Mile High Guy

by Marisa Mackle

  But I guess a TV star like Adam would like to hang out in Lillies or Krystle. Not in my local haunt. I reckon he is the type of guy who’d be whisked through the door and escorted up to some VIP area or VVIP area – whatever that means these days.

  ‘I know a little pub in Wicklow,’ Adam says suddenly. ‘It’s a lovely traditional old-school type pub with no loud music or pretence.’

  Am I hearing things? Is this really Adam Kirrane speaking? Adam, who flies first class everywhere, is chauffeured around to all the best London parties, presumably, and spends half his life on TV? He doesn’t like VIP bars? Well, what do you know? How wrong can you be about someone?

  ‘That sounds great,’ I say trying not to squeak like an over excited teenager. ‘Er . . . what time will we meet up?’

  Of course what I really want to ask is what time he’d like to pick me up at but I don’t want to come across all diva like. Also, I think it’s unfair to ask someone to be the designated driver for the night. And I don’t particularly want him to stay sober all night anyway in case I get locked and end up making a fool of myself.

  ‘Where do you live? I’ll pick you up.’

  Okay. Relax. Adam is offering to pick me up. Fine, no that’s fine really. I mean it’s not like nobody has ever picked me up before, although TV stars usually don’t, I have to admit. However, I’m now thinking I’m maybe a bit too old to be living with my parents. Maybe it’s time I moved out, you know?

  I give Adam my address.

  He says he’ll pick me up at seven thirty.

  I make a mental note to remind myself to be ready and looking out the window for Adam’s car so I can rush outside. The last thing I want is Mum asking him what he does for a living. She wouldn’t approve in a million years. Actors end up in the gutter, according to Mum, along with poets, musicians and everybody else who basically doesn’t wear a suit and tie.

  I put down the phone and wait for my breathing to return to normal. Oh my God, can you believe THE Adam Kirrane is going to be calling around to my humble home? I wonder should I get a disposable camera? And get someone to snap him leaving my home, so that if he ever breaks my heart at least I could sell the photo to the papers and make a bit of money? Okay, that’s just me being silly. I would seriously never sell my story or a photo of the two of us. No. I know some girls do but they’re not exactly respectable girls, are they? They’re usually cheap-looking things who appear in the tabloids dressed in frilly underwear with their mouth slightly parted under some dubious headline like ‘WE DID IT SIXTEEN TIMES’. Sixteen times! Sure where would you get the energy? Those women are usually peroxide blonde and work either in a bar or in glamour modelling, although sometimes, embarrassingly enough, they are air hostesses with some low-budget airline. Not exactly great for the global image of our profession, is it?

  But seriously, would you really believe those people do it sixteen times in a row? I mean, do they count? Thank God, tabloids are forbidden in our house anyway. My dad can’t stand them. Anyway I don’t like reading how so-and-so was an animal in the sack and all that. It’s a bit yuck, isn’t it? The only reason I read this rubbish is because passengers often leave the daily rags on board the plane. And I flick through them when I’m having my crew lunch. Out of boredom really. Don’t believe me?

  OK then, I admit it. I love the tabloids! Happy now? I wonder has anybody ever done a ‘kiss and tell’ on Adam. Hopefully not. After all it’s usually footballers and pop stars who get bad things written about them. I haven’t seen too many actors caught up in those kind of scandals. I suppose they’re too busy learning their lines and going to auditions. I must start reading The Mirror again. I love those 3am girls. I reckon they’d be fun on a night out.

  Okay, okay, I’d better get moving. I am going out on a date with one of the world’s biggest hunks and instead I am imagining a night out with three women. Get real here, time is not on my side. First things first. What the hell am I going to wear? I wander upstairs and open my wardrobe door already knowing I’ll find nothing remotely suitable.

  I also know I’m going to try on ten different outfits before choosing the same thing I always wear out, which is basically a black polo neck (classy, warm and hides the dirt) and jeans because they are Miss Sixty and flattering. They make me look like I haven’t made any effort and that’s essential for tonight. I do not, absolutely not, want to look like I’ve made any kind of effort. I am sure all the girls Adam takes out make an enormous effort. Like wearing lots of make-up and going to the hairdresser. Speaking of hairdressers, I catch a glance at my own wig in the mirror and think I’d better ring Peter Mark now!

