Little Black Everything

by Alex Coleman

  When the bill arrived, Charlie was horrified by her offer to split it. She assumed that his dismissal would quickly segue into a lecture about the “man’s role” but, to be fair to him, he made no such error.

  “Well then,” Holly said when the moment came, “I suppose I’d better get going. School in the morning . . .”

  She stood up and pushed her chair in. Neither of the other two budged. She had assumed that they would all leave together, but apparently she had been mistaken. What was that all about? Were they relocating to a wine bar somewhere? Going for a game of pool? Heading – dear God – back to his place? The cold reality washed over her. This could turn out to be a genuine thing.

  “Thanks for coming,” her mother said. Her expression said that this was no platitude; she really meant it.

  “Yes,” Charlie nodded. “It was great to meet you. I’m sure you and I are going to have a lot of, uh, interesting discussions.”

  This sentence, it seemed to Holly, was crying out for another clause. When were they going to have these discussions? When he finally pulled her mother?

  “I’ll look forward to it,” she said. “It was lovely to meet you too.”

  She went around to the side of the table and kissed her mum goodbye. Charlie got to his feet and gave a repeat performance of his initial greeting, once again leaving her rocking on her heels.

  “Okay then,” she said. “Be good.”

  She turned and strode away, feeling fairly sure that Charlie was checking out her ass. Be good, she said to herself with a shudder. What the fuck was that supposed to mean? Suddenly, she felt lost and alone and deeply, deeply confused. Her overriding thought as she waited for her coat was that she wished she could talk it all over with someone cool-headed and sensible. James, for example.

  Claude seemed unusually pleased to see her when she got home. He trotted around after her as she got into her pyjamas and made herself a cup of tea, then followed her to the sofa and nestled on her slippered feet as she drank it. Her hangover had finally begun to fade; there was nothing to it now but a mild feeling of nausea and that, she suspected, had more to do with indigestion than the previous night’s exertions. She turned on the TV and then proceeded to pay it no attention whatsoever. Her mobile phone, she couldn’t help but notice, had found its way to the arm of the sofa. She picked it up and flipped through its various menus, not looking for anything in particular. Calendar, Games, To Do; so many functions that she would never use . . . Before long, she found herself browsing through her phone book. It had twenty-seven entries. She wondered if that was a little or a lot. It sounded like a little. And she didn’t even know who some of the twenty-seven were. Sheila P? She couldn’t remember having ever met such a character, let alone taken her number. What was the point of having an unknown person’s phone number? With a small shake of her head, she deleted it. She scrolled on, up and down, down and up . . . Lizzie, Ursula, Kevin – Kevin! How could she have forgotten to erase his presence? It was unlike her. Ex-boyfriends usually went through a process that she called “scrubbing”, the first and simplest part of which was the removal of their phone number. She did it now, pressing the buttons with a great deal more force than was necessary. Going through the list again – for no real reason, it was just for something to do – she saw that a disturbing proportion of the remaining twenty-five weren’t social contacts. They were doctors and dentists and plumbers and taxi firms. This seemed like a bad sign, but she supposed that she could be reading too much into it. She made a mental note to look through Aisling and Orla’s phone next time she got a chance, just for the sake of comparison.

  James B. There he was. She’d never actually dialled his number. Her only phone contact had been via text messages and, if his early arrival at the MegaBowl was any indicator, he hadn’t paid very much attention to those. Even as her thumb hovered over the little green button, she told herself that she wasn’t going to actually call him. God, no. She was merely pondering the prospect. Toying with it.

  He answered on the first ring.

  “Holly Christmas,” he said. “Good evening.”

  She could actually hear his half-smile. “Hi. Hi there. Uh . . . how are you?”

  “Grand. To what do I owe the pleasure? Postmortem on last night?”

  “Well, that and . . . yes, that.”

  “Oh? There’s something else?”

  “No, no, I . . . It was an interesting evening, huh?”

