‘Jamie, what exactly have you been telling him?’
‘I didn’t lie. Well, not exactly. I just tweaked the truth a bit. Oh, and if my mobile phone rings, you’re to say, “Don’t tell me that’s your LA agent ringing you again. Doesn’t he understand that this is your down-time?” ’
‘I’ll never remember.’
‘Yes you will. And if I mention Colin, you’re to tell Pete I’m talking about Colin Farrell. Likewise, Marty is Martin Scorsese and Bobby is Robert de Niro. OK?’
Pete is very late. So late that I’ve almost decided to abandon the plan and bolt for the safety of home. Some of the looks I’m getting are starting to make me feel a bit self-conscious. Plus, I’m the only woman here. At least, I think I’m the only woman here. Some of the blokes have such fabulous bone structure, you wouldn’t be too sure … Anyway. We’ve been here for over a half an hour now, and still no sign. Bugger it. I’ve had enough drama for one week, haven’t I?
‘How pissed off with me would you be if I left you here and ran away?’ I eventually pluck up the courage to ask Jamie.
‘On a scale of one to ten, stratospheric. What’s wrong, honey?’
‘Number one, I’m the only person here carrying a handbag and number two, some of these guys obviously have far better skincare regimes than I do. I’m about as conspicuous here as you would be at a speed-dating night in Jury’s Inn.’
‘One more drink, that’s all I ask. Then at least you’ll have given it a try and can retreat with honour.’
I’m just about to call up another order, when an eerily familiar voice shouts over the noise at Jamie.
‘Well, well, well, Dr Livingstone, I presume?’
It’s him. It’s Pete. For definite. And the weird thing is that he’s hardly changed a bit. Still skeletally thin, still hollow-cheeked, still with the ghostly pallor of the night-dweller; the only notable difference is that his clothes have dramatically improved. We all hug and air-kiss and greet each other and I try my best to act casual and relaxed as if I frequent gay bars every night of the week.
He and Jamie have hit it off good-oh and are chatting away like they’re best buddies.
‘I was so pleased you called,’ Pete says to him. ‘You won’t believe this but I often used to think about you with such a shamingly guilty conscience. I can’t believe I ever said that your talents were end-of-pier.’
‘All in the past, let it go.’
‘And you’re an actor now? Would I have seen you in anything?’
Jamie is very well-prepared for this one. Boy, has he done his homework. ‘I do a lot of art-house movies mostly. Limited release stuff, you know. I’m very reluctant to sell out my art and do more commercial films, you know, the way Colin has.’
‘Oh … ehh … that’s Colin Farrell he means,’ I dutifully chip in, making a mental note to slag the hell out of Jamie later for actually using the phrase, ‘my art’.
‘It’s an ongoing battle between me and my LA representation,’ he rattles on, beaming. ‘They’re always pushing me to do big blockbuster movies, whereas I’ve always felt my first love was the theatre. So I’m reading a lot of scripts at the moment, just biding my time, waiting for the right part to come along.’
Pete is suitably impressed by all this shite and the two of them chat on.
And by the two of them, I really do mean the two of them.
We order another round of drinks and half an hour later, well, I’m starting to feel very much like a third wheel. After another few minutes of Jamie giving the best performance I’ve seen him do in a long, long time, eventually he excuses himself to go to the loo.
‘Back in a mo,’ he says cheerily, tossing his mobile phone at me. I only think he’s gone a bit too far when he says, ‘If Brad or Angelina call, just take a message, will you? Tell them I’ll get my people to call their people and we’ll all meet up really soon, stateside.’
There’s an awkward pause as both Pete and I sip on our drinks and I frantically rack my brains wondering how I can bring up the big subject.
Eventually, a tactic strikes me. ‘So, Pete,’ I begin, hoping Jamie will be gone for ages, which he normally is. I never know what he does in there, but he takes far longer than any girl in the loo. ‘Can you believe it’s been nineteen years? You’ve hardly changed a bit, you know, I’d have recognized you anywhere.’
