Little Black Everything

by Alex Coleman

  “Yeah, but –”

  “But nothing, James. Equal respect. And anyway, it’s the shopkeeper who was to blame, really. I wouldn’t even have said anything to her if she hadn’t gone for me first.”

  He shook his head. “So, you don’t make any allowances, none at all, for the fact that she’s old?”

  “Nope.”

  “What if she’d been in a wheelchair?”

  “Same thing. Equal –”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No.”

  “You would start raving at someone in a wheelchair if they held you up?”

  “I wasn’t ‘raving’ at anyone, James, I was just making a point and, like I said, it’s the shopkeeper I have a problem with in this sort of thing, not the customer.”

  A truck roared past. They looked at each other for a long moment. Holly was suddenly convinced that she had blown it forever. The expression on his face was not one of unbridled admiration. A sense of panic bloomed in her abdomen and crept upwards, spreading spindly fingers around her shoulders and throat. She shifted from one foot to the other.

  “I still need razor blades,” he said.

  “No problem,” Holly said. “Come on, we’ll just keep going to the Spar.”

  James looked at his watch. “I dunno. Have we time?”

  “We’ll run back if we have to.”

  She took off, glancing at her own watch. In truth, they probably didn’t have time. But she wanted another few minutes with him – a chance to make amends. After an alarmingly long pause, he caught up. They were quieter on this part of the journey, both of them, although Holly did give a fairly substantial eulogy to a tree they walked past (“It’s so barky!”). When they arrived at the Spar, they found a small queue. On seeing it, James gave Holly a mock-scolding – at least she hoped it was mock – telling her that it would move quickly and that if she felt her emotions getting the better of her, she should go and wait outside. When they got to the counter, he paid for his razor blades with a Laser card and asked for cashback. The assistant was a young man of twenty-two or so. He seemed to be half-asleep at first but when he noticed James’s name, he reacted as if someone had just hooked him up to the mains.

  “No way!” he screeched.

  James nodded. “Heh. Yeah.”

  “No way!” the assistant said again. “This is your real name?”

  “Yup.”

  “You didn’t change it or anything?”

  “Nope. Born and raised.”

  “Holy crap! People must give you terrible abuse the whole time, do they?”

  James shook his head. “Are you giving me abuse?”

  The assistant froze. He seemed horrified by the sug-gestion. “No, man, no. No way.”

  “People are interested, that’s all. I get a bit of a slagging, obviously. No one gives me ‘abuse’, but everyone thinks that everyone else does.” He wagged his finger. “Let this be a lesson to you, my young friend. Have a little faith in your fellow man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, course. Sweet.” He finished the transaction with a smile on his face.

  Back out on the street, Holly made a big show of wiping her brow. “Phew. For a minute there, I thought you were going to tell him my name too.”

  “Nah,” James replied. “I have been paying attention, you know. I know you don’t like to talk about it.”

  “I don’t mind really,” she said. “Sometimes I let on it bothers me more than it does.”

  She knew immediately that this ridiculous lie had been stillborn. It was quite obvious even before James frowned at her, looking deeply unconvinced, and said, “Hmm. If you say so.”

  She looked away, opened her mouth, looked back at James, closed her mouth, looked away again. Eventually, the single word “Yeah” fell from her lips. It was not the most sophisticated contribution she had ever made to a conversation but she felt relieved to have said anything at all.

  “Come on,” James said. “We really are late. I don’t mind jogging back, but I don’t want to have to sprint.”

  “Yeah,” Holly said again. “No. Yeah, no.”

  Chapter 17

  The razor-blade trip – as Holly came to think of it – was her last proper contact with James for quite a while. Given the way it had turned out, she couldn’t help but feel that this was probably for the best.

