Little Black Everything

by Alex Coleman

  “Did you forget something?” Mrs Christmas asked.

  Holly slightly adjusted the angle of her stance to ensure that her back was as square to the entrance as possible. She also did her best to block the view of her mother, whom Dan might well have recognised. “Just wanted to recommend somewhere for dinner.”

  “Oh. Okay. Go on.”

  Holly drew a blank. At that precise moment, she couldn’t recall the name of a single restaurant in the city, let alone a good one that was nearby. She decided to opt for the ridiculous.

  “It’s called . . . Plate,” she said, picking the first food-related word that came to mind.

  “Is it within walking distance?” Charlie asked.

  “No. It’s in, uh, Arklow. But you’d be there within an hour, if the traffic wasn’t too bad.”

  There was a terrible pause during which she was sure that they were not only going to like the sound of this fictitious restaurant but also to be in the mood for a drive.

  “That seems like a bit of a trek,” her mother said finally.

  “And besides,” Charlie added. “I don’t like the sound of it. Plate. I can’t stand these pretentious one-word names. All style and no substance, no doubt.”

  Just then, Holly saw Dan out of the corner of her eye. He was in a world of his own and sailed right past them. Mission accomplished.

  “Fine,” Holly said. “Just thought I’d mention it. See ya.”

  She made her second exit, already marvelling that her close encounter with Dan, hairy as it was, hadn’t reduced her to a jibbering wreck. Its main effect, apparently, had been to fill her mind still further with thoughts of James.

  Chapter 16

  Holly overslept on the following Monday morning and arrived at school with just a few minutes to spare before her first class was due to start. She said as much to Eleanor Duffy when she stopped her in the corridor, but Eleanor didn’t seem to care.

  “Good weekend?” she asked, leaning against a wall and getting comfy.

  “It was okay. You?”

  “Never mind me. What did you get up to? Did you make any . . . progress?”

  “Eleanor, I’m late, I –”

  “You’re not late yet, you’ve still got a couple of minutes. Come on. Tell.”

  There was no point, Holly supposed, in pretending that she didn’t know what Eleanor was talking about. “There’s nothing to tell,” she sighed. “Honestly. I didn’t see him this weekend. And to tell you the truth, I don’t think I’m ever going to see him again, socially.” The reason she had overslept, in fact, was that she was up half the night strategising. The way forward, she’d decided, was to pretend that her cowardly retreat from the pub had never happened and, henceforth, adopt a more proactive approach. She was going to see James again socially if it killed her.

  “That’s defeatist talk,” Eleanor said, wagging a finger. “And I won’t have it. You can’t just sit around waiting for him to do all the work, you know. You have to take steps! You have to make moves!”

  Holly shook her head sadly, even though these were exactly the sorts of phrases she’d drilling into her own head just a few hours previously. “I dunno. Let’s just see how it goes.”

  Eleanor slid down the wall a little. “Nooo, no, no. Let’s not just see how it goes. Lookit, none of my business and all, but you were making up boyfriends a few weeks ago. If I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t be passing up opportunities. And he likes you, I know he does.”

  Holly’s lungs briefly collapsed. “What? How do you know?”

  “Well, I don’t know, exactly, it’s just a feeling. But it’s a pretty definite feeling!”

  “I have to go now, Eleanor.”

  “Okay, okay. But think about what I said.”

  “Which bit? The bit where you reminded me that I’m desperate? The bit where you told me about your ‘feeling’?”

  Eleanor was not in the least deflected by this. “The bit where I told you to get off your arse and make it happen.”

  Holly nodded and went about her business. Happily, her first opportunity to take a step and make a move came that same lunchtime. She managed to get James to herself for a while by dawdling at the staff room sink at the appropriate moment and, thinking quickly, suggested a walk. James, just as she might had hoped, thought this was a great idea. He needed razor blades anyway. They could go as far as the chemist and back. And so they set off.

