Little Black Everything

by Alex Coleman

  “John’s a little shy,” he said.

  Again, Holly was both impressed and irritated. He’d sounded perfectly natural, but why bother pointing out that the guy was shy? Wasn’t that obvious? Even if it hadn’t been clear from the way he’d hung back by the doorway, there was no mistaking his disposition as he approached. He had the look of a man who was on his way to the dentist at best or the gallows at worst. That was besides the point, though. The most noteworthy thing about him, Holly thought, was that he wasn’t ugly. The notion occurred to her in exactly those words: he isn’t ugly. She felt thoroughly ashamed of herself for making such a superficial judgement but immediately forgot her scruples and moved on to considering his weight. Again, the news was pretty good. He was never going to have a career as a ballet dancer but the ground wasn’t shaking underfoot either. James started speaking to him while he was still several metres away; Holly guessed that he was trying to give him a soft landing.

  “John, this is Holly. She’s a teacher at the school I just started in. And these are her friends, Aisling and Orla.”

  Holly and Aisling said hello; Orla merely stared though narrowed eyes. Her mouth had set into a hard, straight line. Holly tried to pretend that she hadn’t noticed these details. John nodded, paused, and nodded again. Then he shifted from one foot to the other. Then he scratched the tip of his nose. Then he put his hands into the pockets of his jacket and took them out again. Finally, he said, “Hello. There. Hello there.”

  His voice was surprisingly soft, Holly thought, like that of a late-night DJ. It was the first quality of his about which she had felt positive, as opposed to merely not negative, and she clung to it for a moment. The best word for it was “soothing”, she supposed, but in the right circumstances, she could even imagine that it would be quite sexy. She wondered if Orla was thinking the same thing but didn’t dare to glance in her direction.

  “You probably thought it was a serious treat meeting James Bond,” James Bond said. “Well, get ready for a bonus. This isn’t any old John we have here – this is John Lennon.”

  “You’re kidding me!” Aisling cried. For the third time, Holly felt conflicted. Aisling’s delivery of the line was perfectly believable, but she’d screwed up the timing; James had barely got the words out before she’d reacted.

  “Nope. Honest to God.”

  “John Lennon and James Bond! And you’re actually friends?”

  “As opposed to what?” Holly said. “Strangers who hang around together to give everyone something to talk about?”

  Aisling supplied a dirty look. Holly couldn’t tell if it was genuine or part of the act.

  “Well, I consider John to be a good pal of mine,” James said. “I don’t know if he feels the same way.”

  Everyone looked at John. He looked at his feet.

  “Clearly not,” James said in a mock-wounded tone.

  Everyone kept looking at John. He kept looking at his feet. Holly found herself getting angry. There was shy around women and then there was just plain rude.

  “How in the name of God did two people called John Lennon and James Bond get to be friends?” Aisling asked then, putting the awkward moment out of its misery. “Were you both part of a support group or something?”

  “Support group?” James asked. “Why would we be in a support group?”

  Aisling shrugged. “For people with . . . unusual names. No offence.”

  “James doesn’t mind his name,” Holly explained. “He likes it, as far as I can see. Correct?”

  “I do,” he said, nodding and smiling.

  Holly turned to John. “Where do you stand on all this? Would you rather be a John Smith? Or a David Lennon?”

  A direct question was bound to get a direct response, she reasoned. At first, it seemed that this was not necessarily true. John’s chin remained anchored to his chest and, while his eyes did rise to meet hers, he didn’t appear to be all that keen on producing actual words. Holly’s teeth ground together.

  She was on the point of asking him if he’d heard her talking to him when he said, “I’m not crazy about it. Sometimes I think it’s kind of funny, I suppose. And sometimes I’m a jealous guy. Jealous of all the normal names, I mean. Jealous . . . guy.”

  He smiled a strange little smile. Holly was genuinely frightened for a moment; he looked frankly creepy, smiling at nothing. And then she cottoned on to the joke.