  On Wednesday of the following week she received a phone call from her mother. Mrs Christmas didn’t talk for long and barely let Holly get a word in; it was more like a brief broadcast than a conversation. The gist of it was that she and Charlie were a couple now. She didn’t put it that bluntly, of course; she spoke vaguely of “progress” and “new beginnings”. Holly did her best to sound congratulatory but it wasn’t easy. Quite apart from the fact that she didn’t particularly feel that way, her mother’s own tone wasn’t exactly joyous. There was more than a hint of Happy now? about it. After she’d hung up, Holly lay on the sofa and tried to let the news bed down. It was a huge moment and she wanted to give it due attention. But all she could think about was the fact that her mother had a boyfriend and she didn’t. It didn’t seem fair. Although the felt considerable guilt for being so self-pitying was considerable, it was dwarfed by the self-pity itself.

  Orla rang too, on Saturday. When she said that she “just wanted to check in”, Holly guessed that she meant she just wanted to talk about John Lennon. And so it proved. She’d seen him a few times now and was beside herself with happiness. He was just so lovely! They always had a lovely time together, having lovely dinners or watching lovely movies. The next day he sent her lovely text messages. This flurry of lovelys brought back memories for Holly. When she’d first started going out with Dan, Mark (or was it Lizzie?) had pointed out one day that her speech was suddenly peppered with variations on the word “love”. Clearly, Mark (or Lizzie) had declared with a giggle, some ancient part of her brain had already decided that she was in love and was impatiently waiting for the rest of her to catch up. Before she hung up, Orla revealed that she’d been talking to Aisling, who was off to Wexford for the weekend on a team-building course with her work colleagues. At that very moment, she was probably holding someone back in a three-legged race while complaining about the havoc that physical activity was wreaking with her nails. When the call ended, Holly flaked out on the sofa and frowned up at the ceiling, lost in fresh self-pity. How come Orla got to be so happy? It wasn’t fair. A couple of minutes passed before a fresh wave of guilt washed over her. She bounded to her feet, feeling clammy and ashamed, and looked for something to scrub clean. All this resentment and jealousy – it wouldn’t do. Despite her best intentions, however, the feelings lingered on into the following week.

  After several days of sharing him with at least one other teacher at all times, Holly finally cornered James after close of business on the Thursday. She had dallied at the end of her last class and was thrilled to find him alone in the staff room when she stopped by to get a drink of water. He was on the phone and was not looking at all happy about it.

  “Yes,” he said, looking up at her and rolling his eyes. “Yes . . . Yes . . . I will . . . I know . . . No, I’m not snapping, I’m just say– . . . No . . . All right, then, see you tonight . . . Okay . . . Okay . . . Bye.” He hung up.

  Holly sat down in the armchair opposite him and took a sip of her water. “If it’s any consolation,” she said, “you really weren’t snapping. I know snapping when I hear it and that wasn’t it.”

  His half-smile had been conspicuous by its absence. Now it returned. Holly marvelled at the effect it had on his appearance. It was the sort of transformation that she could only achieve by spending an hour on her make-up. James could do it in a quarter of a second.

  “My mum,” he said. “Dad’s been sick for a few days. Nothing serious. Just a viral thing. I’ve spoken to him a few times and he’s grand. Complaining and all, but not exactly at death’s door either. Mother dearest thinks I’m a terrible son because I haven’t called over to see him. She ha
sn’t said it out loud but I can tell she’s just on the edge of wailing, ‘While you still have the chance!’”

  “She’ll be singing that terrib– . . . that song at you next. ‘The Living Years.’”

  James lit up. “Mike and the Mechanics! That’s so spooky. I had that exact same thought yesterday when she called to give out. I hate that frigging song.”

  “Wow.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just . . . I’ve never heard you saying that you hate anything before.”

  “Really?”

  “Never. Not once.”

  “Oh. Well, believe me, I hate that song. Not with your sort of passion, of course. I’m not in your league.”

  Holly had been about to elaborate but he had thrown her off. When it came to hating things, she was in a different league . . . She tried for a couple of seconds but there was no way she could make that sound good in her head.

  “Earth to Holly. Come in, Holly.”

