He automatically raised a forkful of rice into his mouth, and spluttered, ‘You okay, babe?’
I flinched. ‘“Babe”? Why are you calling me “babe”? You never call me that.’
He shovelled my dinner in, moving so fast he couldn’t even be tasting it. ‘Just thought I’d try it out. It’s nice for us to have nicknames.’
I sighed. ‘Nicknames should happen organically – you don’t choose one, you don’t try one out.’ I turned and looked at the telly, which was showing some old action movie. I didn’t know what movie, I’d been staring past it this whole time.
‘You seem a bit off . . . Do you have your period?’
I was about to shout no loudly and give him a lecture on common decency when I remembered it was Wednesday, which was normally our hump day. Get it, humping on hump day? It was funny at some stage. So I made a noise, which could have been interpreted as an affirmative grunt, but was definitely an end to a conversation. I didn’t want to have sex with Mason tonight, but I also didn’t want to have to spurn his advances and create pathetic excuses. Thank God the time of the month was non-negotiable.
I flopped further back into the couch and positioned a blanket over my knees. I needed to stop being such a bitch. I put on a cheery voice. ‘Do you have any wine? Will we have a glass?’
He pushed my empty plate onto the coffee table, stretched his back slightly and released a satisfied sigh. ‘It’s Wednesday. We never have wine on a Wednesday.’
‘Yeah, you’re right, forget it. It doesn’t matter.’ Except it did; right now it mattered to me. Not because I wanted to drink but because I wanted us to do something a little different, to have wine on a Wednesday, maybe order Indian instead of Chinese, or at least order a different dish off the menu. But maybe this was what married life was. Take away, in a tracksuit, on the couch. That was probably a big night for Mardi and Colin.
‘That London trip has come up, I go Friday. I’ve got to work out of the office for a few days.’
‘Oh right. Through the weekend?’
‘Yes, so maybe we should start talking about the wedding. We’re going to have our finances in good shape soon, so we’ll have an idea of a budget and there’s going to be so much to organise.’ I could tell Mason was champing at the bit to get going on the wedding. It required exactly the kind of multitasking, plates-spinning organisation that he excelled at.
‘I know, isn’t it brilliant?’ I said, feeling giddy, jumping slightly on the couch, delighted about this turn of events.
Mason smiled at me. ‘We’ll need to lock down venues and a church, obviously.’
I felt my forehead tighten. ‘A church? I don’t want to get married in a church. Do you?’
‘Of course I do. It’s really important to me. I’ve mentioned this before.’
I stared at him in amazement. ‘No you haven’t. But you don’t even go to Mass. You don’t go to church.’
‘That doesn’t matter. How did you not know this about me?’
‘I always thought I’d have an outdoor wedding,’ I said, suddenly feeling downcast.
‘In Ireland? With twenty-seven types of weather in an hour?’ He shook his head slowly in disbelief.
I could feel our hackles rising slightly so I donned my very best peacekeeper hat. ‘Well, let’s park the ceremony for the moment. We could have the reception somewhere fun, though, like a boat or a hay barn. Maybe we’ll have a cowboy-themed wedding – I could wear a Stetson instead of a veil.’
Mason squinted at me. ‘Joking, right?’
Not really, I thought.
‘You know what?’ I said, and then I softened my voice a little and stole Colin’s line. ‘We’re only going to be engaged once, let’s just enjoy this part of it and not get too bogged down in the wedding just yet. BBest is going to do the work really, and it’ll get everything just perfect for us.’
‘You’re right, I don’t want to jump ahead too much.’ He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. ‘How’s that ring working out?’
‘It’s so beautiful, I can’t stop looking at it.’
We both gazed down at my hand and my sparkly ring and my chipped nails, the curse of being a florist.
Mason’s voice dropped. ‘Mum told me not to take over the wedding, she said it’s the bride’s day and that you probably have a vision of what you’d like to do. That it’s the type of thing little girls dream about.’
‘Well, so long as we’re both happy, that’s all that matters, isn’t it? I’ll think about the ceremony, okay?’ I raised a half-smile and wondered why my stomach was swirling anxiously. Wedding jitters, I thought.
