Little Black Everything

by Alex Coleman

  The best thing that could be said about the play was that it was short, but even that had its downside; there was no time for an intermission and Holly, for one, could have really used the break. By the time it was all over and they spilled out on to the street, she felt quite faint with anger and irritation. It was difficult to believe that someone had written such a thing, that other someones had agreed to act in it and that still others had paid to see it. Expletives tumbled around in her mind like socks in a drier but they refused to come together in anything resembling a coherent thought.

  “Well,” James said cautiously, “That was . . . interesting. I think it was about how difficult modern life can be. Trying to be different things to different people, you know.”

  “No doubt,” Aisling said. “But it was really more like a circus than a play. And there was way too much –”

  “Juggling,” Orla agreed. “I know. Fair enough, she could juggle for Ireland, your one. But she sure as hell couldn’t rap. I’m almost afraid to ask but what did you think, Holly?”

  Aisling giggled and ducked, her hands clamped across her ears. Holly fully intended to say something positive; this was a great chance to show what she could do. But when she moved her lips, the only sound that emerged was a small squeak.

  “Ah, look,” Orla said nodding at Holly. “She’s been struck dumb.”

  “I’ve seen this before,” Aisling noted. “We’d better get her into a pub. Gin and tonic, ‘stat’.”

  They hurried into the first joint they passed and got themselves seated with little ceremony. Orla and John sat next to each other, Holly noted. They had no sooner given their order to a passing floor girl than the dissection proper began. A consensus quickly emerged: the play had been a bit of a mess but was not without its charms. The performances had been pretty good overall and there had been one or two thought-provoking moments. As she might have guessed, Holly was alone in believing that the thing had been irredeemably awful, soup to nuts. Naturally, she said no such thing and limited her contributions to occasionally nodding when someone else said something reasonably complimentary. Try as she might, she still couldn’t come up with a full-throated pleasantry of her own. It was beyond her.

  Conversation soon turned to the character of Frederick. He was the one who had unicycled onto the stage with a Rubik’s Cube. While everyone had experienced problems juggling their various responsibilities (and in some cases with literally juggling), Frederick was the one who seemed to have the most going on. At various points throughout the evening, he had been obliged to hop around on one leg while balancing a teddy bear on his head, to roller-skate backwards in circles while speaking in backwards sentences, to build a house of cards on a lop-sided table while saying a decade of the rosary – the list went on and on (and on and on and on). Frederick was even more annoying than his colleagues, Holly thought, because the actor who played him had a horrible voice. Why, she wondered helplessly, would someone who made a noise like a faulty oboe get involved in acting in the first place? Hadn’t anyone ever pointed out to him that it was a bad idea? Did he have a cross-eyed sister who was determined to be a model? And there was no way that he’d put it on for the role. No one was that good, least of all this guy (he’d quite obviously forgotten his lines on at least two occasions). It was almost more than Holly could bear when James and the others described the character as “possibly overcooked”.A feeble whimper escaped her as – for want of something else to praise – they admired the actor’s haircut. Next, they turned to the play’s theme. Orla said she supposed it was all about how difficult it is to do more than one thing at once. Holly squirmed in her seat. It’s difficult to do more than one thing at once was something that toddlers knew. It was hardly the stuff of great art. What was next? Some days it’s cold and some days it’s warm? As the others chipped in with their forced, desperate compliments and feather-light quibbles, Holly finally centred herself and sat up straight.

  “It wasn’t a bad premise,” she said, choking on every syllable. All eyes turned to her. She realised that this was the first full sentence she had issued since they arrived. Delivering it had made her feel instantly exhausted.

  “You’re back!” Aisling cried and raised her glass. “I was beginning to think you’d gone for good this time. Remember Runaway Bride, Orla? She didn’t speak for a full two hours after it. Go on then, Holly. Hit us.”

  “It wasn’t a bad premise,” Holly said again.

  Aisling’s nose twitched “What, that’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  Holly nodded and hid behind her drink. Everyone stared, even John who up to that point had been gazing at his own lap.

  “Are you all right?” Orla asked.

  Holly glanced up, but where she expected to see a cheeky grin, there was only a look of genuine concern. “I’m fine,” she said.

  Orla nodded. “Okay. And you thought the play had . . . a decent premise?” She screwed her face up as she said it, as if the words themselves had a peculiar taste.

  “Yes,” Holly said. “It wasn’t a bad premise.” Stop saying that! a voice in her head screamed. She hid behind her drink again. No one spoke for a moment. Then James said, “Let’s face it, the play wasn’t the best any of us has ever seen. But all experience is good, eh? What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

  “Huh,” Holly said. “Try telling that to someone who lost a leg in a car accident.” There were audible gasps all round. She shrank a little, cursing herself to Hell. “I mean . . . I just hate that saying, that’s all.”

