Little Black Everything

by Alex Coleman

  “What kind of magazine?” Holly asked.

  “Take a Break,” Aisling said. “The puzzle page.”

  “Really?”

  “No! Of fucking course not! Porn, Holly, porn! Some young one on all fours with three guys – three of them – all waving their d–”

  “All right, all right. You don’t have to go into details. Jesus, that’s . . . Ugh. And you’re sure it’s from your man? Kieran?”

  “Well, who else would have put it there? One of the cleaners? Jenny the receptionist?”

  This was a fair point. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “So what am I going to do? I’m at my wit’s end here.”

  “What do you mean? You’re going to tell someone, naturally. You going to tell someone and you’re going to get the little prick fired.”

  “But I haven’t got any proof.”

  “You’ve got the emails, haven’t you? In fact, never mind the emails at first, just show the porn thing to your boss. He’ll ask questions, have you any idea who could be behind it and so on, and then you drop the emails bit. They’re not exactly proof of anything, but they paint a bit of a picture, don’t they?”

  “Maybe,” Aisling said.

  “There’s no maybe about it. I don’t see what’s difficult about this.”

  Aisling didn’t respond. “Unless, of course,” Holly added with a sigh, “there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “I just wish,” Aisling said in the pained tone that she reserved for her most melodramatic pronouncements, “that Eamonn was still my boss.”

  “I thought he was.”

  The pained tone was dropped in favour of something a little sharper. “You never listen, Holly, that’s your trouble. Eamonn left months ago, nearly a year ago, actually. Moved to London. Big job opportunity, blah, blah. I told you all about it.”

  “All right, so who is it now then?”

  “Justin! Justin! I’ve described him to you in detail about a dozen times!”

  “So why can’t you tell Justin?”

  A long sigh. “He has . . . a bit of a . . . thing for me.”

  Holly issued a sigh of her own. “Has he now.”

  “Yes. And before you say anything, I’m not imagining it. That night out we had for the company’s tenth anniversary? He got drunk and gave me the whole my-wife-doesn’t-understand-me bit, like, with no irony whatsoever. Kept saying how great we’d be together if only he was twenty years younger. Yeah, like that’s all that’s stopping me. And he stands too close to me all the time. Much too close. He tells me filthy jokes too, that’s another dead giveaway. Double entendres all day long . . . So no, no way. No way am I going to go to him with a dirty picture in my hand. I can just see him now, leering at me –”

  “Okay, fair enough. What about his boss then? Or does he fancy you too?”

  “She. Carmel. And no, she doesn’t fancy me, she hates my guts for some reason . . . frumpy old cow.”

  Holly understood at once the significance of these last three words. They were meant to indicate in a relatively subtle way that this Carmel character was simply jealous.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Aisling. This creep has to go. I don’t see how you have any choice. You have to tell someone and your boss, even if he is a complete arsehole himself, is the obvious choice. You’ll just have to swallow it.”

  “That’s exactly the sort of thing he says to me all the time.”

  “Ew.”

  “Don’t get me started.”

  Holly looked at her watch. She was supposed to be in the staff room, being herself. But Aisling had found her second wind now and launched into a breathless diatribe about the many other ways in which Justin made her skin crawl (and stomach turn, and toes curl). She didn’t mention Kieran at all during this outburst. Holly let it go on for several minutes before she felt obliged to drop his name herself. Aisling seemed positively irritated by the intervention. As she returned to complaining about Justin, adding an occasional dig at Carmel, Holly felt her mood darken. She really wanted to be sympathetic – for once, Aisling did seem to have a genuine grievance. But these sub-plots – this one clearly fancied her, that one was clearly jealous of her – gave Holly the impression that she was the only one taking the real problem seriously and that, sure enough, the main point of this call was to complain about how hard it was to be beautiful. Her suspicions were not allayed in the least when Aisling eventually ran out of steam and sighed, “Anyway, enough of that – have you spoken to Orla about the other night?”

  It wasn’t exactly a gentle segue from one topic to the other; it was more like a handbrake turn.

  “Oh. So, what, are we all done with the stalkin’ talkin’?”