‘Well, thanks,’ says Pete, delighted. ‘It’s so great to catch up with both of you again, after all this time. And isn’t it wonderful how well Jamie is doing in his career? But then he did always have a big gaping hole in his character which could only be filled by applause, didn’t he?’
What am I supposed to say to that? Half of it sounded like a compliment and the other half sounded like an insult …
‘So, are you single at the moment?’ Pete asks me, apropos of nothing.
OK, this is good, this is great. Now I’m back on track. I’m actually delighted he’s asked, as this gives me a much-needed chink of opportunity to talk about when he and I used to date. Pete, however, doesn’t even give me a chance to draw breath.
‘Because I am at the moment,’ he barrels on. ‘Just broke up with someone.’
Oh shit … There’s an awful, awkward moment where we both just look at each other. He’s single, I’m single and now I’m thinking:Please, dear God, don’t let him ask me out. I don’t think I even liked him when we were dating, I just fancied him which is a completely different thing and now that I see him almost twenty years on I’m beginning to think I might need my head examined.
Pete is happily warbling away though; blithely unaware of what’s going through my head, which at least is something.
‘You see, I was the dumpee, not the dumper and that’s never a barrel of laughs,’ he’s saying. ‘I’m not joking; before Jamie called, I was sitting at home, all by myself, crying so hard, I could barely iron my underpants. In fact, do you mind me asking you something, Amelia?’
‘Ehhh … of course not. Fire away.’
‘It’s kind of personal.’
Oh God, here we go, he wants to ask me out. Right, nothing for it but to brace myself for a good, stout lie. I have to say I’m seeing someone.
No, he’d never believe that because then what would I be doing in a gay bar with Jamie on a Friday night?
OK, here’s the plan. I’ll say I’m seeing someone who’s either (a) a long-haul pilot (b) in the army peace corps serving in the Lebanon or (c) in a coma.
‘Are you Jamie’s hag?’ he asks me straight out.
I almost choke on my drink, but there’s even better to come. Because right then, ladies and gentlemen, we heard an alarm bell. Possibly the loudest, clearest alarm bell ever heard this side of Big Ben.
‘Do you know if Jamie’s seeing anyone right now?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, just that if he’s free, I’d love to ask him to this boring old wedding with me tomorrow. I don’t think either of the grooms would mind me bringing a last-minute date; Jack and Dave are both really cool about things like that. I know I haven’t seen him in such a long time, but … do you think he might be interested?’
Chapter Thirteen
Supposing This Is as Good as it Gets …
‘So, to make a very long story short, not only is Pete Mooney gay but for added entertainment value, he hit on Jamie. I swear, if you saw this in a movie, you’d say it was far-fetched.’
The next morning is one of those bright, sunny Saturdays that really make you feel as if you could fall for Dublin. I’ve volunteered to drive Rachel to the airport (a) so that I can fill her in on all the high jinks of last night and (b) because I won’t see her for almost a week now, as she’s jetting off to the Peter O’Brien couture show in Paris followed by meetings with all of the big Italian buyers in Milan. She really looks the part too, with her Jackie O sunglasses and Hermès scarf casually knotted over a beautifully cut black cashmere coat.
OK, so maybe Jackie O wouldn’t be sucking cigarettes o
ut of the car window, as Rachel is now doing, but you get the picture.
‘Am I blind or just plain thick not to have seen this coming?’ I storm on. ‘I honestly thought that the only reason Pete suggested meeting in a gay bar was because he didn’t know Dublin very well. You’re right to all nickname me Miss Magoo, I really am that short-sighted.’
‘Honey, with hindsight, you could have seen the signs from space.’
‘He told Jamie he only discovered he was gay in nineteen ninety-five.’
‘In that case, he was the last to find out.’
‘Do you think?’
‘For God’s sake, even leaving the gay issue aside, I could never understand what you saw in him back in college. He was always so pretentious and up-his-ownarse. That type never un-dorkulate.’
‘It’s hard to describe. I suppose I thought he was very cultured.’
‘A yoghurt has more culture than him.’
‘Ring Jamie, will you?’ I ask, as I take the turn-off marked ‘Dublin airport’. ‘I’m dying to know what happened after I left last night.’
