Mile High Guy

by Marisa Mackle

  With the light still on.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Dad is playing the piano.

  He’s playing The Blue Danube and has been playing it now for the last six months.

  His version is still awful.

  Dad retired six months ago. And took up the piano the next day. We’ve been paying the price ever since. My father, bless him, had all these great plans. He was going to take up hill-walking and cooking, gardening and fishing. And the piano of course. The hill-walking dream ended after his first excursion. The poor man got lost in the Dublin mountains and they had to send out the rescue service to look for him. He was on TV and everything afterwards, but the experience put him off for life.

  Dreams of being a whiz in the kitchen were shattered when he tried to make a dessert called an upside-down cake from an old cookbook. The photo on the cookbook was lovely but Dad’s version looked nothing like the photo and we all got sick after eating it. Even the dog did. He is no longer my dad’s most loyal friend.

  When Dad took up fishing he spent a fortune on state-of-the-art equipment and bought brightly-coloured baits to lure the fish. Then he took himself off to Connemara to fish with another retired gentleman. Unfortunately though, a great big fish took his expensive, gaudy-looking bait and swam away with it.

  I felt sorry for him at the time. All those years when Dad worked in his insurance company, he dreamed of doing fun things one day. Then when he got the time, he still couldn’t do any of them. Poor Dad. At least he’s still sticking at the piano. Even though it’s pretty torturous for the rest of us.

  I get out of bed and head down to the kitchen. Dad has his head bent over the piano and is banging it with just two fingers. To annoy him I start singing The Blue Danube off-key. I’m sure Strauss is turning in his grave.

  ‘There’s no food in the house,’ Dad tells me. ‘I have to go out to the shops and get something for the tea.’

  ‘Okay.’ I answer. I am not really listening. I am quite glad he’s going out to give me some peace so that I can write my script.

  My mum has already gone out to play tennis today with her three friends who do nothing but talk about their offspring, weddings, children and grandchildren. They often ask my mum if there’s any sign of me getting married, which she doesn’t particularly like. I tell her to take no notice. Tell them to mind their own business, I say. But Mum won’t. She’s dying for me to get engaged to Tim. Or anyone at this stage. I’ve a horrible feeling she has a mother-of-the bride dress picked out and Dad has already written a wedding speech. It’s probably gathering dust in the garage along with the gardening tools he never uses.

  Anyway it’s great to have the house to myself for once. I sit down at the computer all set to write. I feel very businesslike. Switching on the computer I wait for inspiration to strike.

  And wait . . . and wait . . .

  Then I stand up.

  I need a strong black coffee. Now. After all no serious writer can work without coffee. What was I thinking? As I wait for the kettle to boil I sit back down again. Eventually I start writing SCENE ONE. I feel a rush of blood to the head as my fingers tap the keyboard. The words flow and keep flowing. God, I wish I’d started writing my script a long time ago.

  At scene two I’m stuck.

  Again.

  I stare at the screen blankly and try to concentrate. Something is missing. I really need a cat. No serious writer writes without a sleeping cat nearby.

  Right. No more excuses. I seriously am going to write all day today because I don’t want to end up like all those people out there who always say they’d like to be a writer, if only they could find the time. Those same people, unsurprisingly, are the very ones who find time to sit in the pub, watch endless TV, gossip for hours and go for long drives in the country. I admit that up until now, I’ve been one of those people. Not any more though. Today I turn over a new leaf.

  I write SCENE TWO. It looks impressive on the computer screen. But what happens next? Suddenly I’m away again as my imagination takes over. Characters come to life as I write about a violent father and his terrified young son. The father is extremely drunk and he’s accusing his son of stealing money from under his bed. The son is cowering in the corner and the father undoes his thick leather belt. The child begs for mercy . . .

  Oh God, I’m not enjoying this at all. It’s horrible and brings back memories of when I was in school and sometimes the headmaster would cane me. That was before corporal punishment was banned. I feel kind of gloomy and depressed writing this stuff but I reckon the film will be huge, especially in the States. Because Americans love all this kind of stuff, don’t they? I mean Frank McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes was a roaring success and that can’t have been much fun to write.