  “Oh, Jealous Guy!” she said. “I get it. Very good.” She turned to Aisling and Orla, both of whom looked bewildered and slightly alarmed. “The song,” she explained.

  “Ohhh,” Aisling said. “Nice one.”

  Again, Orla merely nodded.

  It was a poor joke, Holly thought. In fact, it didn’t even qualify as a joke; it was just a pun. And he’d delivered it badly. Still, he’d made an effort, that was the main thing. It had clearly taken a lot out of him too – he seemed to be breathing a little more heavily, as if he’d just jogged up a flight of stairs.

  “To answer your question,” James said to Aisling, “I knew someone who knew someone who knew John. They thought it’d be hilarious if we met. Simple as that.”

  “I see,” Orla said. “So you were set up – like a blind date sort of thing?”

  Holly’s joints stiffened.

  “I suppose so,” James said. “But it’s not the way I’d choose to think about it, personally.”

  “So!” Aisling said then. “Are we going bowling or what?”

  “Yeah,” Holly said. “Let’s get started. Those pins aren’t going to knock themselves down.”

  “Okay then,” James said.

  “Righty-o,” Aisling said.

  “Grand,” Holly said.

  They stood there in silence for a few excruciating seconds. Holly caught James’s eye. She didn’t trust herself to hold his gaze for more than a micro-second but she hoped it would do the trick. It did.

  “Hey,” he said. “Why don’t we all hook up? Might be better crack with a bigger group.”

  Orla clapped her hands together so loudly that everyone else jumped a little. “What a good idea!” she cried. Her face was blank. “Let’s do that.”

  She turned and marched off in the direction of the shoe desk. Holly and James exchanged another glance, a longer one this time. He looked the way she felt – slightly nauseous. It seemed perfectly possible – likely, even – that Orla, at least, had cottoned on. But there was no backing out now. Holly did her best to smile.

  “Shall we?” she said.

  Chapter 9

  There was a moment, perhaps five minutes after they started their game, when Holly seriously considered simply walking out. It would be an unpopular move, for sure, but at the time it seemed like her only option. She would be apologetic, she decided, but also firm. The gist of it would be that she’d made a mistake, pure and simple. When she’d promised not to complain, she had done so in good faith. But it had turned out, to her genuine surprise and disappointment, that she’d promised more than she was able to deliver.

  Her difficulties had begun before she’d even taken her seat. There were two couples at the next lane. Only the men were bowling; the women just sat there chatting, or rather booming at the top of their voices. The ambient noise was shocking (Holly was fully aware of that), but these two were drastically over-compensating. If they’d been telling the greatest jokes ever told, it would have still have been annoying. But they weren’t telling jokes, great or otherwise. They were talking about astrology. When Aisling first overheard them – like everyone else within a thirty feet radius, she had no choice in the matter – she spun around in Holly’s direction and wagged a finger, as if to say, Now, now – don’t let this get you going. Holly nodded back and stiffened her spine. Then one of the loud women expressed the hope that if she ever had a baby, it would be a Virgo because she always got on well with Virgos. For a few seconds, Holly thought she might scream or cry or simply faint with irritation, but she did some diaphragmatic breathing and was able to regain
her composure.

  Then, after they’d entered their names into the computer – a process that seemed to have been deliberately designed to make a person feel stupid and clumsy – Holly learned to her horror that she was first up. James and Aisling offered some cheerful encouragement; John and Orla stayed mute. She selected the lightest ball she could find, trotted towards the line and released her missile in an action that was more hurl than bowl. It bounced twice and meandered into the gutter about a quarter of the way down the lane. Her next effort fared marginally better, making it almost halfway to the pins before it too fell by the wayside. As she turned to her companions and shrugged a tiny shrug, Holly realised that whatever fun bowling had to offer, she’d just had it. As the night wore on, she would probably get better and would knock down an occasional pin or maybe even several. But the fundamental experience would be the same. You picked up a ball and rolled it towards some objects, hoping to hit them – The End.

