Little Black Everything

by Alex Coleman

  Her mouth opened and closed. Holy shit. Why would he ask her that if he didn’t have a follow-up in mind? “Not a thing. I’m profoundly single.” She swallowed. “You?”

  “Engaged, would you believe. Big day’s in April next year.”

  “Congratulations to you both,” someone said. A moment later Holly realised that it had been her. “That’s great. That’s really great. So great. Great.”

  “Yeah, cheers. Christ, there’s an awful lot of organising to be done. You wouldn’t believe it. Mind you, I get to stay out of most of it. Polly’s the one under stress.”

  “Polly?”

  “Yeah, that’s her name. I know, it’s weird. From Holly to Polly.”

  After a long moment, Holly said, “Wait, so this is the girl you dumped me for?”

  He winced. “Uh . . . yeah. Yeah it is, actually.”

  For reasons that she couldn’t immediately fathom, that made it a lot worse. OK, she told herself as her heart slammed against her ribcage. Keep calm. All you can do now is back away as gracefully as possible.

  “Right. Okay. Right. Well, congratulations to you both.”

  “Yeah, you said that already.”

  Just like that, she snapped. There was no preamble, no building up of pressure. One moment she was concentrating hard on her façade and the next she was on her toes and hissing at him. “Oh, excuse fucking me! I do apologise! How can you ever forgive me!”

  Dan leaned back – in shock, Holly supposed, although the look on his face suggested that he might also be anticipating a punch. Then he folded his arms and stood a little taller, “I’m sorry, Holly. I shouldn’t have –”

  “Dumped me over the phone on fucking Valentine’s Day?”

  He stared at her for several seconds. “I was going to say that I shouldn’t have brought up the subject of relationships. I thought we were swapping news. But yes, now you mention it, ending it on Valentine’s Day was a shitty move and I apologise. I’ve thought about it a lot since and I am truly sorry. I was just so excited to have met someone who I knew, right away, was my future wife.”

  “The phone!” she repeated hotly. “Over the fucking phone!”

  She could only imagine how bizarre her transformation must have seemed. But it was too late to row back now.

  “Yeah,” Dan said in a harsher tone. “Yeah, this is more like the Holly Christmas I remember. Shouting and swearing and going purple in the face. Is this why you came here? To have a go at me, what, nearly three years later?”

  Holly huffed and puffed for a moment. She felt sick and dizzy and wanted nothing more from life than to be somewhere else, anywhere else. “I’m going,” she said. “I have to go.”

  “You could at least pretend to be happy for me,” he said. “Despite everything. You could at least . . . ” His eyes rolled closed, then snapped open. “Oh my God. I’ve just got it. Holly . . . Did you come here to try to get me back?”

  “What? Don’t be r–”

  “You did, didn’t you? Jesus. That’s what all the amnesia shit was about. You came here letting on you’d changed so –”

  “I have to go,” she said again and pushed past him. He dropped his arms to his sides and stood motionless as she fumbled with her keys. She tried not to look out of the window as she started the car but she couldn’t help herself. The expression on his face was one of sympathy. She took another glance back in the rear-view mirror as she sped away. Now he was shaking his head in disbelief.

  When she made it back home, Holly could think of nothing better to do than climb into bed and pretend that she’d never been born. She drifted in and out of sleep for a few hours but the experience was the polar opposite of rest; the longer she lay there, the more taut and exhausted she felt. It didn’t seem possible that the plan – she physically flinched to think of that word – could have gone any worse. It hadn’t gone badly. It had been a complete catastrophe. There were earthquakes that had greater upsides. When she finally gave up on bed, she had a scalding shower and was not at all surprised to find that it didn’t make her feel any less grubby. Downstairs she found the Cat of Many Colours asleep on the couch. There was no sign of Claude. This could mean only one thing; he had taken to letting his pal inside before going off about his business. The Cat of Many Colours woke up while Holly was standing there staring down at her. She looked up, yawned and slowly blinked. There was no doubt about it – she was feeling right at home now.

