Take a Look At Me Now

by Anita Notaro

  ‘And here, Tommo, move my car and be quick about it.’ Richard threw the keys in his general direction and prepared to do battle with what was left of the day.

  It was three o’clock before he got anything more than a glass of OJ and by that time his head was hanging off. Several of the regulars wanted to know why they hadn’t been open early as usual and Dolores, the snooty HR manager from the big software company next door, moaned that she’d had to take clients elsewhere for breakfast.

  ‘Not good enough, Richard.’ She flicked back her blonde hair and wagged her finger at him. ‘We’re your loyal customers, don’t forget that. You need us.’

  I need you like a dose of the clap, Richard thought. She’d never forgiven him since he’d rejected her advances in the pub one night last Christmas. Hell, he’d left the place without finishing his pint, and that said it all. She was a bow-wow.

  ‘Sorry, Dolores, won’t happen again.’ He forced a smile. ‘Have a Danish on me, why don’t you?’ Fat cow, he thought as he handed her the pastry.

  He had to prise the coffee cup out of the hand of a pensioner at ten past five, because he couldn’t cope for a second longer. His eyes were stinging and even hangover food – along with a sachet of Get Up And GO, courtesy of Lucy – hadn’t helped him move one bit faster.

  He put down the roof of his Audi on the way home in an effort to blow away the fuzz. It took him ten minutes before his shoulders relaxed.

  He rang another of his mates. ‘Hey, Jim, fancy a quick pint?’

  ‘Yeah, suits me. I’ve had one helluva day.’

  Richard laughed. Jim was wrecked too, it seemed. ‘See you in ten. What? No, I’m on the way. I’ll get them in.’ He hung up and sighed. Christ, what a day. And he had Maggie to face in the morning. Richard rubbed his forehead. Still, a pint would help ease the pain.

  His phone rang.

  ‘Hi, Daisy, what’s up?’ he asked gingerly, knowing he’d have to be careful. His fiancée was razor sharp when it came to his gallivanting, as she called it. She grilled him about the night before.

  ‘No, nothing . . . We went to a couple of gigs, that’s all . . . No, I was home early enough. What did you do? How’s your mother? No, babe, I couldn’t face it. You go . . . No, I haven’t forgotten the weekend. It’s all organized . . . OK, hon . . . Yeah, I’m gonna hit the sack . . . OK, talk to you then . . . You too, babe.’ He flicked the phone shut.

  Christ, he’d have to watch himself. Daisy was getting suspicious. It was too much to think about just now. He turned on the radio for some light relief.

  ‘The young woman who drowned last night in Dublin has still not . . .’ the newsreader droned.

  ‘No, thank you.’ Richard twiddled the dial until he found some mind-numbing sounds.

  4

  JAMES AND TAMSIN

  AS SOON AS he opened the front door James knew something was wrong. It was too quiet. Even in their childless, coffee and cream home there were normally dogs on the rampage and a TV or radio droning. At the very least there would be music. Tamsin adored music. He knew immediately that this silence could mean only one thing.

  ‘Anyone home?’ His voice sounded falsely bright. ‘Tamsin, darling, where are you?’ She came to greet him most evenings, was usually smiling no matter what the day had brought and almost always flanked by an animal or two.

  ‘I’m in here.’ The childlike voice was barely audible. His heart started thumping and he dropped his briefcase and threw his jacket off as he moved quickly towards the bedroom.

  She was curled up like the child she craved. Her copper hair was matted and her greeny-grey eyes were puffy. He gathered her to him and held her. They stayed that way for several minutes. Neither spoke. There was no need. Her sobs told him what he’d dreaded hearing. He rocked her gently and rubbed her back. ‘Shhh, it’s OK, baby. It’s OK.’

  ‘I just jjjjumped into the shower and I was washing myself and there was . . . blood.’ Her sobs were stronger and they jolted him too.

  ‘Did you ring the doctor?’

  ‘No, there’s no point, he can’t help, he’s done all he can.’ She looked up at him as if he could solve it somehow. ‘Oh James, what are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, love, but it’ll be OK, I promise.’ He kissed her head and held her as tight as he could, wishing he could change it for her. For them both.