‘How are you feeling about it all? I know it can be overwhelming.’ This was so Mason – so sensitive, so in tune, so ready to discuss emotions. Unlike me.
‘I’m fine, Mase. I’m all over it,’ I said snappily, and shot him a stern gaze, instantly angry and annoyed. Not everyone wanted to discuss how they were feeling all the time.
‘Okay, but you know I’m here if you want to talk, darling.’
‘Darling!’ I almost howled at him. ‘What’s “darling” about? Babe, darling . . . we don’t do nicknames.’
He squinted at me nervously. ‘Okay, do you want me to get you some Panadol or something if it’s that time of the month?’
‘No, and no foot rubs or hot water bottles either,’ I said in my best headmistress voice. Mason was so understanding, so cripplingly open to my feelings that, well, it just . . . it just made me mad. I went back to staring angrily at the TV.
‘Are you watching this?’ Mason grabbed the remote and started to flick around. ‘The footy is on three. Do you mind if I just catch a bit of it?’
This also happened every Wednesday. I pretended not to mind. I sat staring at the screen and the little figures chasing a ball around, my brain a million miles away.
‘It’s fine.’ I slipped my hand out from under the blanket and placed it on the back of his neck. I rubbed it lightly, attempting to claw back some friendliness between us. ‘So did you have a good day?’
He nodded, staring at the TV, almost oblivious to my caressing. As much as Mason was the ultimate new man, once sport was involved it was like a light went on and nothing could get in the way of his tunnel vision. ‘Fine. Busy. Nothing unusual.’
‘Me too,’ I volunteered, and started to run through safe conversation topics in my mind, something that might take me off this bitch train I seemed to be riding. ‘I was chatting to Mam earlier about my business. I might need to take someone on part time, and I thought she could be a good option. What do you think?’
Silence.
‘Mase?’
He shouted, jumped off the couch, and pumped double fists into the air. ‘Yes!’ There was a goal apparently, and that usurped everything.
‘Mase, I’m talking to you.’
He turned, his face giddy and his eyes glistening with victorious excitement. ‘Did you see that? Here, look, I’ll rewind.’ He sat back down, and before I could protest, he pointed the remote and stared fixedly at the screen, slightly shaking his head in disbelief and awe. ‘What were you saying?’
‘Oh, just that I might hire Mam part time to help out.’
I watched as his lips curled downwards. ‘Not a good idea. Never a good idea to hire family and your mam is so flighty – she’s all over the place half the time.’
‘Well, that’s a horrible thing to say.’ My response was squeaky. I knew Mam was flighty but that’s for me to say and for him to stay shtum.
‘It’s true! Imagine getting her to turn up at nine o’clock? Even getting her to turn up on the right day would be a miracle.’ He guffawed.
‘Okay, enough. I’m sorry I mentioned it.’ I crossed my arms and my jaw squared in defiance.
‘Seriously, she’s a mess . . .’ He was on a roll and I sensed he was ready to unleash a tirade.
I cut him short. ‘Shut up. You can be such a dick sometimes.’
He stayed quiet, and a tumbleweed whirled past th
e TV as we sat in a heated silence.
‘I’m not doing this, I’m going to bed.’ I pushed the blanket off my knees and went to stand up.
He peered up at me. ‘It’s only nine o’clock.’
‘I’m tired.’
He looked back at the TV. ‘I’ll just watch the end of the match and come in, yeah?’
I made a noise signalling that I couldn’t care less, and walked to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I grabbed the sides of the sink and stared at my reflection in the mirror. I was all kinds of angry. What the hell was going on? One minute he’s Mr Super Sensitive, all feelings and emotions, and the next he was insulting my mam. I combed my fingers through my hair and scratched at my scalp in annoyance. I hated who I became around him sometimes, snappy and snarly, pinch faced and narky. I was a complete bitch a lot of the time, but I didn’t recognise that side of myself. I looked at my messy hair and flushed cheeks in the mirror, gritted my teeth and took a deep breath. Then I let my inner Freya talk to me.
‘Get yourself together, Freya,’ she whispered. ‘There’s a hot man out there who wants to talk about his feelings and wants to marry you. He’s bloody perfect.’
I nodded in agreement with myself.