  “Sorry. So, you’re going home tonight with a bottle of Lucozade and a sympathetic look?”

  “Yeah, looks like it. He’ll tell me I shouldn’t have bothered, I know he will.”

  “But you’ll feel better.”

  “My mum will. I suppose that’s the main thing.”

  She smiled. He smiled back. In the background, a tap dripped. Now what sort of silence was this, Holly wondered, when neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Was it comfortable or awkward? It seemed like a significant question but she had no answer.

  Then James said, “I suppose life’s going to get a bit more complicated for both of us any day now.”

  “What?” Holly squeaked.

  “We’re into October now. Next thing you know, people will be talking about Christmas.”

  Her heart stopped leaping around in her chest. No moaning, she told herself. No groaning. If you can’t say something nice. “Yeah, they will. But I don’t see how it complicates your life.”

  “It doesn’t. Quantum of Solace.”

  “Who’s a what now?”

  “New James Bond movie. That’s what it’s called. Quantum of Solace. It’s coming out in a few weeks. The kids have started to intensify their slagging campaign already.”

  “Ah,” Holly said. Who the hell had come up with “Quantum of Solace”? It sounded like a cheap perfume, something that would be sold out of a suitcase in an out-of-the-way spot. “What an interesting title!”

  “You think so?”

  “Interesting!” she repeated robotically. “So you’re going to get a hard time?”

  For a moment, Holly allowed herself to indulge in a little fantasy. James was about to make a confession. The truth was, he was just like her – the real her. He’d been pulling a fast one all along. Terrible songs by Mike and the Mechanics were just the tip of the iceberg. You name it, he loathed it and, in the privacy of his own head, tore it to tiny shreds. He was living a lie and it had to stop!

  “Ah, I don’t mind,” he said then. “If this is all I have to complain about, things aren’t so bad, are they?”

  “No,” she sighed.

  “Anyway,” he said then. “I should probably get going.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  They got up and walked out to the car park together. When it came time to part, Holly wished James good luck with his visit home.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Good luck with trying not to think about Christmas.”

  She wasn’t sure if this was an apology for raising the subject or a cheeky admission that he’d been winding her up. As she got into her car, she wished that just once, he would say something that she could read. It was so exhausting. She was getting sick of it. Before she had even left the school grounds, she had made a firm decision.

  Mark and Lizzie were happy to see her at first. They had just finished eating and cheerfully offered her some of the leftover goulash that they’d been planning to freeze for another day. When she declined, they forced a wineglass into her hand and poured her a generous helping of the Chilean Malbec that was their new darling (“So sure of itself,” said Mark; “Bold to the point of arrogance,” agreed Lizzie). Everything was going swimmingly until Holly cleared her throat and said, “So . . . ”

  “Oh, here we go,” Mark said. Lizzie held her tongue but her smile collapsed.

  Suddenly, Holly didn’t feel quite as welcome. In truth, she had guessed that they wouldn’t be especially excited by the prospect of discussing her love life yet again. Nevertheless, she pretended to be offended, just for appearances’ sake.

  “What? I haven’t said anything yet!”

  “Yeah, but you’re going to, aren’t you? I can tell. James what’s-his-name, right?”

  “Bond.”

  “Whatever.”

  “No, seriously. That’s his name.”

  Mark looked at Lizzie. Lizzie looked at Mark.

  “Why would I lie?” Holly asked.

  “James Bond?” Lizzie shrieked.

  “And Holly Christmas?” her husband added in an equally piercing tone.

  It would have been better, Holly thought, if they’d collapsed into laughter. Instead, they both just stared at her.

  Then Mark said, “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t be a couple called James Bond and Holly Christmas.”

  “Why not?”

  He adopted the expression of someone who had just taken a swig of sour milk. “Because . . . people will take the piss.”

  “People already take the piss,” Holly replied. “Individually, I mean. I don’t suppose it would get all that much worse if we were together. And anyway” – her voice rose – “why the hell should I care what people think?”