  An hour later I’m sitting with my head back in the basin and a pain in my neck. Janice, my favourite hairdresser, is asking me if I’m going anywhere nice.

  ‘I’m going on a date,’ I tell her.

  Janice looks surprised. Well, that’s not that surprising really. After all, for the four years I’ve been coming here the reply has always been ‘Oh, you know Janice, just a night out with the girls.’

  She raises an eyebrow but I wish she wouldn’t look quite so flabbergasted.

  ‘Anyone nice?’ she asks.

  ‘Well, I hope he’s nice,’ I grin. ‘Obviously.’

  I’d love to tell her. I mean I’d love to announce to the whole salon who I’m really meeting later on but I’m sure nobody would believe me. I feel bad for not telling Janice though considering I probably know more about her fellow than his own mother does. But I mustn’t tell anyone yet. You see if it doesn’t work out, I don’t want people to be asking me all about him for the rest of my days. How annoying would that be?

  ‘Nice and straight?’ Janice asks, attacking my head with a comb.

  ‘Yes,’ I nod. Janice always asks if I want my hair nice and straight.

  ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

  ‘Oh, please, yes,’ I nod enthusiastically. ‘Black.’

  ‘And a magazine?’

  ‘A paper please. The Mirror if you have it.’

  I’m looking forward to reading about what those 3am girls have been up to. What an exciting life they must lead. Schmoozing with A-list stars as part of their job. Wow! I wouldn’t like to get on the wrong side of them though. Dear God, no.

  Janice disappears and returns with a huge mug of strong coffee, The Mirror and the Evening Herald. Ah bliss. I just love a trip to the hairdresser, don’t you? It’s great to be pampered. If I were rich I’d go to the hairdresser every single day.

  ‘Will I put a bit of leave-in conditioner in your hair? It’s very dry.’

  I don’t answer. At first. Instead my eyes are glued to a picture of Adam. It’s a huge picture and he looks so stunning. He’s smiling, revealing picture perfect teeth and he’s wearing a tux. His necktie is loose and he’s sitting on the ground with his legs crossed.

  ‘A bit of leave-in . . . God, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

  ‘Ye . . . es. I’d like just a little bit of er . . . leave-in conditioner. Not too much though.’

  ‘He’s sleeping with your one, Jane.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your man. Nick.’

  ‘Nick?’

  ‘Your man.’ Janice points her comb at the picture.

  I suddenly remember that Adam’s screen name is Nick. And that Jane is obviously sleeping with Nick and not Adam. Which is a relief really. If Adam was sleeping with someone called Jane in real life, obviously I wouldn’t be too happy.

  ‘Do you watch the show?’ I ask fishing for info.

  ‘Do I watch it?’ Janice’s eyes widen. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m a complete addict. My fella hates it though. He hates Nick. I just think he’s jealous though.’

  ‘What’s Adam, I mean Nick, like?’

  ‘Oh, he’s a bastard,’ Janice’s comb slices through my wet hair. ‘But you know a lovable bastard. He gets away with stuff ’cos he’s good-looking. You should watch it.’

  I agree. I should.

  ‘I wonder
if he’s like that in real life though?’

  Janice looks at me oddly in the mirror; as if she’s never considered for a minute what he might be like in real life.

  ‘You wouldn’t know, would you?’

  ‘I wonder what it’s like to be an actor?’ I ask dreamily.

  ‘Oh I dunno, I’ve never thought about it,’ Janice laughs.

  I’ve left the hairdresser now and I’m lying on a sunbed in a tanning salon. People think it’s strange that I use sunbeds because I never go mahogany brown. I just get a bit red in the face and acquire a few more freckles but sunbeds make me feel like I’ve been out in the sun. And I feel warm for the rest of the day. So that’s my excuse. Of course I’m not telling people to hit the nearest sunbed as a way to keep warm though, as that would be ridiculous.