‘Straighten yourself up and go back in there and have sex with him. We all know you don’t have your period.’
‘He insulted Mam, though.’
‘Your mam is flighty.’
So am I, I thought.
It was good advice, though, we’ll have make-up sex, and it’ll be hot and passionate. I found a hairbrush, washed my face, adjusted my knickers and took off my bra. Straight into it.
Mason jumped, a little surprised when I came back into the sitting room. I stood in front of the TV.
‘Mason, I’d like you to apologise for saying that about Mam.’ I had a distinct advantage in asking for this apology: I knew that my nipples were poking out through my T-shirt. Mason was putty in my hands.
‘I am so sorry,’ he said, looking at my breasts.
‘Good, let’s keep things friendly.’ I smiled, walking over to him. I slowly climbed on top of him, placing a knee on either side of his legs, straddling him.
‘I thought you were out of action,’ he said, running his hands through my hair.
‘Nope, I never said that.’
We started to kiss, his hands gently caressing my back. And I don’t know if it was because I had taken the initiative, or because we were on the couch, but we had amazing sex that ended in a spine-tingling orgasm. We had a usual routine that produced pretty satisfactory sex, but I did normally fake my orgasm, not all the time, but a lot of the time. It didn’t really bother me – it just worked better that way. But this time, I had a wild feeling of anticipation that built into an intense explosion of light and heat. It was so unexpected.
Afterwards I lay curled up in his arms, listening to his light snoring, wondering why I had picked a fight with him and become such a bitch face. We were great together, we were a ninety-three per cent for crying out loud, you don’t have sex like that with someone that you’re only okay with.
We would live happily ever after with lots of lovely sex and no more weird fights.
15
On my way home from work the next day, I stopped off at our corner shop to stock up on bridal magazines. If Mason wanted a church, we could do a church. I was getting married, goddammit, and marriage was all about compromise. I grabbed five happy, glossy, skinny, bridal magazine cover girls, a pint of milk and three chocolate bars. I was going to need the extra sugar boost. And then my phone beeped to remind me that I needed an extra vegetable kick before bed, so I grabbed a head of broccoli.
‘Somebody’s getting married?’ Angry Sam, the angriest shop keeper in Dublin with the whitest hair and reddest face, asked, while he skimmed through the magazines. ‘You didn’t get Beautiful Brides. That’s one of the better ones.’
‘It’s ten euros.’
‘You can’t put a price on the big day,’ he huffed at me.
‘You’re right, Sam, you can’t,’ said the fully committed bride-to-be. I swung back to the magazine rack and plucked it off the shelf.
Sam started to ring up the items, and his calloused hands puffed out a paper bag. ‘So, who’s getting married? Is it that good-looking housemate of yours?’
‘No.’ I rose to my full stature. ‘It’s me.’
‘You?’ His eyes practically fell out of his head and rolled down his face in shock. ‘You? Who’d marry you?’
‘Seriously? Seriously?’ I pointed at my engagement ring, glad that the rock was really quite substantial. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a catch,’ I shouted at him.
‘Your housemate, I could see that, but you . . .’ He grimaced slightly.
‘You’re joking, right? This is a joke?’
He tensed his head slightly so the full extent of his double chin wobbled beautifully. He passed me the bag. ‘Congratulations, I suppose.’
I made a lot of angry sounds as I turned on my heel and started out the door. I passed some news magazines stacked high on the floor. There were photographs of RealTime standing on a stage, launching the Waist Watch, the BBest logo flying behind him and a parade of people looking like foot soldiers a step behind. I flicked through the pages. There were more pictures of him proudly flashing his wrist and grinning, and shots of the crowd holding arms in the air with their phones in position, looking starstruck. I hovered over them for a moment, reading about how successful the launch had been.
‘If you read it, you buy it,’ Angry Sam shouted.
‘I will buy it actually.’ I stooped down and picked it up. ‘My good-looking housemate will want to read about the Waist Watch.’
I quickly flashed my phone as payment and scurried out the door.
Jay was in the kitchen chomping down a plate of fried eggs and potatoes drowned in tomato sauce. Dinner or breakfast? Either way, it looked tasty. There was some pop song playing in the background that he was bobbing his head along to. I threw the wedding magazines down on the kitchen island. They made a very satisfactory slapping sound.