  “Yeah, well, let’s just see how it pans out.”

  “Right. Okay. And the answer is no, I haven’t spoken to Orla. Have you?”

  “Yeah. Last night.”

  Holly looked at her watch again. “And?”

  “She definitely fancied him. John. She didn’t say it in so many words but it was still pretty obvious. And, better yet, you and I are in the good books. Or at least, we’re not in the bad books.”

  “Mission accomplished then.”

  “Well, no, not yet. They didn’t even exchange phone numbers or anything. I asked. She pretended she found the idea only hilarious, but I could tell that she was sorry they hadn’t.”

  “I see.”

  “Yeah. I was thinking – maybe we could do a repeat performance, the whole gang of us. No pressure. I mean, we’d all know why we were there, really – it’d be like an open secret. One more push over the cliff, like. This weekend, if we can arrange something. Sooner the better, I think, for Orla’s sanity.”

  Holly was struck by two emotions at once. The first was guilt for having thought badly of Aisling for much of the conversation thus far. She really was a kind and thoughtful person. The second was excitement. From a purely selfish point of view, a repeat performance would be just the job. She’d be going into it with a new-found sense of perspective regarding James and would be able to . . . concentrate.

  “Sounds good,” she said, trying hard not to make her enthusiasm obvious. “I’ll have a word with James.”

  “Ah, yes, Bond, James Bond. I thought he was lovely, Holly. Such a sweetheart, so good-natured. Anything on the horizon there? He seemed to be smiling at you at lot, I noticed.”

  “I don’t know if he was smiling at me or laughing at me,” Holly said quickly. She’d meant it as a joke but as soon as she’d said it, a little shiver ran along her arms. “And that just the way he is, anyway. He’s never done smiling.”

  “Maybe so,” Aisling replied. “Then again, you never know.”

  Holly paused for a moment, then took the plunge. “Can’t really see the two of us together though, can you? We’re not exactly cut from the same cloth.”

  “That’s true,” Aisling said. “Then again, they do say that opposi–”

  “Don’t even finish that sentence,” Holly said. “I’m warning you. Not another word.”

  “Okay. Jesus.”

  Holly feared that she’d gone too far. “Not that I would be interested, mind you. I’m not.”

  “If you say so. Anyway, I meant to ask – how’s your mum these days?”

  Holly looked at her watch for a third time. A big chunk of the lunch break was already gone. But she had to tell her friends about Charlie Fallon sooner or later. She might as well start now.

  “Actually, there’s a bit of news there these days . . .”

  It didn’t take long to tell. She skipped over the details and didn’t mention her own involvement in the vetting process; she started to do so but felt immediately ridiculous and retraced her steps. Aisling had plenty of questions, however, most of which had follow-ups. By the time they had exhausted the subject and said goodbye, Holly only had time to run to the staffroom and cram a sandwich into her face before the afternoon classes began. She missed James; he’d just left, accordi
ng to Larry Martin. It made no difference, really, Holly concluded. They would only have had time for a quick hello and she really wanted a good long run at being the new her all over him. Even if she didn’t get prolonged face time at school, with any luck, she would get plenty at the weekend.

  Blind Date Take Two was going to be interesting.

  Holly got a chance to broach the subject with James first thing the next morning. He was getting out of his car as she parked and hung back to walk in with her.

  “Good morning,” he said as she approached. “Another lovely day.”

  Holly cast her eyes upwards. There were patches of blue up there, she was willing to admit, but they were almost lost among the broad expanses of pale grey dullness. It was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a lovely day. Mark and Lizzie popped up in her mind like disapproving meerkats.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes. It is. A lovely day.”

  “Did you get up to much last night?” he asked.

  “Sat in and petted the cat in front of the TV. Tuesday night is usually movie premiere night, so it made a nice change.”

  “I know what you mean. It gets tiresome, doesn’t it? ‘Come on, hurry up, the private jet’s waiting.’ I mean, gimme a chance to get my suit on. Giorgio’s still fiddling with it.”

  There was no doubt about it, Holly thought – this was banter. Banter!

  “I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to John since the weekend?” she asked then.

  “Nope. Why?”