  After a few more minutes he lifted her face to his and kissed her wet eyes. His own were damp.

  ‘Will I make us a cup of tea?’

  ‘Nnnnno. I don’t want you to leave me.’

  ‘Fine. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me and I’ll bring the duvet and you can curl up on the sofa while I make you some herbal tea?’

  She blew her nose and he stood her up gently and fastened the big white robe tightly around her, even though the underfloor heating ensured the house was always toasty. He half carried her towards the big squashy sofa, with the dogs and the duvet trailing behind.

  Levi and Wrangler, their two westies, fussed about her and even Pepe, their rescued greyhound, who was usually content to observe the family antics from the comfort of his spongy basket, padded over to be closer to her, as if he could sense her pain.

  James barely had time to tuck her in before the smaller dogs claimed their corner of her lap. Pepe sat at her feet and James looked away when he saw them, in case his grief upset her.

  He made cranberry and raspberry tea and handed it to her.

  They sat for a short while, each lost in their own thoughts, but with them that never lasted long. They shared everything.

  ‘I feel so empty.’ Her eyes were the saddest he’d ever seen them. ‘As well as that, I feel . . .’ She bit her lip. ‘I feel such a failure.’ She was crying again.

  ‘Darling, you’re not a failure.’ He had tears in his eyes too. ‘You’re the best in the world and I love you more than anything and you mustn’t torment yourself over this.’

  ‘I know what this means to you, too.’ She reached up to wipe his eyes with her hands and then pulled him to her. ‘I just feel . . . so awful. It hurts, James. It really hurts.’

  ‘I know, love, I know.’

  ‘What are we going to do now?’

  ‘I don’t know. That’s for tomorrow.’

  ‘I felt so good this time. I was sure I was . . . pregnant. I dunno, it just felt different.’

  ‘I know, you kept saying that. And I felt good too.’ He hadn’t told her just how much he was banking on it working this time. In his head he’d made all the plans for their happy-ever-after life.

  ‘I’m so sorry I don’t seem to be able to give you the baby you want so much.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ He held her face in his hands. ‘It just wasn’t meant to be this time, that’s all.’

  ‘But it’s the end, we both agreed that this was our last attempt.’

  He shushed her with his finger on her lips. ‘Don’t torment yourself about it tonight, there’s a good girl.’

  ‘You know what they said.’ She was crying again. ‘They told us that this was it, really . . .’

  ‘I know, I know,’ but he wasn’t ready to go there just yet.

  ‘Will we ever survive this?’

  ‘Yes, we will. We have each other and we’ve got through things before.’

  ‘Not like this, though.’ She pressed herself to him. ‘I love you, James. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  They sat and talked some more and he brought her some soup, which she barely touched.

  ‘Will I make more tea?’

  She shook her head. He poured himself a glass of wine and sat down beside her. She said nothing but James knew she didn’t really approve.

  Tamsin only ever had a drink on special occasions and it was one of the very few things on which they didn’t always see eye to eye. James liked an odd glass of wine, especially after a hard day, and he hated having to justify it to her. They argued about it
sometimes, particularly if he stopped off with the guys for one after work, which happened only rarely. James knew it would be easier if he didn’t drink at all, but he did it anyway and that surprised him. Tamsin’s father had been a heavy drinker and he knew that was part of it, but at times she could be bloody unreasonable and occasionally it irked him.

  He drained the glass and would have liked another. It had been a bitch of a day, even before all this. But instead he helped her back to bed and kissed her red eyes and washed her face with a warm flannel.

  ‘I haven’t cleaned my teeth.’

  ‘Let me see.’ He was teasing her. ‘I think they’ll survive till the morning. Unless you’ve been eating toffees?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘OK, snuggle in there.’ He fixed her pillows. ‘Will I make you some cocoa?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Coming up. Want a chocolate biscuit to go with it?’ He tried to encourage her to eat but she shook her head.

  By the time he came back she was fast asleep. He took a mouthful of the stuff and grimaced, then decided to leave it beside her for the moment. He ran his hand gently across her face and smoothed her hair. Even in rest she looked troubled and he kissed her hair and wished again that he could take away her pain.