  “It sure was. Have you spoken to Orla today?”

  “No. What about John?”

  “Not today, no, but he did a lot of rambling in the taxi last night.”

  This small piece of information unlocked a few more memories for Holly. Yes: James and John had shared a taxi, as had she and Aisling. Orla had left a little earlier, citing profound drunkenness. Aisling had seen her into the car and had been chatted up twice on the way back.

  “Yeah? What sort of rambling? The good sort?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know . . .”

  “Yes. I would. That’s why I’m asking.” Her brow furrowed. Had that come out playfully sarcastic or nastily sarcastic?

  “Well, then,” James said. “I suppose I’d better tell you. It was the good sort. Very good, actually. He’s quite taken with her. More than taken. I’d go so far as to call him ‘smitten’.”

  “Smitten, you say?”

  “Smitten.”

  “That’s great. I’ll have to have a word with herself but from what I saw last night – the bits that I can remember, anyway – I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that it’s mutual.”

  “Great. I’m quite chuffed with myself, are you?”

  “Oh yeah. Definitely. Victory from the jaws of defeat and what have you.”

  There was a brief silence. Holly could hear music in the background on his end. She found herself desperately wanting to know what it was, but she couldn’t make it out. Something with a lot of guitars anyway.

  “So . . .” he said then. “What was the other thing?”

  She played dumb. “What other thing?”

  “You sounded like you had something else to say. A minute ago.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Kind of. Nothing important.”

  “Go on.”

  “I dunno, I just wanted some . . . advice, I suppose.”

  “You’ve come to the right man. I’ve had a lot of compliments on my advising.”

  “Okay. Good. It’s about my mother . . .”

  She talked for five minutes without pause and said far more than she meant to. Her intention had been to give him the bare bones and then ask what he would do if he were in her shoes. This would mean providing a little background, obviously, but nothing too elaborate. She was surprised when she went into some detail about how her mother had been widowed before she’d given birth to her first child and hadn’t so much as looked at another man in all the intervening years. But this surprise was as nothing compared to the deep shock she felt when she heard herself discussing her own private theory about her name. It was a topic that she had broached only a handful of times with her nearest and dearest, let alone someone she barely knew. James seemed to sense this. Up until that point, he’d supplied an occasional “Hmm” or “I see”, just to prove he was still there, she guessed. But he was utterly silent as she explained that, in her opinion, the ridiculous joining of “Holly” and “Christmas” had been her distraught mother’s attempt to be, well, cheery; that it was nothing more than over-compensation in the face of horrific grief; that she probably now regretted it almost as much as Holly did. By the time she finally got around to describing her evening out with Charlie, she felt exhausted and ran through it at speed. The bottom line, she said, was that, okay, the guy wasn’t exactly evil, but he certainly wasn’t ideal either. And now she had to give him a review. What the hell was she supposed to say? She still hadn’t posed this question to Aisling and Orla. Part of the reason was that she knew their responses would be more long-winded than helpful. On the one hand this
, but on the other hand that. You have to do X, but you mustn’t do Y. There was nothing long-winded about James’s reply. She had no choice, he said; she had to say she approved. It wasn’t as if her mother was contemplating marriage here. She was having an occasional dinner and night out at the cinema with this man. If Holly reported that she didn’t like him, there were only two possible outcomes. Either her mother would continue to see him anyway and there would be horrible tension between them all, or she would put a stop to it and hold a grudge against her daughter for ruining it. But if Holly told her to go for it, then she could more or less wash her hands of the whole thing. Her mother was a grown woman. Anything else that arose between her and this Charlie character was her own business. He delivered this assessment with a frankness that bordered on the blunt but was simultaneously measured and kind-hearted. Holly found it deliciously refreshing.

  “Don’t hold back,” she said when he had finished. “Tell me what you really think.”