  After making herself a cup of tea – she hadn’t eaten so far today, and didn’t anticipate doing so any time soon – Holly joined her new pet on the couch. She sat there motionless for quite a while. Shortly after four thirty, her mobile rang. It was her mother.

  “What’s wrong?” Holly said instead of hello. She had realised immediately that all was not well.

  “What makes you think there’s something wrong?” her mum asked.

  “I can tell. You don’t sound right. What is it? And where are you? I hear people.”

  “I’m in town. In the Gresham.”

  “The hotel?”

  “Is there any other Gresham?”

  “What are you doing there?”

  There was a pause. “I came in to meet Charlie. Me and him . . .” Another pause. This one was longer. When she spoke again, Mrs Christmas seemed to have a frog in her throat. “It’s all over with.”

  “What? Why? Who –”

  “It was my idea. I just . . . ”

  Holly heard what sounded like muted sniffling. “Mum? Mum, are you there?”

  “Yes. Sorry. Don’t mind me, I’m a bit upset.”

  “Stay where you are. I’ll come in.”

  “No, Holly, there’s no need, I’m grand. And anyway I’m going up to the hospital to see Lillian. She was taken in overnight.”

  “Mum, I’m coming in.” She expected further objections and when none were forthcoming, she knew that she had said the right thing. “Sit tight. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  “All right. Okay. I’m in the front bit, you can’t miss me.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Holly had one of those rare trips into town in which every light was green and every bus pulled in just as she was about to get stuck behind it. She parked in the Jervis Street car park and made her way up to the Gresham in a manner that was more jog than walk. As she had promised, Mrs Christmas was sitting in an unmissable spot in the lobby. There was a tea setting for one on the low table in front of her. Holly guessed that she’d been there for so long that a member of staff had long since removed all traces of her former companion.

  “Hi, Mum,” she said and planted a kiss.

  “Thanks for coming in, love. There was no need, I’m fine.”

  Holly took a seat. “No, you’re not. Look at the cut of you.” She was trying to lighten the tone and was pleased to see her mother make an attempt at a smile. Nevertheless, she had half-meant it. Mrs Christmas had the washed-out and slightly crumpled look of a woman who had recently shed tears. Holly pictured her hiding herself away in a toilet stall, trying to cry quietly, and felt weak with pity.

  “Thanks. I knew I could rely on you to say the right thing.”

  “So, tell me. What happened?”

  Her mum folded her hands on her lap and then suddenly raised one.

  A passing waitress stopped and smiled. “Madam. What can I get you? More tea?”

  “Just water for me, I’m all tea’d out. Fizzy water. I mean, oh, eh . . . ”

  “Sparkling water for yourself,” the waitress said. “And . . . ?”

  “Coffee for me, please,” Holly said.

  The waitress nodded and left.

  “Go on, Mum. What happened?”

  She folded her hands again and breathed deeply for a moment. “I don’t know, I just didn’t . . . I didn’t . . . like him.”

  If her own emotional state had been less bleak, Holly was sure that she would have laughed out loud. She had expected to spend quite a bit of time painting her mother into a corner where sh
e would have no choice but to give a straight answer.

  “Well, that’s pretty clear,” she said. “If you didn’t like him, then that’s that.”

  “Hm.”

  “What did you say? I presume you didn’t say, ‘I don’t like you’. . . Did you?”

  Mrs Christmas shook her head sadly. “I hadn’t a clue what to tell him. I think he knew something was up when I asked him to come in and meet me. Because that was a first. It was always him that did the organising.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So he showed up anyway, sat right where you’re sitting and we had a bit of a chat for a while, about nothing, really. He knew something was up. I know he did. I could see it in him. Then he flat-out asked me. I didn’t know how else to say it, so I just told him the truth. Told him I wasn’t happy being . . . with him. That I felt better in myself when I was on my own.”

  “And how did he take it?”

  “Not well.”

  “Oh.”