  For the first few minutes, their conversation never rose above the level of small talk. James confirmed that his weekend had indeed been “a wasteland”, Sopranos box-set notwithstanding. Apparently, he had barely left the house at all, let alone left it to have wild, uncontrollable sex with Aisling. Holly hadn’t even been aware that she was still worried about that possibility, but she presumed that she must have been; the feeling of relief that washed through her when he described his boredom told its own story. She told him that she was still following his advice regarding her mother and Charlie. He assured her once again that she was doing the right thing. Any other path could only lead to guilt and regret. And even if it all went wrong, her mum would still thank her one day. Life was all about taking risks and grabbing opportunities when they presented themselves. This last part had a whiff of Hollywood about it. If they had been sitting down together in some secluded corner, Holly felt sure that she would have been unable to help herself and would have kissed him there and then. Even here, on a cracked and gum-spotted pavement, with buses and trucks whizzing past, she was sorely tempted. But the moment passed. She did her best to be positive and upbeat as they strolled along, but the raw materials just weren’t there (“Nice birdie!” she noted as a tattered city pigeon limped by on the footpath; “Cool car!” she gasped at a vehicle that, on closer inspection, turned out to be bog-standard ‘98 Golf). Next thing she knew, they had arrived at the chemist and her time alone with James was half over. The shop was cramped and poorly lit. Holly hadn’t been in there for a long time and while she seemed to recall that it had never been a model of tidiness, it was beyond a joke now. Every inch of shelf space (and quite a lot of the floor) was taken up by merchandise, some of which was jammed together so tightly that the packaging had buckled and burst. As far as she could tell, about three quarters of the items on sale seemed to be related to hair-care. Some of them were so dusty she could have written her name on them with her finger. In one corner of the ceiling, a huge cobweb had broken free of its moorings and was wafting about forlornly. There was one customer, a tiny old lady who was dressed for the Antarctic.

  “Are you all right?” James asked Holly in a low voice. “You look a bit . . . concerned.”

  She nodded up at the ceiling. “I’m just getting myself ready,” she murmurred. “I might have to do a runner.”

  He looked up. “Wow. That’s impressive all right. Still, I wouldn’t have had you down as the scared-of-spiders type.”

  “I’m not scared of everyday spiders, James. But that web’s like something out of an Indiana Jones movie. The fella that made it, I would guess, would be about the size of your fist. If he puts in an appearance, I’m not even opening that door, I’m going straight through it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “What type did you have me down as, might I ask?”

  He didn’t hesitate. “The scared-of-nothing type.”

  “Ah. Sorry to disappoint.” When he turned away again, she allowed a puzzled frown to form. What the hell did that mean? Was it a compliment? Or did he mean that he saw her as a tough old boot? Either way, she supposed, the exchange had been mildly flirtatious. More of this, she told herself.

  “I’m scared of being buried alive too.”

  He faced her again. “Yeah?”

  “I don’t see it happening though. Seems highly unlikely, anyway.” She swallowed hard. Had she gone too far? Burial alive, on mature reflection, didn’t seem like a fit subject for flirting.

  “Which sort of being buried alive?” James asked, to her immediate relief. “The put-in-a-
coffin-by-mistake sort or the building’s-after-collapsing-on-you sort?”

  “I wouldn’t be crazy about either. But if you’re given me a choice, I’d be less bothered by the collapsed building. At least people would be looking for you.”

  “You’d be comfier in a coffin, though. Bit more wriggle-room. I mean, if you were going to die either way, you’d rather have a bit of space than be lying under a ton of rubble.”

  “Nah. I’ll take the building. Some chance is better than none.”

  “The eternal optimist.”

  No one had ever called Holly an optimist before. For a moment, she was quite choked. Then she realised that he was probably joking – wasn’t he? By now it was becoming obvious that the little old lady at the counter wasn’t in any kind of hurry to leave. She had completed her transaction, that much was clear; she was clutching one of the shop’s paper bags in her left hand. Holly tuned in to hear what was taking so long. As she might have guessed, it was nothing important. The customer was outlining her opposition to the theory that the Earth was heating up. Her central argument seemed to be that this could not possibly be the case because she personally was always freezing. The man serving her – the owner, Holly guessed – was no spring chicken himself. He seemed to have as little interest in getting on with his day as she had. Holly tried not to care.