  “One more for the list, so,” James said.

  “Sorry?”

  “Your list. Of things you hate. I’m saying, new addition. Do we ring a bell or something?”

  He wasn’t trying to be nasty, Holly told herself. Not in the least. There was no need to get all upset.

  “No, there’s no bell,” Aisling giggled. “But it’s a neat idea. We could all get little flags too. Ring a bell, wave a flag. Add a little festivity to the thing.”

  “They’ll have to be small flags and bells,” Orla added. “Otherwise I can see us getting very tired.”

  “Good one!” Holly said, trying to undo the damage. “That’s me told!”

  Even she could tell that her voice sounded brittle and hollow. Orla’s look of concern returned. No one spoke. Time seemed to slow down.

  “I’ve never seen a Shakespeare play,” John remarked after a few excruciating seconds had ticked by. “I mean, I had to read a couple at school like everyone else, but I’ve actually seen one performed.” Holly felt pathetically grateful to him for ending the silence. Then he added, “Have you, Orla?” and she realised that he hadn’t been trying to do her a favour; he was merely trying to get a conversation going with her friend. It worked too. Orla turned to face him properly, putting her shoulder to the group. Holly, James and Aisling took the hint and sent small looks to each other. Just as they had done the previous week, they had now effectively split into two factions.

  Holly sipped on her drink, feeling quite sure that she had made no progress whatsoever. On her side of the divide, none of them seemed to have any stomach for continued discussion of the theatre – John and Orla had no such qualms – but no other topic presented itself. They busied themselves for a few moments with smiling inanely and trying to look like they weren’t eavesdropping on the other pair.

  Then Aisling half-choked on her drink. “There’s Ronan,” she said, wiping her chin. “Isn’t it? It is. Oi! Ronan! Ronan!” She got to her feet and started waving so frantically that her hip jarred Orla, who spilled a fair portion of her wine all over John’s lap, much to their mutual horror.

  The man Aisling was waving at was Ronan O’Dowd, an ex-boyfriend. Aisling’s relationships hardly ever ended well – she seemed to go out of her way to make sure that they didn’t – but her break-up with Ronan had been a rare exception. Not only was the actual split relatively civil, they had remained quite friendly. This made him utterly unique. He and Aislin
g weren’t exactly close, but they got together once in a while, usually (as far as Holly could tell) when one of them had something new in their lives that they wanted to boast about. Aisling hadn’t mentioned him for some time, which seemed to indicate that their semi-friendship was, at long last, petering out. Holly and Orla had certainly hoped so; they’d always hated his guts. Tonight, Ronan had a female in tow. She was tall – much taller than Ronan, who had the approximate dimensions of a fridge – and irritatingly pretty. Not as pretty as Aisling, Holly noted, but still way out of this clown’s league (How does he do it? she wondered absently). They approached slowly for extra drama, or rather Ronan did and she followed suit. To her credit, she had an impatient look on her face and seemed to be on the point of prodding him in the back and telling him to get a move on.

  “Well, well, well, look who it isn’t,” Ronan said as he arrived. “It’s Charlie’s Angels.”

  He’d always called them that when he and Aisling were together. It made Holly want to go for his throat with her teeth.

  “Where have you been hiding?” Aisling said, leaning across the table to give him a peck on the cheek.

  “I’ve been around and about,” Ronan said. “You know me, Aisling. Never stand still, that’s my motto.”

  “Never trust a person who has a motto,” Holly said. “That’s my motto.” Everyone looked at her. She’d done it again. In her mind’s eye, she gave herself a good slap. If you can’t say something nice, she reminded herself.

  He gazed right through her. “Hello. On your way back from another funeral, I see.” His companion gave him a not-very-inconspicuous elbow in the ribs. “I’m only joking,” he explained. “She has a thing for black. It goes with her soul.” He laughed at his own joke. He didn’t just smile or giggle; he laughed.

  “I’m Michelle, by the way,” the mystery woman said. The girls nodded and said their names. Aisling gestured to James and John and supplied theirs too.

  “Michelle is my special lady,” Ronan purred. He was obviously being ironic but it didn’t sit well with him, Holly thought. It was like watching George Bush pretending to make a gaffe.

  “And how long has this been going on?” Aisling asked. She waggled her finger between them, her tone mock-disapproving.

  “Just a few weeks,” Ronan said. “We met at the gym.”

  A wide variety of slurs jockeyed for position in Holly’s mind. With a tremendous effort of will, she pushed them all aside.