  I press on. The father is yelling at his son and using a lot of F words and I’m actually beginning to feel downcast. The more I write the gloomier I become. By the time the drunken father starts beating the living daylights out of his son the tears are welling inside my eyes. And when the boy cries out in terror, they start streaming down my cheeks.

  Enough. God, I can’t stand writing this kind of depressing stuff. I wish I could write something funny instead. Something that would have cinemagoers rolling around in their seats. If I keep writing this morbid stuff, it’s going to destroy me. Oh God, what am I going to do? Isn’t there some easier way? How does one become funny?

  I’m trying to think of the last really funny film I saw. I can’t think of one. Tim finds most films funny, especially if they’re crude, for instance that vulgar scene in American Pie with the apple tart? He squealed like a pig when that scene was shown. When Tim thinks something is hilarious he squeals. I forgot to mention that earlier. He squeals and his whole body starts to shake.

  Still at least he sticks around unlike the rest of my exes. In school I could never get anyone to like me even though most of my friends had boyfriends.

  People used to call me ‘Pudgy’. I blame my mother. You see my mum wasn’t the type of mother who would be making nice sandwiches for my lunch or anything. No. God, didn’t you just envy the kids in school who arrived with a packed lunch? All nice and neat in a box accompanied by a carton of orange juice. But there was no chance of me getting anything as sophisticated as that. So every morning Dad would throw some money at me to buy something in the school shop. But all they ever sold in the shop was chocolate, crisps and apples. Because I didn’t like apples, I just bought crisps and chocolate every single day. No wonder my weight ballooned.

  I often think it’s funny when they ask in TV commercials ‘Remember that flat stomach you had as a teenager?’ I think it goes something like that anyway. Well, the point is no, I don’t remember. I never remember even being able to see my feet when I was in school.

  Anyway, only when I went to college, did I start to look after my figure. I was kind of too broke to be spending money on food anyway. Any money I had was spent on booze. I used to join all these societies just because they held party nights where pints were only a quid; even if they were served in horrible plastic cups. People look back on their student days as being the best days of their lives but I dunno about that. I love the fact that now I can afford to drink beer from a proper glass and not have to drink warm wine in some student flat. Now, that’s what I call luxury.

  That’s why it’s the ultimate treat being upgraded to first class when I fly to the States. Because I get to drink wine from a Waterford Crystal glass. Imagine that.

  Can you believe I’m off daydreaming again? This is ridiculous. I’m supposed to be concentrating on my script.

  Maybe I’ll just start on the next scene and then come back to this one. Or perhaps I’ll just jack in this screenwriting business altogether and write a novel instead. It’d be pretty cool to be a novelist, wouldn’t it? I could just sit in bed all day with a laptop eating sweets and thinking up little stories. Then again, how long does it take to write a book and would I really be able to write say, a hundred thousand words
? Suddenly I think it’s not such a great idea. I mean there are so many books out there, wouldn’t my little book look lost on the shelves? And I’d have to think of a completely original plot as well. There are already so many books about middle-aged women whose husbands leave them. And then those women spend the rest of the book losing weight, joining a gym and falling in love with the hunky gym instructor. I’m not sure if I want to write that kind of book to be honest.

  OK, sod the novel; I’m going to persist with my script.

  ‘Morning.’

  Oh no, it’s Dad. He’s back early. Please God he won’t want to use the computer.

  ‘Morning Dad,’ I reply, hoping I look so busy he won’t want to disturb me. I notice he’s got the Irish Times under his arm, which should keep him occupied for a while.

  ‘Are you writing?’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘I’m writing my screenplay. I’m only on the second scene but it’s going well. It’s about a boy whose father regularly beats him but then he escapes from his violent home and goes to England and works really hard and becomes really wealthy and comes home and builds a mansion for his poor suffering mother.’

  I wait for Dad to reply but he doesn’t. By the way do you happen to have a father like that? One who simply doesn’t reply when you speak? Or is it just me? It’s very annoying, isn’t it? Sometimes I think I’m talking to myself and have to actually physically turn around to make sure he’s still in the room.