  “Starved of attention,” James whispered after a minute or so, nodding at the old lady.

  “Not really. But thanks for asking.”

  This drew a smile. Holly experienced a brief glow of satisfaction. Just then, conversation at the counter died down. This was the owner’s chance. But he didn’t take it. Instead of ushering the old lady gently to the side or at least looking over her head to his next customer, he simply stood there, waiting for her to say something else. Before long, she did.

  “My son’s coming back from London for a visit, did I tell you that?”

  The owner seemed delighted that the awkward silence was over. “No, Mrs Fitzgerald, you didn’t. That’ll be nice for you.”

  “It will and it won’t. She’s coming with him and we don’t see eye to eye.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “Ah, she’s all right, I shouldn’t be talking. I just wish he’d found himself an Irishwoman, God knows, there’s enough of them over there.”

  “True, true.”

  “And they won’t even have the kids with them – not that they’re kids any more, mind you, the pair of them are at university now. French, Michael’s doing, the youngest one. French! His sister’s going on for to be a solicitor. Susie. That much I can understand. People will always need solicitors. But what the hell’s your man going to do with a whaddayacallit, qualification, in French? Sure he could have done medicine or engineering or something sensible and picked up the French at an evening class or somewhere if he really had to.”

  The shop doorbell tinkled then and a young woman entered, almost coughing up a lung as she did so. She took her place behind Holly and James, wheezing gently. Her arrival, Holly thought, was bound to move things along. She and James had been standing around chatting and had not projected any particular sense of urgency; the newcomer, on the other hand, was clearly in need of immediate medication. Her difficulties went unnoticed, however. When she fell into a fresh series of hacks and splutters, the chemist looked up for a moment, but then immediately returned to sympathising with Mrs Fitzgerald about the many failings of her extended family. Holly’s foot started to tap; in an attempt to calm it down, she clenched her toes to the point of cramp. Mrs Fitzgerald chose this moment to strike a more cheerful note, moving on from complaining about her family to praising the craftsmanship and attention to detail of the father and son team who’d just redone her patio.

  “Lovely, they were,” she chirped. “And such hard workers! You could hardly get them to stop and have a cup of tea.”

  The chemist seemed to find this subject fascinating. Where had she found them – in the book? How long did it take them to get the job done? Not to stick his nose in, but were they dear? Mrs Fitzgerald provided long and rambling answers to these and other questions, then moved on to tell the tale of a bad-mannered plumber she’d had in once. The doorbell tinkled once again and another customer entered. This one, a young mother – she looked all of fifteen – had a baby in a pushchair. Space was so short now that Holly and James had to move towards the counter. They shuffled forward in tiny steps, like prisoners shackled together at the ankles. The woman with the cough did likewise, closing the gap to Holly to such an extent that the volume of her wheezes seemed to increase dramatically. Holly’s shoulders tensed still further. James seemed to notice, somehow.

  “Shouldn’t be long now,” he said.

  For the next couple of minutes, she stood there with her eyes closed, imagining herself to be standing at the summit of a glorious mountain, gorging herself on the stunning view as crisp, fresh air blew through her hair. It was reasonably distracting at first, but the effect was somewhat spoiled when the woman behind her barked out a fresh series of coughs that she actually felt on the back of her neck. The coughs woke, or at least disturbed, the baby at the end of the queue who expressed his or her displeasure at this turn of events by screaming uncontrollably for a full minute. Mrs Fitzgerald, meanwhile, had suddenly remembered an electrician she’d once employed who had made the dodgy plumber look like a model professional.

  This is it, Holly told herself. She can finish this one and then she’d better get out of the way.

