2000 - The Feng-Shui Junkie

by Brian Gallagher

  “Maybe.”

  “There’s no maybe about it. Were you in bed with him when he told you, or were you not?”

  All is still.

  “Yes,” she eventually admits in a very weak voice. “We were in bed together, but it was wonderful.”

  I sit back. “Doesn’t count.”

  “Of course it counts.”

  I have offended her.

  “It’s his cock speaking, Nicole. And you ought to know that cocks are great liars: they will say anything to get their way.”

  “But we’d finished making love. I remember because he switched on his clock radio and this song came on and that’s when he told me he loved me.”

  I put on this horrified expression. “Did you say his clock radio?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you mean to say, Nicole, that you were actually making love to him in their marital bed?”

  “She was away.”

  “And that makes it right?”

  She’s pouting. “He insisted I should stay,” she says in the spoilt manner of a young girl.

  “Yes, but in another woman’s bed? God, Nicole, what are you? You must feel really bad, breaking up a marriage like this.”

  She starts crying. Oh, help me, Jesus.

  Some minutes pass.

  The crying is beginning to peter out. I glance over at her.

  Her expression has turned into this vast, wet sulk. “She’s a cow,” she declares.

  “Of course.”

  “She doesn’t deserve him.”

  “Aha.”

  “She’s demanding.”

  Demanding?

  “Did he say why?” I wonder.

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “I do. I do want to know!”

  “She just sounds a bit unbalanced, that’s all.”

  “Unbalanced?”

  “Oh…” she raises her eyes to heaven like she knows all there is to know about his wife and based on that she’s not too impressed “…she’s always pestering him about something or other.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, you know.” She waves her hand vaguely.

  “What? ”

  “She nags him.”

  I see. So I nag him. Anything else?

  “I suppose she’s possessive too, is she?”

  “Yes. She tries to stop him going out. I don’t know, she crushes him. She’s the jealous type.”

  That’s a horrible lie! I have never tried to prevent Ronan going out. And anyway, even if I have – we’re married, aren’t we? It’s not about jealousy: it’s about responsibility and making a relationship work. Now the bastard’s making out I’m the Grand Inquisitor and his little side munch is buying the story wholesale.

  “He said all that?”

  She nods. “I know you probably think I’m terrible to be giving out about her like this, because I’m not exactly in the right, I suppose…”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “…so I’ll stop bitching.”

  “Bitch, for God’s sake. Bitch away.”

  “It’s not right.”

  “I can take it.”

  But she’s clammed up. Her decision not to bitch straight to my face annoys me intensely. I want to grab her and knock her head against the hospital floor like a stubborn coconut, until she gives me a precise analysis of all the ways in which I constitute a bitch.

  This isn’t healthy.

  I stand up. I don’t think I can hold back the vomit much longer.

  “I’d better go,” I mumble, moving away.

  She calls after me. She tells me, guilty-looking, that I’m really kind. She adds that she finds me refreshingly frank. She thanks me for everything. She scribbles her phone number on a piece of paper and holds it out for me, smiling weakly, head tilted, hair falling down untidily over her shoulder. As she gazes at me I am unexpectedly struck by how beautiful are the eyelids and eyelashes of her good, open right eye.

  Her expression, however, is one of profound sadness.

  I fully accept that she may be going through hell. That she is human and that she has the capacity to feel all the painful emotions a human being can feel. But there are limits: my intestines simply can’t take it any longer.

  I grab the note from her and rush off round the corner and into the ladies where there’s a queue, so rather than be civil and wait my turn and splurge it all out over the floor in front of everybody, I simply walk to one side and, nice and casual, I vomit into the sink.

  20

  I feel such a moron.

  I’m standing in the flowerbed just outside Sylvana’s ground-floor apartment, having squashed underfoot possibly a heather plant and definitely a hydrangea. I’m peering in through the living-room window at the blue mermaid painting and the wine-tinted couch. The room is empty.

  But through the semi-open fly window you can hear this sizzling noise and smell what’s being sizzled: rashers and sausages. Sylvana is in her kitchen, cooking.

  I slide my back down along the wall, until my bum rests against the damp, fertilized muck. Now I sit among the flowers, equally squashed. A human thing such as me is way harder to unsquash than a plant, so the vegetation will just have to put up with it.

  The damp feels like it’s rising into me, sticking to me, percolating, spreading. But as I’m stewing here in my own juice I can’t think what I care about any more.

  I need to talk to Sylvana, to tell her that she was right about Ronan all along and that things are way more serious than I realized. But I can’t bring myself to ring her doorbell to let her know I am here – I feel that foolish. I’m afraid that if I go in there, a miserable suffering circus, she will simply say (in not so many words), “I told you so.”

  And yet I’ll have to tell her some time. She will wriggle it out of me eventually, just like she wriggled Cherbury Court out of me. She should have been a dentist like Ronan; she’d have been great with a pair of pliers.

  So I take the mobile from my damp pocket and input her number. I can hear its shrill noise through the window just above my head. A few seconds later, I hear footsteps passing through the hard floor of her front room. Then they stop.