  After cleaning his own teeth and splashing his face he wandered round the place for a bit. He really wanted to channel-hop mindlessly for an hour or two until he found one of those reality TV shows, but he knew Tamsin would reach for him, even in her sleep, and be disturbed if he wasn’t there. Yawning, he climbed into bed beside her, having locked up and made sure the monsters had peed.

  He turned on the TV, keeping the sound low. Even though he was exhausted James knew he wouldn’t sleep at this time of night. Too much pent-up energy and emotion. The nine o’clock news was just starting and he caught the tail end of a report on a drowning tragedy. A picture flashed on the screen and he wasn’t sure he’d seen it right. His heart started thumping as he waited for more information but the newsreader had moved on to a report about Iraq, so James quickly flicked to the other Irish channels to see if there was news on any of them. RTE 2 was showing sport and TV3 another of those American sitcoms. He flicked back and waited for the headlines at the end of the bulletin but there was no mention of the story again.

  Eventually he turned off the TV along with his bedside lamp and lay there in the darkness, wide awake. James knew he wouldn’t sleep until he found out for sure. He could still clearly see the picture that had been on screen a few minutes earlier. It looked awfully like Alison. Throwing back the duvet, he padded downstairs again and waited impatiently for some late news headlines. He kept telling himself he was being ridiculous.

  5

  DAVE AND MARIE

  THE PUB WAS heaving. It was like this every Thursday and Dave Madden loved it. So did Marie, his wife. The only thing that annoyed him was the bloody smoking ban. Every time he thought about that feckin’ former Minister for Health Micheál Martin he fumed. And very little annoyed Dave. ‘Chill out, love,’ he was always telling the missus, who took everything in life personally and was constantly letting things get to her.

  ‘Just goin’ outside for a smoke. Want another drink?’ he asked her now.

  ‘No, thanks. What’s up with you? You’ve a face like a bag of hammers.’

  ‘I’d just rather be havin’ my pint inside. With you, my love,’ he added for good measure, giving her a kiss. ‘Lookin’ good tonight, babe.’ Dave always said the right thing. His wife was very sensitive about her appearance and especially about her weight, since she’d hit the change a few months ago. Years of putting his foot in it – mostly in jest, mind you – meant he now had the patter off by heart, even if he didn’t really think she was hot totty any more.

  Marie Madden smiled at her husband. He was the looker and they both knew it. Even after all this time she still liked being seen in public with him. At forty-eight he still had a lot of hair – his own – and soccer coaching, cycling and the local golf club meant he had the body of a thirty-year-old. He was one of the most popular guys in the area, and she was glad she’d caught him young. Dave had turned heads ever since they’d started dating as kids and that hadn’t diminished one bit as he got older. In fact, Marie thought he got better-looking as he aged. If only she could say the same about herself. She sighed, hating the fact that she was pushing fifty. Today she felt about seventy. Her joints ached and when she’d looked in the mirror earlier she saw that her jowls were getting more droopy by the day and the lines around her eyes made her seem permanently tired, whereas her husband was fresh-faced and full of energy.

  ‘Joan?’ Dave finished his chat with a fellow golfer and turned his attention to Marie’s sister, who was on the Bacardi Breezers.

  ‘No, Dave, you’re grand.’

  ‘Another diet?’ It was the only time she ever refused a drink.

  ‘Sort of, I’m trying to look my best. Actually,’ she leaned towards him, ‘I’ve met a fella and he’s here so I don’t want to get langers.’

  ‘Who is he? Do I know him?’ Dave looked around the velour-infested lounge.

  ‘No, but I’ll introduce you later, maybe.’ Joan was playing it cool. She was a glamorous blonde in her mid-forties, divorced with a teenage son who was a handful, and she was worried about scaring yet another guy off by appearing too eager.

  ‘Can’t wait. You seem to be playin’ a blinder.’ He winked at her and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Let me know if you want me to make him jealous,’ he teased, having heard the girls talking about the subject more than once over a few bottles of wine and a Chinese takeaway in his kitchen. ‘OK then, off to freeze me balls off.’ He picked up his glass and took a gulp before heading outside.

  Normally he knew everyone here and there was no shortage of conversation, but tonight a visiting football team was up from Tipperary or somewhere and after a few nods and a ‘How’s she cuttin’, Dave?’ – a culchie greeting that he despised – he found himself without a mate.