  If anything, the old woman spent even longer on the electrician than she had on her previous topics. This was partly because she felt it necessary to go into detail about the electrical problem that had necessitated his arrival and partly because she had known his mother since childhood. This last fact led her down a historical side-alley from which she had trouble emerging. Eventually, however, she ran out of things to say. Holly held her breath. Then the chemist said, “Would she have been any relation of David Dunleavy’s?” at which point Mrs Fitzgerald embarked on a genealogical review of the entire Dunleavy family. After thirty seconds of aunt-this and brother-in-law that, Holly’s patience expired.

  “Excuse me,” she said, stepping forward to stand at the counter. “Sorry to interrupt. I don’t mean to be rude but do you think we could get served because –”

  “Excuse me,” the chemist said, looking at her down the length of his nose. “I’ll be with you when I’m finished serving this lady.”

  Holly fought to keep her voice even. She wasn’t being difficult, she told herself. She wasn’t being grumpy. She wasn’t being sharp or blunt. She was merely standing up for herself, and she was doing so with a great deal of (admittedly fake) politeness. “I’m sorry,” she smiled. “It’s just that our lunchtime is ticking by and we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  Mrs Fitzgerald had kept her eyes forward up until this point. Now she turned to give Holly the evil eye. “There’s a little thing called respect for the elderly,” she declared. “Have you heard of it?”

  And that was that. A tipping point was reached. Holly’s blood ran cold. Her smile disappeared. Her voice rose in volume and lowered in pitch.

  “Oh, please. Don’t play the little old lady card. Respect is a two-way street. Where’s your respect for the people queueing up behind you?” She pointed dramatically. “This woman’s going to cough herself inside-out if she doesn’t get some Benylin or something soon.”

  The chemist drew himself up to his full height and put his chin in the air. “I’m on my own today, in case you hadn’t noticed. Normally, there’d be two of us, but my assistant’s attending her uncle’s funeral. A funeral. I’m sorry if the man’s death has inconvenienced you but –”

  “OK, so now it’s the funeral card. Listen: I don’t care if you’re on your own What’s that got to do with it? If anything, being on your own should make you speed up, not slow down. Now, can you please put your chatting to one side for a moment and serve us? Pretty please?”

  “
I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” the chemist said. “I’ll invite you to take yourself out of my premises and never come back. That’s what I’ll do. Go on, get out. You’re barred. I will not be spoken to like that under my own roof.”

  Holly shrugged and swivelled. “Come on, James. We’re leaving. Apparently.”

  James didn’t seem to want to catch her eye, or anyone else’s for that matter. He stepped out of the queue and made his way to the door with his eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Holly followed him. Along the way, she couldn’t help but trail her fingers through the dust on top of a box of hair colour. Without turning around, she brushed her fingertips together and tut-tutted. Not turning around was the key, she felt. It added a certain something to the performance. Unlike James, the woman with the cough and the girl with the baby had no problems catching her eye. She had not been surprised that they didn’t back her up in the argument and she was not surprised now to see them staring at her with something like awe. It was not the first time she’d experienced such a reaction. On the street outside, she found James facing the traffic. He looked over his shoulder when she emerged and then turned to face her properly.

  “Well,” he said. “That was kind of embarrassing.”

  “Sorry,” Holly said. “I couldn’t help myself.”

  This had the advantage, at least of being true. She’d been fully aware that she was shredding the script she had given herself for James. But she had also felt that she wasn’t entirely in control of her actions. The fact that he was standing behind her, being almost audibly embarrassed, had seemed like something that had she no choice but to put aside for the time being.

  “She was an old woman, Holly,” he said. “You know what they’re like. She probably doesn’t get out much. All she wanted was a bit of conversation, a bit of attention, like I said.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t think that matters. You know what I’m in favour of? I’m in favour of treating old people with equal respect. Equal means equal. It doesn’t mean more. Do you think it would have been okay to ask them to hurry it up if she had been thirty-odd and not seventy-odd?”