  “Yes?” comes her voice.

  “It’s me.”

  “What’s new?”

  “I met her.”

  “Who?”

  “Nicole. This afternoon.”

  “You met her!” she shrieks through the window and my receiver. Getting Sylvana enthusiastic is, as a rule, like trying to explode a five-hundred-year-old oak tree with a gram of Semtex. But recent events have managed to dislodge her from her customary phlegmatic immobility.

  “I bumped into her outside her house, bleeding.”

  “Is this your poetic way of saying you beat the crap out of her?”

  “No. Harry did it for me. In fact, he did such a good job I had to take her to the hospital.”

  “Julie – you’re speaking in riddles. Tell me what’s going on.”

  So I tell her what’s been happening in considerable detail. At one point, I can hear Sylvana dragging a chair out from under a table and sitting down. I am in the process of making her evening come alive. “She also told me all about myself,” I add.

  “What did she say?”

  I light up a cigarette to calm me down. “Allegedly, I am a cow.”

  Pause.

  “Okay, but that’s Nicole speaking, not Ronan.”

  “You’re crediting her with a brain, Sylv. Also, I am demanding.”

  “I see.”

  “Allegedly I am unbalanced.”

  Silence.

  “I mean,” says I, laughing despite myself, “the cheek!”

  Sylvana doesn’t laugh, though. “That creep has a nerve,” she hisses.

  “I pester him.”

  “You what?”

  “I nag him. I crush him. I’m the jealous type.”

  I can’t stop myself; I let out a sob.

  “Julie, listen to me, darling. None of th
at is true. I know you as well as anybody and…”

  “Not as well as Ronan and it’s true for him.”

  “It’s rubbish. Julie, where are you now?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Of course I mind. You’re my friend. Where are you?”

  “It’s academic.”

  “I’m worried about you. Will you come over to my place? No, on second thoughts, I’ll come to you.”

  “I suppose,” I sniff, “you think I’m a danger on the roads?”

  As Sylvana tries to reason with me, I’m getting this vague, bitter burning smell through the window. Her rashers and sausages are going to cauterize on the grill if she’s not careful. Sylvana is so nose-dead you could stuff her head in an oven and she’d tell you she smelt roses.

  “Julie, you shouldn’t be alone.”

  My friend is in serious danger of becoming well-meaning.

  “What makes you think I’m alone?”

  “Okay, then, will you promise that you’ll…”

  “I suggest you turn down your grill, Sylvana.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Do you want your grill to burn?”

  Pause.

  “How did you know I had the grill on?”

  Good point.

  “I heard it on the phone.”

  “You couldn’t have; my mobile isn’t in the kitchen.”

  More hesitation.

  “Julie, where are you?”

  Suddenly there’s this loud knock on the window. She’s seen me. I scramble to my feet, stub out my fag on her lovely white wall and chuck it on to the pretty but mangled-looking hydrangea plant beneath me. I emerge through the conifers past two women my own age who give me a good look. I start running. Sylvana has just burst out through the main door, shouting through her mobile for the whole neighbourhood to hear.

  “Stop embarrassing me in public, Sylvana,” I address my mobile, breaking into a canter.

  “Julie,” she pants into her phone. “Come back.”

  “No!”

  I’m feeling this dreadful, heavy fatigue. I slow down to a walk. Forty feet behind me Sylvana is talking to me on the phone, brainwashing me, trying to persuade me that it’s okay, that I’m her friend, and – most significantly – that she’s sorry for the way she argued with me about Ronan earlier.

  I stop.

  And stand there on the pavement like an idiot. She comes up to me. I’m expecting to see a face brimming with determination and command in the face of my helplessness and tragedy. I should know Sylvana by now, but I don’t. Nearly seventeen years as friends, but still she’s no less alien to me than the little green people with bug eyes.

  What I get from her is something totally different from what I expected. She looks urgent and troubled, like she’s desperate to tell me something she’s never told me before because she’s never known how.

  With total genuineness she says she’s sorry for being insensitive, for making out she knew best how I should run my life. Her eyes are moist, something I’ve never seen before. She gently grabs me and strangely I don’t resist. Instead, I find myself sobbing uncontrollably into her shoulder.

  We get back to her place a whole five minutes later, me feeling closer to Sylvana than I’ve felt in my whole life.

  The kitchen is a cloud of thick black smoke. She could have burnt the whole place down but she didn’t care: she put me first. She complains about the sausages and rashers: they are brittle black bones on the grill. She complains about the black sediment everywhere. She complains about having to scour the grill with steel wool. She complains about being starved after her day at work.

  Not once, though, does she complain about the stink.

  We decide, on balance, it’s best to dine out this evening.

  21

  Like so many males of his breed, Ronan finds it hard to express emotion by screaming, weeping, effing and blinding, teeth-gnashing, smashing plates, kicking, pulling hair, etc.

  Odd things, men.

  But I’ve just done something real bad and I’d be interested in seeing what effect it will have on his short-term personality, viewed on the ape scale.

  Now what might this something be?

  Told him he’s an intellectually repressed womanizing creep?

  No.