‘What time did you leave at?’
‘As soon as I could reasonably get the hell out of there without actually leaving either skid marks or a cloud of dust behind me.’
Rachel fishes around the bottom of her bag for her phone, dials his number, then snaps the phone shut. ‘What am I thinking?’ she says in exasperation. ‘It’s only ten in the morning. He’s never up before the crack of lunch.’ Then she turns to me, whipping off her sunglasses and looking at me as intently as a Jehovah’s Witness. ‘So, Pollyanna, has this experience finally made you see the light about this ridiculous quest of yours? Are you finally ready to rejoin the ranks of the sane? Or is there more to come?’
‘Do you derive self-esteem from denigrating my misfortunes?’
‘I prefer to call it good, old-fashioned tough love. Anything that’ll encourage you to give up that infernal night course.’
‘You can laugh all you like,’ I say firmly, ‘but I’m actually looking forward to going back to Ira Vandergelder next week, just to hear what she makes of Pete Mooney. I could be in danger of becoming the class clown when they all hear this latest.’
‘You’ve had quite enough drama for one week, sweetie,’ says Rachel. ‘I wish you’d just tell Ira what’s-her-face where to get off and give yourself a well-deserved break.’
‘I’d never give up the course,’ I answer, trying to sound jokey and not defensive. ‘Just look at all the fantastic progress I’m making. Number one ex-boyfriend wanted me to be his bit on the side, number two referred to me as a hag, and skipping forward to number ten, let’s remind ourselves that he’s getting married to someone who wasn’t even born when we were doing the Leaving Cert. Why would I quit the course? Look at the hours of fun and laughter it’s given us all.’
‘I’m being serious, Amelia. If I die in a plane crash, my last thoughts will be: Why did I stand back and allow my best friend to put herself through all that self-inflicted torture?’
‘You already know the answer to that one,’ I say, pulling the car over at the entrance to the departures hall. ‘Because I don’t want to be alone.’
‘Answer me one thing, and I would really like you to give this some thought. Why not? What is so terrible about being alone? You need to shift your attitude, honey, and focus on all the positives about being single.’
‘Name me one.’
She turns to me with that mad glint in her eyes she sometimes gets when there’s devilment afoot. ‘OK, off the top of my head, here’s one. Get on the plane with me right now and come to Paris for the weekend.’
‘What?’
‘Why not? What’s to stop you? You could come to the show with me this afternoon if you wanted, or if not you could do the galleries and museums and we’ll meet up for a bottle of Bolly tonight … brunch on the Champs Elysées tomorrow … dinner in the Hôtel du Crillon. What do you say?’
‘Oh, Rach, I’d love nothing more,’ I say, really touched at her kind offer. ‘But … emm … you see, I can’t.’
‘Better be a very good excuse.’
‘I don’t know if it’s a good excuse, but it’s an excuse. I have a date.’ Which, if Caroline hadn’t called first thing that morning to remind me, I would have clean forgotten. Damien Delaney.
‘Ughh, the aul’ fella?’ says Rachel as we hug goodbye. ‘I won’t say have fun but do keep me posted.’
‘I’m not expecting it to be a dance around the maypole, but who am I to turn down a decent bloke, just because he’s a bit, well … advanced in years?’
Now, at this stage in my long and spectacularly unsuccessful dating career, whenever I first come face to face with any date/fix-up/potential husband, my mind operates almost like a computer screen, split right down the middle. On the left, I see the pros for each guy so clearly they could almost be written in neon graphics, and on the right, I see the cons. And thus it is with Damien.
Caroline has invited both him and me for dinner at seven, but naturally I’m at her house a good hour earlier, mainly so I can gossip about last night.
‘Fab, you’re early!’ she says as she throws open the hall door and hugs me tight. ‘It’ll be great to have our own private chat before the boys get here. Oh, you shouldn’t have, you angel!’ she says, gratefully taking a big bunch of stargazer lilies I brought for her, along with a bottle of Bollinger.
‘Thought that might be a good ice-breaker,’ I say, handing it over.