  “James Bond,” Lizzie mumbled as if the news was just sinking in. “How old is this guy? Was he born in the 1950s? At least then he’d have an excuse. Because otherwise, his parents must have –”

  “Look,” Holly interrupted. “I don’t want to get off on a whole name thing here. This is why I didn’t mention it in the first place.”

  “How does he cope with it?” Mark asked. “Better than you, I bet.”

  Holly gave him a look. “Yes, if you must know, he copes better than I do. I told you already. he copes with everything better than I do.”

  “Wait a minute,” Lizzie said. The sinking-in process was obviously still ongoing. “This guy’s a teacher. They must give him hell . . .”

  “He likes it,” Holly said. “Or at least, he doesn’t mind it. I’m telling you, nothing bothers him. Now, listen: I want to ask –”

  “We’ve been through all this already,” Mark moaned. “We told you: try being a bit more easygoing, see if –”

  “I’ve been doing that. Or at least I’ve been trying too. It hasn’t, uh, it hasn’t always come off.”

  “I can just picture it.”

  Holly began to worry that Mark was about to experience a profound loss of patience. As subtly as she could, she shifted her attention to Lizzie, who didn’t seem quite as agitated.

  “I can’t read the guy. Sometimes I think he’s flirting and sometimes I think he’s mocking me. I’m fed up with it. So I’ve come to a decision. I’m going to take the initiative. I’m going to ask him out.”

  She had dared to hope that her announcement of this significant change in policy might be a cause for celebration. There would be a blizzard of “Good-for-yous” and “Go-get-‘em-girls” after which she would calm things down and ask for some advice on how to go about it. Instead, their response was to renew their staring. She saw that she would have to skip a stage.

  “So I need some advice,” she said. “How do you think I should go about it?”

  “I wouldn’t have a clue,” Lizzie said. “I’ve always thought it was the man’s job to do the asking.”

  Holly was quite sure that this was a joke, albeit a hopelessly unfunny one. “Hur,” she said, non-committally.

  “I’m serious,” Lizzie replied. “I mean, it’s up to you, obviously, but do you not think there’s some
thing a wee bit . . . undignified about it?”

  “Christ!” Holly gasped. “I thought you were taking the piss. Wow . . . I’m kind of in shock here. You, of all people –”

  “What? What does that mean?”

  “Calm down. I’m just saying, you’re not exactly old-fashioned, are you?”

  Lizzie’s hand automatically moved to her crown. “So I cut my hair off. Ooooh. What, you think that makes me some sort of feminist nut-job?”

  “No! No. I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t think it was such a big deal for a woman to ask a man out.”

  “Have you ever done it before?”

  “No.”

  Mark chipped in: “And you need advice on how to go about it?”

  “Uh . . . yes.”

  “Well, there you go,” Lizzie said. “It is a big deal.”

  Holly felt as if she’d been tag-teamed. And worse, she realised that they had a point. For the past few hours she’d been telling herself that while it would have been nice if James had done the asking, it would be just as easy for her to do it. She’d been kidding herself. Somewhere just beneath the surface, she had already started to panic. Now the panic bubbled right to the top.

  “Shit,” she breathed. “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “Oh, don’t get all excited,” Lizzie said. “How hard can it be?”

  “But you don’t approve! You just said so!”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t approve, I said I thought it was undignified. But, hey, it’s your dignity. If you’re comfortable with throwing it overboard, then who am I to raise objections?”

  “Oh. Right. Well, in that case, dignity-shmignity. So – what’s my plan?”

  “I got asked out for a drink once,” Mark said. He nodded at Lizzie. “Not long before I met you, actually.”

  “Did you now?” Lizzie said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Well, I can hardly tell you about every single woman who finds me irresistible,” he cooed. “I’d get nothing done.”

  “You just said it only happened once,” Holly pointed out.

  “Oh. Right. Yeah. So I did.”