  “Good for you,” Aisling said. “And how is he treating you, Michelle?”

  “Not as well as he should,” she said with a smile that was perfectly judged; it probably looked real enough to Ronan, but a woman would know that it had undertones. Holly decided that she liked her.

  “What about you?” he said to Aisling. “Anything wild or wonderful?”

  “Not a thing. Same old same old.”

  Ronan nodded. Aisling nodded back. There was silence – lots of it.

  Then Ronan beamed. “Have a guess,” he said to Michelle, “what Holly’s second name is?”

  “Good God . . .” Holly said and took a gulp of her drink.

  “I wouldn’t have a clue,” Michelle said. She was clearly embarrassed.

  “Go on. Guess.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, but just g–”

  “Smith.”

  “Christmas!” he boomed. “Holly . . . Christmas. Isn’t that wild? It drives her nuts. Doesn’t it, Holly?”

  “Things could be worse,” she said with a small shrug. “As I’m sure Michelle would agree.”

  This little barb was quite justified, she felt; she was merely defending herself. Ronan tried to smile but didn’t quite pull it off. Michelle fared much better with her effort. Holly’s opinion of her rose still further. She sincerely hoped that she would do better for herself, and soon.

  “Holly Christmas,” Ronan repeated. “I’ll never get over it.”

  “My second name is Bond,” James said brightly. “What do you make of that? You know – James Bond, the celebrated spy. I’m sure you’ve heard the name before.”

  Ronan peered at him. Holly knew that like all humourless people, he lived in fear of ridicule. She greatly enjoyed watching his eyebrows fall and rise as his tiny brain tried to work out whether or not he was being mocked.

  “Funny,” he said, somewhat uncertainly.

  “I’m not joking,” James assured him. “Would you like to see some ID?”

  Ronan shook his head.

  “I love having an unusual name,” James went on in the same breezey tone. “I think it’s a hoot. Holly does too, mind you. She just doesn’t like to admit it.” He shot a quick look in John Lennon’s direction. Holly understood this to mean: Would you like to join in?. John gave his head the tiniest of shakes. This was probably for the best, Holly decided. It would be over-egging the pudding. James immediately returned his attention to Ronan. “What’s your own surname, by the way?”

  Ronan swallowed. “O’Dowd.”

  James smiled. “Ronan . . . O’Dowd.” Holly wasn’t quite sure how he did it, but he managed to make it sound pathetic. “Well . . . that’s nice too.”

  “Yeah,” Ronan said, recovering just a little of his swagger. “I get by. Anyway, listen – we have to get going. We’re meeting some people and we’re late as it is.”

  Aisling went in for another cheek-peck. “It was great to see you,” she said, unconvincingly.

  “You too,” Ronan said.

  “Nice to have met you all,” Michelle said and – somewhat unnecessarily, because she hadn’t moved an inch – waved from the elbow.

  “Yeah, see you, Michelle,” Holly added before giving her boyfriend the briefest of glances. “Ronan.”

  The others raised hands and mumbled farewells. Ronan made one more attempt at a grin, then turned on his heels and left much more quickly than he’d arrived. Michelle walked behind him – quite a bit behind, Holly was pleased to notice.

  “Christ, that was a bit awkward,” Aisling said as soon as they were gone.

  “Well, what the hell did you call him over for?” Holly snapped and then immediately softened her tone. “They were on their way out. They would have just wafted on by.”

  “I dunno,” Aisling shrugged. “I just got the feeling that he’d been ignoring me lately. He hasn’t called in ages.”

  “Had you called him?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then. You don’t really want to be friends with him. It’s just a bit of a novelty, having an ex-boyfriend who doesn’t wish you dead because you handed his heart to him in a little bag.”

  “Ah,” James said. “An ex. I was wondering.”

  “In fairness to her,” Holly went on, “not all of her exes are as obnoxious as he is.”

  “Ronan isn’t obnoxious,” Aisling countered. “He’s just a bit . . . ”

  “. . . of a tool?” said Holly.

  “I was going to say ‘insecure’.”

  “Anyway,” Holly said quickly – the tool comment had just slipped out – “thank you, James, for leaping to my defence.” Her fingers clenched. Now she was sounding impossibly wet. Had she no control of herself whatsoever? “On the name thing. He takes the piss every time we meet.”

  James nodded, then caught John’s attention by throwing a beer-mat at him. “Wouldn’t have killed you to back me up there, Mr Walrus,” he said.

  John made a gesture of indifference.

  “While you’ve got your shining armour on,” Aisling said, “maybe you could pop over to my office and sort something out for me.”