  He lit a fag and inhaled deeply. Dave had been smoking since he was fourteen and even now, all these years later, he still got as much pleasure out of every drag.

  There was nothing to match the first fag of the day; that was the one he enjoyed most. Recently Marie had been complaining about the smell of smoke and talking about getting a patio done outside, so he supposed it was only a matter of time before he was having that one outdoors too. The bloody country had gone mad, what with all the recycling and taxes on plastic bags and everything. Stop moaning, he chided himself. You sound like an oulfella.

  Dave wished there was a seat so he could sit and relax. But since the fancy awnings had gone up and the patio heaters had been installed there wasn’t a hope. Too many yuppies out here most nights now. And Thursday was practically the start of the weekend, with all the money in Ireland these last few years. He listened to a gang of guys in suits discussing the price of houses and how a three-bedroomed semi in Drumcondra had recently sold for a million and his spirits soared. It had been great being in the building trade these last few years and business was showing no signs of slowing down, no matter what the experts were saying.

  He leaned against the wall, trying to ease the strain on his back. Like his wife, Dave wasn’t a fan of getting older but unlike Marie he worked hard at looking after himself. Marie sat around and talked about getting fit, mostly while eating a packet of chocolate chip cookies and on the phone to Joan, whereas Dave got up off his arse and did something about it. A lot of money went on clothes, too, and he used products on his face, unlike most of his mates. He liked it that women still looked at him when he walked into a room. A well-cut jacket and decent shirt worked wonders, he’d long since decided.

  ‘How’s it going?’ his old pal John Brophy greeted him. ‘Are you golfing at the weekend?’

  ‘No plans. You?’

  ‘Might play a round on Sunday morning if you’re interested?’

  ‘Ah, I think I’ll pass.�
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  ‘Still not feeling great?’

  ‘No, and don’t say anything to the wife. You know what women are like.’

  ‘I do, yeah.’ His pal indicated the almost empty glass. ‘Another one?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ Dave grinned. ‘I’m tryin’ to cut down.’ He patted his stomach.

  ‘And I’m Muhammad Ali.’ John put up his fists and did a little dance.

  ‘You’re pathetic,’ Dave told his pal, but it wasn’t meant.

  ‘We can’t all be Brad bleedin’ Pitt.’ John gave his mate a few playful slaps on the face. ‘Smooth as a baby’s bum. All those face scrubs must be worth it, eh?’ John loved to tease Dave about not looking his age. ‘Anyway, I’ll see you inside. The missus’ll be looking for me.’

  ‘Take it handy.’ Dave laughed. He spotted an empty table and sat down to enjoy another fag and finish his pint in peace. He watched the group of suits again. Marks and Sparks, he reckoned, noticing the way most of the jackets were cut and the trousers hung. Good basic work gear but not for him. He only wore Boss or Armani. Not that he wore suits to work, except when he had meetings. Marie always teased him that he was the only man she knew who ever noticed what other men wore, but he’d always been that way, even when he didn’t have a bean.

  A copy of the Evening Herald had been left behind. He lit another cigarette and glanced at the front page.

  WOMAN DROWNS TRYING TO SAVE CHILD, he read, and glanced at the picture. She looked young. It was only when he read the caption that it hit him. Alison Ormond – accident or suicide? Typical bleedin’ tabloid sensationalism was his first reaction. Then he looked again.

  Jesus Christ, he thought. He jumped up, stamped out the cigarette and moved into the light to read it properly. It must be another Alison, with the same name, he decided, because the picture looked nothing like her. But as he scrutinized it he realized it was definitely her. The eyes gave her away.

  He scanned the article, then turned to page two as instructed. The details were sketchy. A woman had phoned the rescue services after she was stranded out at sea when the tide came in on Sandymount Strand yesterday evening. Her young son was with her. Alison didn’t have any children, so he was hopeful again. It must be a mistake, he decided, still staring at the black and white photo. Her hair was different, she looked younger – but it was Alison all right, he’d bet his life on it. Dave was gutted. Alison Ormond had been his friend, his confidante, his lover. It didn’t bear thinking about that she was dead.