‘I swear, that Angry Sam is just the pits.’ There was smoke coming out of my nostrils.
Jay surveyed me coolly, his eyes casually drifting from my stomping feet to my clenched fists and gritted jaw.
‘You let him get to you, Freya, that’s what he wants, you just walked into his web there.’
‘Ugh, he makes me so mad.’
‘That’s his game, and he’s winning. Remember the time he told me that I badly needed botox? The guy is a lunatic.’
Jay was barefoot, wearing neon orange basketball shorts and a yellow t-shirt. His scraggly blonde hair touched his shoulders and he had a whisper of stubble.
‘Love the outfit, Jay.’
He shrugged. ‘Who’s looking at me?’ Jay was sick of Cat and I making him over like he was our own American Doll. He had been a good sport at one stage, agreeing to skinny jeans and loafers and even one trip to the beauty salon for an eyebrow wax – his screams could be heard in five counties – but he always slipped back into his scruffy sports gear.
‘Only the bazillions of people you game with, for starters.’
‘I don’t care what they think.’
‘You should, I bet there’s lots of eligible men on there. Enzo was asking after you, by the way.’
He grunted but I saw a flicker, I saw something. All may not be lost.
‘He broke up with Marco – he’s single.’
Jay stood over the magazines, plate in hand, scooping up the potatoes. He used his elbow to spread the magazines out and then he spotted the news magazine.
‘News?’ He looked up at me in fake surprise. ‘There hasn’t been one of these in this house since the previous tenants two hundred years ago. And I definitely didn’t think you’d be the one to bring it in.’
I flicked the kettle on and rummaged in the cupboard for my favourite mug. ‘Ha ha, you’re not funny. I got it for Cat, I th
ought she’d like the stuff about RealTime and the Waist Watch.’
He laid the magazine out flat, scanning down through it. ‘This is such a load of shit, they only tell half the story,’ he muttered to himself.
‘Have you seen my mug?’ I shouted from inside the cupboard.
‘The one with the guy in Speedos? It’s on the draining board.’
I made two cups of tea, knowing that the minute Jay saw mine he would want one too. I slid a cup in front of him and rummaged on the island for some of the chocolate I’d bought.
‘It’s one-sided journalism, it’s bullshit. They don’t even mention that there were riots in Meath last night.’ He peered up at me, his blue eyes questioning.
‘Riots? For what?’ I stirred my tea, mildly interested.
‘Luddites mainly.’
‘Luddites? Hmm, and they are?’ I picked up one of the magazines and started to skim through it.
‘Seriously?’
‘What? Like, I’ve heard the word Luddite, obviously, I just don’t know what it is.’
‘Where do you get your news from?’ He sounded almost angry.
I shrugged. ‘I don’t get news, my BBest feed is filtered for entertainment and celebrity gossip. I don’t really care about the news.’
‘Well, the Luddite stuff wouldn’t pop up on your BBest feed anyway. The Luddites are an anti-technology group.’ Jay spoke deliberately slowly, like he was talking to a dimwit.
‘Aha,’ I said, feeling smart and self-righteous. ‘I have heard of them, they’re the ones who want us to go back to the Dark Ages, get rid of electricity, communicate with smoke signals.’ I was laughing, making a stupid joke and expecting Jay to laugh with me, but he didn’t.
‘That’s not really what they’re about. They think that a lot of big technology decisions should be made democratically and not just imposed on everyone by corporations. They think that big companies put money above people. Some of their protests can get pretty violent.’ Jay’s face was flushed and he was waving his hands around animatedly. I hadn’t ever seen him so passionate. He slid his phone across the kitchen island to me and I swiped through some photographs and a video. They were all taken at night, the shots illuminated by flashes. Angry scenes of guards in full riot gear waving batons and clear plastic shields. The protesters were shoved and kicked and struck down by heavy blows across their shoulders. There were plumes of blue smoke evaporating into the air. It looked like a war scene except that the protesters were not fighting back, they were mainly seated cross-legged on the street, brandishing handwritten signs saying things like FREEDOM, YOU ARE BBEST PAWNS, I AM NOT A NUMBER, LET ME DECIDE.
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