  “Sorry, I just –”

  “No, I’m joking, I’m joking. Nice to get clear advice for once. We girls don’t really do clear. We like to cover all bases.”

  “Really? When I talk to my pals about this kind of stuff, I’m lucky to get one base covered.”

  “Heh. Yeah. Yeah. ”

  “You sound . . . hesitant.”

  “Um.”

  “Holly?”

  “It’s just . . . You’re saying I should lie?”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that. I’m saying there are times in life when you shouldn’t necessarily give your real opinion and this, if you ask me, is one of them.”

  “Hmmm. I’m not really known for my ability to hold back my opinion.”

  “So I’ve gathered. But maybe you should give it a go. You might be surprised at the results.”

  Holly didn’t reply straight away. The words “So I’ve gathered” had set her teeth on edge and her heart pounding. But her initial anger faded away with an ease and speed that pleasantly surprised her. Coming from James, the sentiment sounded different, somehow.

  “Maybe you’re right,” she heard herself saying. “OK, then. See you tomorrow, I suppose.”

  “That you will. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, James. That’s it for tonight.”

  “OK. Goodnight, so.”

  “Goodnight. And thanks.”

  “You’re more than welcome. See ya.”

  “Bye.”

  She hung up. A huge smile had installed itself on her face. She felt faintly ridiculous and tried to wipe it away, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Hey, Claudio,” she cooed, reaching out for him. “What a handsome man you are!”

  Claude allowed himself to be picked up but wriggled away, wide-eyed and mewling, when she hugged him close to her chest with more enthusiasm than he was used to.

  Chapter 11

  Monday morning was a breeze. Holly felt like a teacher in a Hollywood movie, the sort who instilled a sense of wonder in her charges and kick-started a life-long love affair with learning. She was patience personified, offering an encouraging word here, a gentle reminder there. Concepts that had eluded all but the brightest students suddenly became clear to all. Not even Malachy Murphy (a vicious little thug who wouldn’t have been out of place in a Roald Dahl story) could derail her Education Express, and he really, really tried. When lunchtime came, she set off for the staff room with a spring in her step and a song on her lips. Along the way, she bumped into Eleanor Duffy, who was heading in the opposite direction.

  “Not coming in for lunch?” Holly asked.

  Eleanor shook her head. “Not today. I’m going to pop out and get the car taxed.”

  “You can do that online, you know.”

  “So I believe. You’re the third person to tell me that today. But I don’t know, I don’t like paying for anything on the World Wide Web. I don’t trust it.”

  Eleanor always called it that, dragging the individual words out as if she wasn’t quite sure she was pronouncing them correctly – Worrrrld Wiiide Webbb.

  “You should get together with my mother,” Holly said. “She is afraid of the Internet too.”

  “It’s an age thing. Anyway, listen, listen: I believe you were out socialising at the weekend with a certain Mr Bond?”

  Holly’s smile slid off her face. “What? Who told you that?”

  If Eleanor noticed the change of expression, she didn’t let it show. “He did. Why? Are you mad?”

  It was a good question. Holly gave it some thought. “Well, I’m . . . What did he say?”

  “It wasn’t exactly a long conversation, Holly. I was only asking him what he got up to at the weekend and he said he’d been out with you, a whole gang of you, all together. Bowling. And you know what else?”

  She stepped a little closer and checked for eavesdroppers, which was ridiculous; they were standing like rocks in a fast-running river of noisy boys. She could have roared out that she was a closet lesbian and no one would have heard a word.

  “What?”

  “He got all . . . smiley . . . when he talked about it.”

  Holly froze and then rapidly melted. “Smiley?”

  “Yup.”

  “What do you mean, smiley?”

  “I mean, smiley. He was smiling.”

  A couple of seconds floated past before Holly cobbled together a response. “Well, he probably enjoyed it, that’s all. The bowling.”

  “No, no, no,” Eleanor spluttered. “I know my smiles, Holly Christmas, and this was one of those.”