  While I’m here in the salon I’m wondering should I get a facial. But then I think I’d better not in case my skin breaks out in spots before tonight’s big date. It’s happened before.

  I’d love to buy something new to wear, but sure there’s no point, is there? I’ll wait till my next trip to New York where I can pick up something in Lord and Taylor. That’s my favourite shop in the whole world. Did you know that Lord and Taylor on Fifth Avenue has a whole floor for petite people like me? I love the clothes there and love the way I don’t have to get the legs of everything taken up. Little people like me shouldn’t be discriminated against.

  Yes, I’m small, which I used to find really annoying when I was younger. Because it didn’t help me get into bars and clubs. But now I kind of like being small because people think I look younger. I’m not tiny obviously because I had to be five foot three to be an airhostess. I’m exactly that but was terrified going in to be measured for the job. I also had to have an eye test because good eyesight is required (God knows, I’ve never been able to figure out why!) and I’m as blind as a bat. However, I cheated and kept my contact lenses in throughout the eye test. Well, I was desperate to get the job!

  I’m off the sunbed now and feeling hot. I wipe my sweat off the machine out of consideration for the next customer, get dressed and head outside. I make my way up to O’Connell Street to get the bus home. I don’t drive. I mean I know how to drive but I just don’t. I can never understand these people who amuse themselves by ‘going for a long drive’. Driving in the city terrifies me. So I’m waiting for the bus and suddenly it’s getting really dark and I’m having a panic attack in case it rains and my blow-dried hair goes all frizzy.

  All I got was a blow dry. Nice and straight. I’ll need to get the roots done again next week, which is a pain. I get them done once a fortnight. In fact sometimes I feel I’m only working to pay for my hair.

  Oh great, here’s a bus. I hop on quickly and go upstairs to get a seat at the top at the very back. The reason I like sitting at the very back is because I’m hoping nobody will sit beside me. Haven’t you ever noticed that people on the top of a bus never go right down to the back? Unless they happen to be annoying kids.

  I think it’s because people don’t like to draw attention to themselves. I mean if you walk down to the back of the bus, and find no free seat, you have to walk away again and everybody stares – very embarrassing.

  My phone rings. Oh no. I hate talking on the bus. Adam’s number is flashing and I kind of freeze. Oh God, what’ll I do? I can’t answer and tell him I’m sitting on the 46A. How uncool would that be? Then again, I can’t let it ring and ring and annoy the hell out of the other passengers. So I answer tentatively.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Katie?’

  ‘YeeSSS,’ I answer a bit too enthusiastically. My sister once told me I sound like a funeral undertaker when answering the phone, so now I make a huge phoney effort to be cheerful.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Well I’m out with friends actually. Just having coffee . . . and a bit of a laugh, haha.’

  I notice a couple of people on the bus turning around. They either think that (a) I’m completely mental or (b) simply a liar. But I don’t care. It’s not like I’m ever going to see any of them again.

  ‘Are you in town?’

  ‘Yes, yes I am. That’s right.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Em . . .’ I try to think of somewhere trendy. ‘Ba Mizu, it’s just behind the Powerscourt Townhouse centre. Do you know it? It’s very nice, very relaxing.’

  ‘Hey, would you believe I’m just around the corner from there? You don’t fancy meeting up now instead of later, do you?’

  No I don’t. God, no.

  ‘Oh okay, sure.’ Oh Jesus, what the hell am I saying? Too late. ‘Sure,’ I repeat myself as I begin to feel my head spin.

  I press the red button on the bus to let the driver know I’m getting out and then make my way downstairs, push past the crammed, irritable commuters and get off the bus. Right. I’m now on Baggot Street and have to hail a taxi to get me back into town to meet Adam. Don’t call me a walkover or anything. I mean I know how to play hard to get; I just don’t have time to play right now.

  I stand like an idiot at Baggot Street Bridge with my hand outstretched. God, when is there a bloody taxi when you need one? Thankfully one stops eventually. I look at my watch and wonder what I’m going to tell Adam. I know, I’ll tell him I snagged my tights and just popped out to buy a new pair. Then I remember I’m wearing jeans and swiftly change my mind. I’ll tell him nothing, I decide. Men like mysterious women. I read that somewhere. From now on I’m going to be mysterious.