  Dad’s made some real coffee so I decide to join him for one but he’s already engrossed in the paper. I try to glance at what he’s reading and as I do so my heart does a quick double flip. You won’t believe whose picture is taking up a full half-page. Yes, it’s the delightful Adam Kirrane. Janey. That’s twice in one week I’ve seen him in the papers.

  Everywhere I turn his striking face is looking out at me. There’s just no escaping it.

  I’m looking for Dad’s reaction as he skims through the interview. But I get none. After a few minutes he turns the page. Soap stars hold little interest for someone like my father. Anyway he doesn’t really read the newspapers, he just pretends to.

  I need to get out of the house. It’s suffocating. Perhaps I’m suffering from writer’s block. If I am, it’s a positive sign. It means I’m a real writer, doesn’t it?

  I’d like a shower but Mum’s already hogged the bathroom. God, I didn’t even hear her come in from tennis. At times like this I wish I were living elsewhere. Sometimes I’m just so thankful I’m an air hostess and that for a couple of nights a week I get to have the luxury of my own bathroom.

  When I first joined the airline, I wondered what happened on overnights. I wondered if the cabin crew had to share rooms. Did you get to choose whom you’d share with or could you end up sharing with an old cow that snored? So you can imagine my delight when I discovered we had our own huge hotel bedrooms, all to ourselves.

  I’m waiting in my room for my mother to vacate the bathroom when I hear a beep beep on my mobile phone. I check who has sent me a message. Adam Kirrane’s name flashes. Oh My God. OHMIGOD. OK, calm down Katie. Deep breath. I press the digits excitedly. IN TOWN. WANNA MEET UP?

  I stare at the text, my right hand gripping the mobile. This is just brilliant, isn’t it?

  This is a fairy tale and I’m bang in the middle of it. I haven’t been this enthusiastic about anything since I fell in love with Paul all those years back in UCD.

  I’m wondering what I should do. Should I text him back straight away and say I’d love to hook up? Then again, would it be better to wait a while. Play it cool. As if I’m inundated with requests from TV stars asking me out. Oh God, what are the rules and how do I play them?

  I’m really glad I didn’t ring back that time now. It’s always best not to get too excited. Of course you’ll often meet women who say it’s only fair to meet men half way. That they shouldn’t be expected to do all the chasing. Isn’t it funny though that the well-meaning women who dish out that advice are usually single? Not being flippant or anything but if you were sick you’d go to a doctor, if you wanted justice you’d talk to a lawyer, and in my opinion, if you want advice on how to get a man, it’s probably best to ask a woman who already has one!

  Anyway, what am I doing hanging out with Dad when I should be in town? One never met a man by hanging out with one’s parents! I’m off to Boston tomorrow, by the way, but haven’t packed. But there’s nothing new about that. Of course I hate packing but unpacking is worse. There’s nothing worse than unpacking and Mum always gives out about the stink from my suitcase. I try to explain that it’s just the company I keep on my trips. I have to be sociable, I protest. I can’t just ignore my colleagues and retreat to my bedroom while they go off smoking, dancing and drinking, can I?

  She doesn’t accept my excuses but I don’t get worked up about it any more. I’m too old for that now. Sorry, I’d actually forgotten to tell you my age earlier. I’m twenty-seven but look younger. So men in bars tell me anyway. My birthday was only six weeks ago but my mother still shouts, ‘You’re nearly twenty-eight!’ every time we argue about me not being the perfect daughter. I’m used to it. When I was nineteen she used to yell, ‘You’re nearly twenty, blah, blah, blah’ and so on. I don’t quite know what her point is but I refuse to take it to heart. After all, she’s my mother. If she can’t figure out when exactly she gave birth to me, then what hope has anyone else?

  My mobile rings suddenly, making me jump. God, why am I always so surprised when anyone rings my mobile? I always think it must be fairly important when they do. After all, it’s just far simpler to send a text, isn’t it?

  It’s a private number. I wonder could Adam be ringing in disguise? I don’t like answering private numbers. What have these people got to hide?

  Actually it’s my friend Patricia from school. She wants to organise a get-together. Drinks maybe? Am I free this evening? Am I free? Not on your nelly. I’m going out with Adam Kirrane this evening. I’d love to tell her this but I don’t because (a) she probably wouldn’t believe me and (b) even if she did, she probably wouldn’t think Adam a suitable date.