  “He didn’t get angry or anything but he was badly, I don’t know . . . disappointed. He turned into a wee boy, all huffy and puffy. He hung around for ages too. I thought maybe he’d get up and leave straight away, but no.”

  “So how did you part?”

  “With a handshake. All very formal.”

  She’d been doing well up until this point, Holly thought, but now her eyes moistened. “Come on, Mum. Don’t upset yourself.”

  Mrs Christmas reached for a well-used hankie that she’d stuffed away down the side of her chair and dabbed at her eyes. Then she suddenly dropped it and looked up. “Nothing happened. I want you to know that. Nothing . . . sexy.”

  “Okay, Mum. Okay.”

  “That’s something. At least that’s something. Isn’t it? I mean, things could be worse, couldn’t they?”

  Holly couldn’t help but glance around. No one had noticed the tears yet but it seemed inevitable that they soon would.

  “Please, Mum –”

  “Remember that conversation we had when I said I was worried about breaking my record or however it was that I put it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you had an example, giving up cigarettes and then having just the one?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, that’s exactly it, that’s exactly the way I feel. Just the very thing I was most worried about – that’s what’s come to pass.”

  “Oh, Mum . . .”

  “I feel like I’ve been unfaithful.”

  “You haven’t, of course you haven’t. You can’t –”

  “To his memory, Holly. To his memory. I’ve ruined something and I can never un-ruin it. Oh God, I feel like I’m going to faint or something.”

  “Did –”

  “I think it’s worse because there was nothing to it. Maybe if it had been some grand love affair I wouldn’t feel as bad. But to mess everything up for a few nights out with Charlie . . . ”

  On her way into town, Holly had concluded that her mother’s return to single status was undoubtedly a good thing. She’d be a little bit upset, obviously, but facts had to be faced; Charlie had dickish tendencies and would have been no good for her in the long run. Two unpleasant notions struck her now. The first was that she had underestimated how much damage her mum had sustained. The second was even more disturbing: this whole mess was her fault. She had been given multiple chances to stop the relationship before it even started and then, once it had, to put a dampener on it. But she’d taken none of them. Her mother’s heart had never been in it, clearly. If she’d said the right thing at the right time, she could have saved her all this grief. As these thoughts whirled in her head, her breathing became increasingly erratic. And then she realised that she too was starting to cry. Just as she picked up her handbag in the hope of finding a hankie of her own, their waitress returned with their drinks. She did a very good job of pretending not to notice anything out of the ordinary and was gone before either of them could even scrape together a thank-you.

  “What’s wrong?” Mrs Christmas croaked. “What are you getting upset about?”

  “It’s all down to me,” Holly croaked back. “You would never have got into this if I hadn’t pushed you.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “No, it’s the truth. I know it is. You even rang me a couple of times to point out that you and him were still together, like it was for my benefit. I knew that was weird, I knew it. You were only doing it for me . . .”

  “I wasn’t doing it for you.”

  This was a less than full-throated denial of her central point, Holly thought. She covered her eyes with the ragged tissue she had found in her bag, like a child trying to blot out a difficult reality. “Because of me, then. You wouldn’t have gone ahead with it if I hadn’t stuck my nose in.”

  “You didn’t stick your nose anywhere, Holly. I asked you for your advice.”

  “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought you were lonely.”

  “I was lonely. I am lonely. Sometimes. Sure I told you that myself.”

  Mrs Christmas had regained her composure now. Holly got her own tears under control and sniffed herself back to relative normality.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry I encouraged you. Especially considering . . .” She trailed off, having realised that she’d started out on an undesirable path. But her mother guessed where she’d been going.

  “You never really liked him, did you?” she asked.

  “I wouldn’t say that, I –”

  “Holly.”

  “Well. I had my doubts about him.”

  “Hm. That’s not what you said when I asked, is it?”

  “I’ll make it up to you,” Holly said. “I promise. We’ll . . . we’ll go to the Christmas Convention of Christmases.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re not thinking straight.”