  Right. The taxi is pulling up outside Ba Mizu. I sneak a quick look in my portable mirror. I look okay, I think, but it’s dark so I’m not sure. I take a deep breath, pay Mr Taxi man and get out of the taxi.

  ‘Good luck,’ the taxi driver shouts.

  Is he trying to tell me something?

  I arrive in Ba Mizu but there’s no sign of Adam. Phew! That was close. Well thank God for that. A few people look up as they always do when a lone woman walks into a bar. I glare back and they look away. People who stare are just so rude.

  I sit at the bar counter so that Adam will have no problem spotting me when he arrives in. I wonder will I recognise him straight away. Will anyone else recognise him? After all, I don’t really want the paparazzi after us, haha. Maybe I should be wearing dark sunglasses!

  I order myself a glass of wine.

  ‘Anything else?’ asks the girl behind the bar.

  ‘Er . . . no thanks.’

  There’s no point ordering for Adam, is there? I mean I don’t know what he drinks. I wonder is he a Guinness man? It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? I pay for my drink and hope the girl behind the bar isn’t feeling sorry for me. I mean it’s not like I’ve been stood up or anything. Not yet, haha. Actually that’s not a very comforting thought. Not nice at all. Being stood up is never great. It happened to me once. But only just the once, thank God.

  I think I’ve time to tell you very quickly. A friend of mine threw a party for me a few years ago. She did it as an excuse to meet my new man. All my friends had been complaining about my mysterious man whom they had never met. Jack, you see, was a private man. Very private indeed. I had never been to his house as he lived in Kildare, so it wasn’t really convenient. Especially since he lived with his wheelchair-bound sister who wasn’t used to visitors – apparently. Because of her, Jack could never stay the full night with me either. I was sharing a flat with friends in town at the time. But Jack’s sister worried about him so much. I never actually spoke to her of course, because Jack never got around to giving me his home number. And besides, it never occurred to me to ask for it.

  Anyway my friends all thought my relationship with Jack was all very suspicious. I mean, he didn’t even turn up to the annual cabin crew ball and I was forced to go alone. Jack’s sister had supposedly come down with the ’flu on top of everything else. I was more upset than angry. After all, how could I get angry with somebody who was so kind and considerate? He was one in a million and the only sibling in his fa
mily willing to look after his poor sister. The rest of them were selfish gits. So he told me anyway. I remember once asking him if he’d consider getting in a carer, but he’d looked at me like it was the most outrageous suggestion he’d ever heard. I felt terrible afterwards and never again complained. Or hassled him to come out with me again on a Saturday night.

  Then one night, friends of mine threw a party and invited Jack and myself. At this stage I think they were beginning to question his existence. Not that I blamed them; sometimes I used to question it myself.

  Jack and I were great together in the physical sense. He was an expert lover and even had me doing strange things, like spending more on lingerie than I would on a coat. Up until then I’d been a real Marks ‘n’ Sparks kind of woman. I loved fancy underwear but never saw the point in breaking the bank to deck myself out in frills and lace. If nobody was going to see my expensive undies, then what was the point?

  He used to take me to quiet little pubs off the beaten track and loved weekends away. Especially weekends abroad. The further away the better in fact. But he was never keen on meeting me in Dublin for dinner. Or going to a club with myself and my friends. He was definitely more of a take-away, video and then straight-to-bed kind of man, although he always got out of the bed in the middle of the night to drive home to check on his sister, which I privately found intensely annoying.

  But something bothered me about Jack. I mean, one minute he’d be all over me, telling me I turned him on like no other woman, but the minute I showed any real affection or casually tried to mention the future, he completely clammed up.

  Now I’m not a lovey dovey freak, but I would have liked some reassurance that I was more than simply a convenient bed partner. So one day I just put my foot down, giving him an ultimatum. I said he was either going to meet my friends, or I was breaking it off. It was just an idle threat really, as I’d no intention of dumping Jack, but surprisingly he took it all very seriously and agreed.