  “I had a chat with Aisling yesterday and she told me that Orla definitely seems, well . . . not uninterested.”

  “Really? Great. Like I said on Sunday, I’m sure it’s entirely mutual – this lack of apathy.”

  Now he was gently mocking her. That was a good sign too, surely?

  “Mind you,” James went on, “I wouldn’t put any money on him actually doing anything about it.”

  Holly nodded. “Well, this is just what we were talking about. Orla’s not exactly Samantha Jones herself.”

  “Who?”

  “Sex and the City.”

  “Ah.”

  “So maybe it wouldn’t hurt if we did a repeat performance of the whole thing, the five of us. Not bowling, if it’s up to me, but something. What do you think?”

  They had reached the entrance now. James skipped forward and held it open for her. “Sure. Sounds good. I’ll have a word with himself. What, are we just letting on that we had such a great time on Saturday that we’re going for a re-run?”

  She squeezed past him. “Yup. Nothing needs to be said out loud.”

  “But it’ll be an open secret sort of thing?”

  “Yeah. That’s exactly what Aisling said.”

  He stepped inside behind her. “So we’re all on the same page. Now if you can just remember to show up at the agreed time for a change, we’re on easy street.”

  Holly laughed, suddenly and loudly. It wasn’t that she found his gag particularly hilarious. Humour had almost nothing to do with it, in fact. It was the laugh of someone who was suddenly having a good day.

  No firm plans were made until Thursday evening. Holly had just arrived home when Aisling rang to say that, through work, she could get her hands on five tickets for a play that was running in town. The tickets were for Saturday night, which was perfect. Holly was not immediately overcome with joy, however; she was not a fan of the theatre. There was something about having live actors in front of her that always made her nervous. She could never shake the feeling that one or more of them was bound to screw up their lines or bump into a colleague or plain old fall off the edge to the embarrassment of all. Orla, on the other hand, would watch almost anyone do almost anything on a stage. In her time, she had paid actual money to see a ventriloquist, which was something that Holly found genuinely unfathomable. It was with a profound sense of valiant self-sacrifice (was that a bugle she heard in the distance?) that she told Aisling to go ahead and snap them up. She called Orla as soon as she’d hung up and, sure enough, the proposition was warmly embraced. It made a pleasant change for Aisling to have access to so many tickets, Holly said casually. These things usually came in one and twos. It seemed a shame to let the extra ones go to waste – why didn’t they ask James and John to come along too? Orla did a good job of making her reply – “It’s up to you” – sound equally casual.

  There was one more call to make and Holly made it eagerly. The theatre? James cooed with predictable enthusiasm. A fantastic idea. He loved the theatre. He’d never heard John expressing an opinion one way or the other but no matter – he’d make damn sure he came along too. Just before they ended the call, he told Holly that he was getting a warm glow all over, like the Ready Brek kid. Her heart stopped for a couple of seconds. Really? Yeah, he said. They were doing a good thing, the three of them, helping their pals out like this.

  Oh, yes, Holly agreed. She had a glow too. For the same reason.

  Chapter 13

  The play, which was called The Tyrant, was running in a city-centre theatre called The Black Box. The venue was new, small and out-of-the-way. Holly was first to arrive in its lobby and was joined shortly afterwards by Orla. The latter was wearing a shapeless pair of brown trousers and a too-tight mustard shirt that she had owned, by Holly’s reckoning, for at least five years. It was a warm evening, so she was carrying rather than wearing the cheap grey hoodie that was her near-constant companion. Her shoes were black and bulbous. They too had seen better days, although it was hard to believe that they had been much to write home about even when new. Holly felt terrible for noticing these details – especially with her record, fashion-wise – but her guilt was run neck-and-neck by her irritation. What was wrong with her? Had she failed to understand – the presence of three other people notwithstanding – that this was a date?

  Neither of them said much about their previous meeting, beyond acknowledging that it had happened. They spent a couple of minutes on work-related chat before Holly decided to seize the opportunity and give Orla the gist of her mother’s news. The version of events that she supplied was even more truncated than the one she had given Aisling. It was perhaps for this reason – although it may well have been plain shock – that Orla didn’t seem to have much to say on the subject. She wished the potential couple well; that was the extent of it.