‘You’re a pet. Come on, let’s get a glass of this into you and you can tell me all about Pete Mooney. I’m still in shock that he invited Jamie to a gay wedding! And I’m even more shocked that Jamie didn’t go.’
‘I think the only reason he wouldn’t go is because he told so many lies about his acting career, he said he’d never be able to remember them all when he sobered up. Oh, Caroline, if you’d seen the Dragon bar last night, you’d have fallen over. I’m not joking, trying to find another straight woman in there was like trying to find a clock in a Las Vegas casino.’
She roars laughing and leads me downstairs to the beautiful Victorian kitchen, which is so big it takes up most of the basement floor. A beautiful aroma of garlic and ginger is wafting from the Aga in the corner and Felix, Emma’s cat, is fast asleep on the armchair beside it. The whole scene looks like something out of a really posh interiors magazine.
I plonk down on a stool at the breakfast bar, oooing and aahing at all the yummy dinner smells. ‘Caroline, your entire life is one big glossy magazine. Do you realize how much Homes and Gardens would pay to get shots of this house?’
‘Yeah, right, you just wait and see it five minutes after the kids get home,’ she laughs, sticking the champagne in the fridge and producing another, pre-chilled bottle. ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier.’
‘Good woman. Where are the little cherubs anyway? I was thinking the house was unusually quiet.’
‘Please don’t judge me, but they’re at McDonald’s with the au pair. I know, I know, I’m a bad mother for letting them eat crap, but I work on a bribe system with them, especially Emma. On special occasions like this, they get hamburgers and fries in return for good behaviour.’
Just then, the doorbell rings.
‘It can’t be them already,’ says Caroline, utterly dismayed. ‘It’s only just gone six. Wait here, will you, pet, and let me get rid of whoever it is. I don’t want anything interrupting our private chat.’
Two minutes later, she leads Damien through to the kitchen, full of apologies for being so early. It seemed that he and Mike had to cut their golf game short, as Mike, who’s on call this weekend, got unexpectedly called in to do an emergency surgery, so Damien came straight to the house, with promises that Mike wouldn’t be long behind him. And that’s when the computer graphics in my mind’s eye kick in.
After all, he could just turn out to be my headless groom …
PRO:
It’s ages since I’ve seen Damien, but I
’m reminded again of what a sweet, nice guy he seems to be as he kisses me warmly on the hand, just like Trevor Howard would have done in a 1940s black and white B movie. He then presents Caroline with a lovely, tall potted pink orchid.
‘I never bring wine to a dinner party, my dear,’ he says to her. ‘It’s considered very bad etiquette, you know. Presumes that the host or hostess hasn’t put thought or consideration into choosing the correct wines to serve with each course.’
CON:
That’s the kind of thing my grandad, God rest him, would have come out with. I smile gamely though and resist the temptation to start messing and say something like, ‘In that case, never come to dinner in my house. I don’t care what plonk I serve up to my unfortunate guests as long as it’s fermented and distracts them from my atrocious/non-existent cooking skills.’
PRO:
He’s really made an effort with his appearance tonight and I have to admit, does look really well. For a man of his age …
CON:
Oh, who am I kidding? He looks so old that I actually feel cheeky calling him by his first name.
PRO:
After a few minutes of chit-chat, the door bursts open and in barge the kids, high on E numbers from McDonald’s and swinging freebie novelty toys they’ve got for us all to see.
Damien, I can’t help noticing, is really great with them, giving them both piggy-back rides on his shoulders and shelling out cash for them to buy treats with tomorrow. The analytical part of my mind that I’m slowly training to filter potential husbands from potential losers instantly notes what a great dad he’d make.
CON:
Well, that fantasy didn’t last long. Caroline sweetly asks him how his grandchildren are. Turns out he has five, ranging in age from ten to eighteen. Eighteen! That’s almost old enough for Jamie to hit on …
There was a time, long ago, when my mother would jokingly ask me if I’d met the father of my children yet. Then, as the years passed and I still had no man to show for myself, the question morphed into ‘Have you met the father of your stepchildren yet?’ Now, it’s the father of my step-grand children …
Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man Page 12