  Patricia, you see, has made somewhat of a career out of finding a suitable man. She finds lots that are suitable and always seems to be dating someone. But the dates never really lead to anything long-term. I don’t know why. She’s a pretty girl and nine months older than me. She doesn’t smoke or drink, drives everywhere and her apartment is so neat and tidy. She even stacks her books in alphabetical order. Personally I think she’d make any man a great wife but obviously they don’t feel the same way. I wonder what she’s doing wrong. Maybe she’s like a really bad kisser or something.

  Anyway I know I’m single too (if you don’t count Tim) but that’s my choice – kind of. I mean I genuinely can’t see myself married before I’m in my mid-thirties. I’ve this fear that I’ll marry someone and then a few months later meet someone who might have been THE ONE. And just think how sorry I’d be then. So I’ve been holding out for someone special. I just didn’t want to make do with the first man who happened to come along. And well . . . now that I’ve a date tonight with Adam Kirrane . . . I think it was probably worth the wait.

  On the subject of Adam, I’d better get off the phone to Patricia and ring him. ‘Yes, it’s just that time of the month Pat, you know yourself, I feel dreadful, absolutely drained, but would love to meet next week for a cappuccino. Love it. Really looking forward to it. Bye.’

  OK, now that she’s off the phone I’d better ring Adam. No, I’ll text him instead. If I text him he won’t be able to hear my voice shake. I have a horrible phone voice anyway. It sounds high-pitched and childish. You should hear my greeting message on my mobile – I sound hysterical. I’d love to leave a cheerful greeting like ‘Hi this is Katie and I can’t come to the phone right now but please leave a message’. Then again, would you trust someone who sounds so cheerful when they’re home alone talking into their phone?

  I stare at the phone. I have t
o think carefully about the message I’m writing. After all, I don’t want to sound too enthusiastic. Then again, I don’t want to sound too casual either. In case he changes his mind and asks somebody else out.

  Okay, here goes. GR8 2 HR FM U. WUD LUV 2 MEET L8R. WOT TIME?

  I press SEND quickly before I can change my mind.

  There. Sent. He can’t read too much into that message, can he? I wait five minutes. There isn’t a peep from my mobile. Oh God, he isn’t going to answer is he? He’s probably deleted my message. He’s probably laughing at my eager reply. But it wasn’t that eager was it? I mean, it wasn’t rude but it wasn’t exactly an ‘I scream of desperation’ kind of text either. I’m kicking myself. He probably sent a group message. He probably got dozens of replies. I’m kicking myself. Who the hell does he think he is? I’m going to ring Patricia back and tell her I’ve changed my mind and that in fact, I’d love a sad girlie night out.

  Maybe Patricia and I could get drunk and give out hell about men over a bottle of wine. After all, that’s what we normally do and it’s so much fun. Actually it isn’t fun. Let’s be honest here. It’s pathetic. Suddenly I don’t want to be single anymore.

  My phone rings just as I’m about to ring Patricia back.

  ‘Hey gorgeous,’ comes the deep voice. I swoon. My anger immediately evaporates.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, delighted.

  That was quick wasn’t it? He must be keen. There’s no way he could have texted a dozen other women. I must stop being so suspicious.

  ‘So what do you have in mind for tonight?’

  ‘Nothing I could describe on the phone,’ I say saucily. Christ, when did I become such a wannabe minx?

  ‘You decide,’ he says in that deep, sexy voice that millions of women religiously tune into hear every week.

  ‘No, you decide,’ I insist. Of course I’m only insisting because I can’t think of anywhere exciting enough. After all, I can hardly bring an A-list star to my local pub, can I? Hang on though, that wouldn’t be a bad idea. Hmm. Why didn’t I think of it before? Come to think of it I would LOVE to bring Adam to my local. Imagine their faces. All those people whom I know to see. People that know me to see too but never bother to say hello. Then again, a guy like Adam isn’t seriously going to show up at my local pub, is he now? No, he’ll just think I’m using him to show off to my neighbours. Which I wouldn’t be. Of course not. Well, not really.