! That’s why you leave school, isn’t it? So that you never have to sit another exam?
Yvonne twiddled her fingers in the air, before bringing each one down separately, to deliberately, hypnotically stroke the page flat again. ‘What software did you use there?’
‘Ah…’ Clodagh couldn’t remember.
‘Have you typing and shorthand?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many words a minute?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I just type with my first two fingers,’ Clodagh elaborated, ‘but I’m very fast. As fast as some people who’ve done a course.’
Yvonne’s child-like eyes narrowed. She was annoyed, although not to the extent that she would have you believe. She was just playing, having fun with the power she had. ‘So can I take it that you don’t actually have any shorthand?’
‘Well, I suppose, but I could always… No,’ Clodagh admitted, having run out of energy.
‘Have you any basic word-processing skills?’
‘Ah, no.’
And even though Yvonne knew the answer, she asked, ‘And you’re not a graduate?’
‘No,’ Clodagh admitted, fixing Yvonne with one normal eye and one red-veined one.
‘OK.’ Yvonne exhaled long-sufferingly, licked a finger and used it to smooth down a ragged corner of the CV. ‘Tell me what you read.’
‘How do you mean?’
There was a pause, so tiny it barely existed, but Yvonne had created it to convey what a hopeless idiot she thought Clodagh was.
‘FT? Time?’ Yvonne prompted. She didn’t exactly sigh, but she might as well have. Then she added cruelly, ‘Bella? Hello!?’
All Clodagh read were interiors magazines. And Cat in the Hat books. And occasional blockbusters about women who set up their own businesses and who didn’t have to sit through humiliating interviews such as this one when they wanted a job.
‘And I see you count tennis among your interests. Where do you play?’
‘Oh, I don’t play.’ Clodagh gave a near-teenage giggle. ‘I mean I like watching it.’
Wimbledon was about to start, there had been lots of pre-transmission publicity on telly.