  James went next. While he wasn’t quite as useless as she was, Holly was shocked to discover that he was pretty awful. His first effort missed entirely and his second clipped a lone pin at the edge of the pack. It wobbled briefly, as if trying to make up its mind whether to fall over or not, and then settled on its base again. This news might have cheered her up a little if it hadn’t been for James’s reaction. He couldn’t have been more pleased with himself if he’d knocked every last one of the things clean through the back wall. It was hardly a surprise, she supposed, that he was one of those it’s-not-the-winning-it’s-the-taking-part types, but still – she felt even more ashamed of her own performance, which had ended with her pulling a face and flopping down on her seat like a four-year-old denied access to chocolate.

  Orla went after James. Her first attempt took down six pins and her second took two more. By the standards thus far, it was a remarkable achievement. But Orla didn’t seem particularly pleased. She completely ignored the quick congratulations that Aisling offered as she stepped forward and returned to the pillar she’d been leaning against, where she folded her arms and scowled venomously. She was standing about as far away from the others as it was possible to stand and still be considered a member of the same group. Holly was now seriously worried that she’d guessed what was going on. She frowned, sank still further into her seat and watched Aisling emulate her own score of precisely zero.

  Just then, a passing male pointed a finger-gun and told her, without slowing down, that she should cheer up because it might never happen. He was gone before she had even opened her mouth to issue a violent rebuke. Holly had been on the receiving end of this saying so many times in her life that she’d thought it had long since lost its power to upset her. Apparently not. What was wrong with people? Didn’t they realise that “Cheer up, it might never happen” was an insult? That you might as well mumble “Miserable bitch” and be done with it? This was the point at which she considered making an exit. The goal of the exercise had been to get Orla and John in the same place at the same time. They’d already achieved that and may well have been caught doing so. What difference would it make, really, if she upped and left? There’d be harsh words and dirty looks, granted, but she was well-used to harsh words and dirty looks. A few more of each would hardly kill her.

  She was chewing on her lip, weighing the pros and cons, when James sat down beside her and said, “That was so rude. Your man.”

  She turned to face him so suddenly that a small muscle in the middle of her back made a squeak of protest. “Yes! It was, wasn’t it? Gobshite.”

  James nodded. “He hasn’t got a clue what’s going on in your life.”

  “Exactly.”

  “For all he knows, you’ve just lost your job or you’re worried about your health or something.”

  “That’s so weird – that’s just what I always think. Who is he to make assumptions?”

  “And even if he did know the truth, the fact that you’re crap at bowling is none of his damn business.”

  Holly was only just able to stop herself from agreeing. “I see,” she said then. “We have a comedian on our hands.”

  “If you thought it might help,” James replied, all wide-eyed innocence, “I could give you a few pointers.”

  She gestured up at the scoreboard. “If you look carefully, Mr Bond, I think you’ll find that you’re in no position to offer advice.”

  He shook his head. “That sentence sounded like something Blofeld would come out with. And, might I remind you, I made a pin wobble about a bit, which is a lot more than you achieved.”

  “Oh, sorry, I forgot about that. Yeah, you’re quite the expert.”

  He bowed. “I try.”

  “Yup. You’re trying all right.”

  He smiled. “It’s your turn again, Holly.”

  As she got to her feet, two thoughts occurred to her. The first was that she was suddenly determined not only to stay but to do well. The second was that she really liked the way James Bond said her name.