  James and John arrived next. They gave a repeat performance of their arrival at the MegaBowl. James chatted away, declaring his enthusiasm for (amongst other things) going to plays, early autumn evenings, fun-size Milky Ways and jeans that fit just right. John, meanwhile, looked at his feet and occasionally cleared his throat. His attitude reminded Holly of something or someone. When she figured out what it was, she was so pleased with herself that she almost told everyone: he was like a child who’d been dragged out shopping by his mother and just when he thought the ordeal couldn’t get any worse, his mother had bumped into a friend. It wouldn’t have looked out of place, Holly thought, if he’d taken James by the hand and tried, uselessly, to haul him off in the direction of home.

  When it became obvious that they were in danger of missing the start of the play, talk turned to Aisling’s tardiness problem and its possible psychological underpinnings. They had just decided to go in without her – they were the only ones left in the lobby – when she appeared. Holly could see at a glance why she was late this time. Her hair and make-up were perfect and she was dressed for somewhere a lot classier than a tiny theatre at the end of an alley in Temple Bar. The word for it, Holly supposed, was “co-ordinated”. She was wearing a cream-coloured trouser suit and was carrying a tiny metallic-looking purse that shimmered so vibrantly Holly half-expected to see a power cord trailing behind it. Her jewellery – small pearl ear-rings and a slender silver necklace – seemed to have been designed with this particular outfit, and possibly this particular lighting in mind. Even by her own lofty standards, she looked sensational. Despite her best intentions – she consciously reminded herself that she didn’t care about clothes – H
olly felt herself shrink a little.

  After greetings were exchanged and Aisling had made a vague swipe at blaming traffic for her late arrival, they presented their tickets and took their seats. This process was not as simple as it should have been. It didn’t occur to Holly until it was almost too late that Orla and John should be sitting next to each other. They wouldn’t be able to have much of a chat, granted, but that wasn’t the point. The physical proximity could do wonders for their boldness. Unfortunately, Orla was at the head of the little train they made as they went down the theatre aisle, while John trailed at the very back. Holly was directly behind Orla. Thinking quickly, she paused by the entrance to their row, ostensibly to switch her phone off (as if that couldn’t be done from her seat). Aisling was coming along behind her but she completely missed the point. Seeing no other alternative, Holly felt it necessary to give her a swift kick on the ankle as she passed. There was no power behind it, but the fright caused Aisling to issue a high-pitched “Jesus!”. Some of their fellow audience members had been tut-tutting and dirty-looking their late arrival as it was. Now there was a more general mumbling of discontent. It was only when Holly widened her eyes and jerked her head that Aisling cottoned on. Even then, she merely retreated back to Holly’s position where she stood stiffly with her arms by her side, looking slightly lost. Holly tried to rescue the situation by pretending that she was asking advice on how to deactivate her phone but this, she suspected, only served to make her look mentally defective. James, at least, twigged what was going on and made a slightly better fist of swapping places with John. But he was hardly subtle about it. He simply stopped dead in the hope that his friend would step past him. John drew level but then he stopped too, as if that was what was expected of him. At that point, James placed his hand in the small of his back and shoved him forward with such force that he very nearly lost his footing. He scampered into the row and took his seat beside Orla with some speed, fearing, Holly suspected, that further violence might be visited upon him if he didn’t. Aisling followed, as Holly had hoped she would. This meant that she and James were together. There was a pleasing symmetry to it, she thought – two potential couples on either side of a neutral observer. As they settled in, Holly realised that this was the closest she had ever been to James. She found herself angling her head towards him and taking a slow, subtle noseful of the air. This wasn’t something she was in the habit of doing; in fact, she couldn’t recall ever having done it before. He smelled like warm linen. She had no idea what she had expected, but somehow, this discovery delighted her. As the house lights went down, she thought, I’m sniffing around like a barnyard animal. What’s next? Marking territory? There was no doubt about it. She was losing the run of herself. Seconds later a man unicycled on to the stage carrying a Rubik’s Cube. And so began the worst entertainment-related evening of Holly’s entire existence.