  “I mean it. Just say the word. I know you wanted to go.”

  “We’ll talk about it some other time when you’re feeling more like yourself.”

  Holly reached for her coffee and took a sip. How could the day get any worse, she wondered? A nice roof collapse, maybe? An outbreak of Ebola?

  “I mean it,” she repeated. “I’ll do it.” Her frown deepened. She’d sounded like a bank robber holding a gun to a cashier’s head. It was not the tone she was after.

  “I believe you.”

  Holly felt sure that there must be something else she could say, something comforting, something reassuring. But she drew a blank. She reached for her coffee again and her mother took a little water. A painful silence ensued. Then Mrs Christmas put down her glass.

  “I’m sorry, Holly,” she said, “but I really have to go.”

  “Oh. But I’ve only just . . . Oh. Okay.”

  “Lillian. I did say as much on the phone. Visiting starts at six. I want to get in and out quickly in case that nephew of hers shows up.”

  “How is she?”

  “I don’t think she’s in danger or anything. Lung trouble, the ambulance guy said. Might be pneumonia.”

  Holly shook her head. “Come on then, I’ll drive you. What hospital?”

  “St James’s. But it’s all right, I’ll get a taxi outside.”

  “No, I’ll –”

  “It’s okay, really. I’d rather, y’know . . . be on my own for a bit.”

  Holly had been halfway out of her seat. She sat down again – heavily. “You don’t want me around. You’re mad at me. Of course you are. I understand.”

  Mrs Christmas sighed as she got to her feet. “I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at me. But next time, please tell me the truth when I ask your opinion. What am I saying – there’s not going to be a next time.”

  “Okay.”

  They looked at each other. Then Mrs Christmas opened her bag. “Here, I nearly forgot to leave money.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Holly said. “I’ll get it.” She expected an argument. But there was none.

  “All right then,” her mother said.
“I’ll see you soon.”

  “Tell Lillian I was asking for her.”

  “I will, yes. Bye now.”

  She took off. Holly sank a little lower into her seat. Just then, their waitress happened by again. Holly caught her eye.

  “Excuse me.”

  “Yes. What I get you?”

  “I’ll have a white wine, please.”

  “Certainly. Dry or –”

  “Anything. Anything at all.”

  Three quarters of an hour later, as she ordered her third glass of wine, Holly was still telling herself that she could be fully sober before the car park closed for the night. All she had to do was take a long walk or go to the cinema or something. It was nonsense, of course – the feeble rationalisation of the casual drunk driver, a species that she had spent several hours of her life complaining about. She knew as much even as she formed the thought. It wasn’t until a little while later, when she was paying the bill, that she finally accepted that she wouldn’t be driving anywhere tonight. The waitress had been a model of discretion, given that she had borne witness to simultaneous crying jags sandwiched between tea and wine binges. Her smile had never faltered and her eyes had never rolled. It wasn’t her fault that Holly felt embarrassed to the point where she felt that she had to leave. The least she could do, she thought, was bequeath a substantial tip.

  Outside on O’Connell Street, she drifted south towards the river with no real destination in mind, just a vague ambition to walk along the quays. She was doing so when it occurred to her that she hadn’t been in the Morrison Hotel for quite a while. It had been one of their regular haunts for a period, largely because Aisling had fancied someone who practically lived in its bar. Why not call in, she asked herself? Not for anything in particular – just to see if the place had changed. She was halfway through her second glass of wine before she allowed herself to admit that obtaining same had been her sole motivation for the visit. It was still early and there weren’t many other customers. One of the few was a slim and fit-looking middle-aged man. He sported cool rimless glasses and a chunky, militaristic watch. His hair was silver and closely cropped. His clothes were casual but obviously expensive. His tan was deep and apparently natural. He was certainly attractive, she thought, but there was something oddly reptilian about him. Or maybe the word was “predatory”. On the third occasion when she caught him looking in her direction, she had a strong premonition that he was about to come over or – ugh – send her a drink. She downed her wine and legged it.