  She did get better as the evening progressed, but even her relative successes – one of her shots knocked down seven whole pins – felt like nothing more than statistical inevitabilities. Regardless of her approach or aim (she tried a multitude of techniques), the ball went where it felt like going – sooner or later, it was bound to go down the middle. James improved too, as did Aisling. John had no need to. He’d started out well enough but by the time he’d “got his wrist in”, as he put it – Holly had to bite her tongue – he was in a different league to the others. Orla, by contrast, got progressively worse as time went by. She started out steadily enough, but her play quickly became erratic, then poor and finally embarrassing to behold. Her bowling ability was not the only thing to plummet; her mood went from bad to much, much worse. There was no way for Holly and Aisling to discuss it properly without being obvious, so they were reduced to pulling occasional faces at each other.

  They’d been bowling for about three-quarters of an hour before Holly summoned up the courage to make an overture.

  “Are you OK, Orla?” she whispered, having sidled up towards her like a pickpocket. “You look a bit glum.”

  Orla stared straight ahead. “I’m not fucking stupid,” she said.

  Holly feigned surprise. “What? What does that mean? Who said you were stupid?”

  “You’re in enough trouble as it is, Holly. Don’t add to it by letting on you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

  In for a penny, Holly thought. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about! What is it? Is it something I did?”

  “The two of you. Her too.” She jerked her head in Aisling’s direction. Aisling was looking at the scoreboard and didn’t notice.

  “Maybe I’m being thick,” Holly began but Orla cut her off before she could get any deeper into the lie.

  “Oh, fuck off!” she spat. “Aisling told you I was lonely and you put the feelers out and your good buddy James fucking Bond said, ‘Tell you what, I’ve got a fat friend too – they’re bound to get on. They can be fucking jolly together!’.”

  That was a lot of swearing for Orla, Holly realised. She was seriously mad.

  “Look –”

  “Don’t bother, Holly. Just. Don’t. Bother. This whole thing is a set-up, a blindingly obvious set-up and I’m not fucking having it. I knew this was suspicious, I fucking knew it. ‘Oh, please come bowling, Orla. I know we never, ever go and none of us are remotely interested in it and it’s completely out of the blue but it’ll be something different. Hey, look – there’s some men I know and you don’t arriving at exactly the same time! What a pleasant coincidence!’”

  Holly went up on her toes and stayed there, chewing her lip, lost in embarrassment and alarm until, at last, it was her turn to bowl. It was a wait of no more than thirty seconds but it felt like a month. When she returned from duty, she made a point of standing off to the side, alone. She desperately wanted to talk tactics with Aisling but it was impossible. James soon came to join her.

  “Not m
y finest hour,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “What, you weren’t watching? I was under the impression that you studying my every move, hoping to glean even the tiniest –”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh.”

  “This is a frigging disaster,” Holly said through her teeth then. “Orla’s twigged. And she’s raging.”

  “Ah. I was wondering. She looks ready to do murder.”

  “Yeah. And it’s me and Aisling she’s going to do it to.”

  “Well, we can’t have that. How about I have a word with her – tell her the whole thing was my idea?”

  Holly found this oddly touching. She felt her cheeks glow. “That’s a nice offer. But I don’t think it would help. She’d still want –”

  She broke off because Orla, on returning from her latest go, had made a beeline for John. It was the first time she’d even acknowledged his existence, let alone addressed him directly, since they’d started the game. James noticed too. He briefly grabbed Holly’s forearm. She flinched and then did it again deliberately in some semi-conscious attempt to look as if she was just flinching a lot today and he shouldn’t read anything into it.

  “Progress,” James whispered.

  “I really doubt it,” Holly replied.

  “Now, now. Let’s just wait and . . . Oh.”

  Orla had already finished saying whatever it was she’d had to say to John and was now storming – that was the only word for it – towards the exit. Aisling had been bowling during the brief tête à tête and only caught the storm-off.

  “Where’s she going?” she asked in a manner that made Holly think she’d guessed exactly where Orla was going.

  “She’s going home,” John Lennon said, stepping forward rather dramatically. “She’s really upset.”

  “What about?” Aisling said meekly.

  John folded his arms. “She said she wanted me to know that this whole thing was a set-up to get me and her together. Is that right? James? Is it?”