  “Nah,” Holly said. “Nah. And anyway, sure he’s always smiling.”

  “I’m telling you.”

  “Nahhh.”

  “Yup. It’s a bit of a puzzler, granted . . .”

  “Excuse me?”

  Eleanor covered her mouth and giggled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it came out. I just mean, I wouldn’t have put the two of you together in my head. He’s so easy-going and laid-back about everything, isn’t he, and you’re . . . the way you are. Mind you, they do say that opposites attract.”

  Holly felt her face contort. “Why –”

  “Anyway,” Eleanor said. “The point is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “Nothing,” Holly shrugged. “I mean – even if he was interested, what makes you think I am?”

  “Ha! Because you just did it too. The smile. And I know my smiles. I have to go.”

  She patted Holly’s arm and took her leave, evidently quite pleased with her parting words. They weren’t bad, Holly had to admit.

  James was in the staff room when she arrived. He’d already eaten his lunch, apparently, and was now having a coffee. Barry Dwyer and Julie Sullivan were there, as was Mike Hennessy. The thing about Mike Hennessy (as Eleanor would have said), was that he was always trying to prove how cool he was. This was embarrassing enough when he did it front of the kids, asking what they thought of the new Arctic Monkeys album and complaining that Battlestar Galactica had gone downhill, but it was many times worse when he did it in the staff room. Even before she got within earshot, Holly could have guessed that he was embarrassing himself again; his companions were all slightly slumped in their seats and none of them was looking directly at him. Sure enough, as she took her seat beside them, Mike was in full flow.

  “I mean, it’s pretty dark stuff, I’m not denying that. But you can’t say he isn’t funny. If you ask me, he’s a riot.”

  “Who’s this?” Holly asked, as she dealt with the Cellophane on her sandwich (bog-standard cheese and tomato).

  “Eminem,” James told her. “Mike’s a big fan.”

  She tried to look at him without making it obvious. Yup – the half-smile was there, as usual. But was that being “all smiley”? She couldn’t tell, largely because she wasn’t sure what she was looking for. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Mike said. “He’s a bit of a hero of mine, actually.”

  This was a peculiar quirk of his. The man was u
p to his armpits in heroes. Or at least, he claimed to be. They were all suspiciously edgy and dangerous – Sean Penn, Quentin Tarantino, the guy who wrote Fight Club, and now Eminem. Mike could have been the world’s most devoted admirer of, say, Bill Cosby, Holly had often thought, but none of them would ever hear about it.

  “Hero?” she said. “Really? Why so? Doesn’t he just shout abuse about niggas and bitches?”

  Mike did a pretend faint, then recovered. “I can’t believe my ears,” he said. “He shouts abuse? What’s the matter with you? It’s poetry! Just because it’s poetry accompanied by some fat beats, there’s no need to get all snooty about it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Holly said, “did you just use the term ‘fat beats’?”

  “Laugh all you want. But our kids are going to be asking us what it was like to be around when Eminem first broke out. Another couple of decades time, he’ll be up there with Dylan and Bowie and all the biggest hitters. You mark my words.”

  Holly had taken a mouthful of cheese and tomato. She worked on it for a moment and then gulped it down. “I apologise, Mike. If any child of mine ever asks me what it was like when Eminem first broke out, I’ll be sure to tell them that it was always kickin’ and occasionally even dope. And I’ll make damn sure they know all about the fat beats. Back in those days, I’ll tell them – sorry, back in the day – back in the day, you could hardly spin around on your head without bumping into a fat beat. They were everywhere.”

  “You think you’re funny,” Mike said. “But you’re just . . . not.”

  Holly whistled. “Ouch. Nice comeback.”

  Mike shook his head and pushed his chair back from the table. “All right, I have to go. James, Julie, Barry, I’ll see you later. Holly – go fuck yourself.”

  He gathered the remains of his lunch together and left them to it.