  Told him his erection looks like a half-cooked pork sausage?

  No.

  Inquired after his receding hairline?

  No.

  Asked him how his haemorrhoids are doing?

  No, none of these things.

  What I’ve done is this: I’ve just moved my mother in.

  Mother O’Connor is in the bathroom. More precisely, she is enjoying the cosy, bubbly luxury of our Jacuzzi. She’s had her tea and shortly will be going to bed; she does not wish to be in significant evidence when Ronan returns.

  I’ve installed her suitcases in our second bedroom, which up to this evening has served as Ronan’s study. The second major change in Ronan’s living environment will be his TV monopoly, followed closely by his bathroom monopoly after my own bathroom monopoly. From now on he is going to share his toilet and toaster and Jacuzzi and a host of other things with a woman half his size.

  The only thing that will remain truly Ronan’s will be his electric shaver.

  And the food! Ronan has no idea what’s coming. To put it all-encompassingly: Mother has a deep, caring, supportive relationship with fridges. Although he is familiar with her weakness for biscuits and tarts and sweet snacks, of all kinds, Ronan seriously underestimates her abominable lust for French cheeses and Danish pastries – his own personal favourites. Mother will, to Ronan’s horror, come to represent food larceny on an unprecedented scale.

  I can’t wait to see his face when he returns.

  Of course, what I really want to do is to punch Ronan and kick him and pull his hair out by the roots and scream at him and scrape my nails into his face until he comes away looking like a flayed indigenous Amazonian warthog.

  Maybe then he’d tell me why he’s doing this to me.

  But I must not react. He must not suspect a thing.

  There will be no confrontation. That much Sylvana and I agreed just now, over her pizza and my cannelloni supreme and our two bottles of Castle Ridge.

  At long last I’ve got her over to my way of thinking.

  She was most graceful about it.

  While the mother of all wars is still in the middle of her long-life Jacuzzi soak, Ronan troops in the front door soon after nine.

  I’m sitting on the couch reading Cosmo when he strides into the lounge, consigning me to the planet of the unseen. He is agitated-looking, presumably because he’s just visited Nicole, beaten up for love. He’s carrying a large, fat, yellow, plastic bag.

  “What’s in the bag?” I wonder, idly scanning this trashy article about who really wears the trousers.

  “I managed to pick up some fish,” he says, walking in.

  “I hope you were wearing protection.”

  Hold on, did he just say fish?

  There’s this rustic, brook-like sound of rushing water.

  I look up. Ronan is pouring a ton of water from his plastic bag into our aquarium. And it’s full of fish. I jump up and over.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I cry.

  I almost add: putting that bitch’s fish in our community aquarium? But I stop myself just in time.

  I quietly explain to him that he should not put too many fish into the same fish tank or else some will get bitten due to the universal law of natural selection that says: “Because I am hungry and we are competing for scarce resources and you are quite tasty and you are also smaller than me, it follows that you are mine for the eating. Now be a good little fish and swim into my jaws, please, while I eat you.”

  “Oh, sorry.” He grins.

  He peers into the tank as if he’s expecting a decent naval battle to occur. But this is not how it works at all. It could take days for a fish to lose its fins
to a companion’s marauding teeth.

  Heavy-hearted, I peer inside the tank myself.

  Cavorting away in our aquarium – interspersed with our own puffers and triggerfishes and oldwives and our yellow-bellied devil – are now several additional items: two bleeding-heart tetras, two lemon-peel angelfish, one oriental sweetlips (which I used to think was a type of lipstick), the zebra-like humbug damselfish, the tiger barb with the green and black scales and the large tiger-like fin, and two guppies.

  And there’s one skunk-striped clownfish, which I don’t recall seeing in her aquarium. It probably skulked behind a lump of coral when it saw me advance with the ice-pick.

  Clearly, Harry returned home just in time to save them. In the absence of an aquarium, they were most likely dumped in the bath for a day. And they end up here: somehow, Nicole managed to pass them on to Ronan this evening.

  “I never knew you liked fish, Ronan.”

  “I love them.”

  The lying creep! He has zero interest in fish. They don’t go with the image. Fish might be aesthetically and chromatically interesting, but they definitely aren’t cool.

  “When did you get them?” I inquire, handing Ronan yet another opportunity to truth-twist.

  “Oh,” he replies, “after work. I chanced on an aquarium dealer and thought I’d buy a few.”

  “Where was that?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention to the precise location. Not having my Porsche back from the panel beaters yet, I had to walk to the bus stop. And I bumped into an aquarist.”

  “Did you say sorry?”

  “They were going for a song.”

  “They look a bit undernourished.”

  He shrugs. “I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “I’m thrilled,” I reply dreamily, stroking his cheek with my index finger. “Really.”

  He backs away.

  Me, the great big naive idiot. He has gallantly fostered these surviving tropical marine fish from his mistress. And simply offloaded them on to me. And I am supposed to do the decent, unselfish thing and give them a new and better life. Without a blip of protest.

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine,” he assures me.

  “I don’t think so. See our little baby yellow-bellied devil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two to one it will not be here tomorrow morning.”