2000 - The Feng-Shui Junkie

by Brian Gallagher

  What’s the point?

  I let him go. First, I extract a commitment from him to return here for seven so that we can spend the evening together like a proper married couple. Given that it is Saturday night.

  Sighing, attempting to conceal his annoyance, he agrees.

  It is, after all, proper form.

  Once he’s gone I fetch a small plastic fishbowl and a fishnet from the broom cupboard and bring them into the bathroom where I fill the bowl with water. I fish out Nicole’s five surviving fish and drop them into the bowl. Not much room for them to do more than ogle each other like a quintet of stupid Sumo wrestlers. I place the bowl into a plastic bag and carry it down to my car, where I jam it behind the passenger seat to prevent capsize. I drive straight into the aquarist down the road and flog the lot for a ridiculously low twenty quid.

  Then I call Nicole.

  Yes, she confirms excitedly, she’s meeting Ronan at four o’clock this afternoon. But would I like to meet up for a drink first? I’m very welcome to come out to her place for lunch.

  If I’d like to.

  This is it.

  Now is the time to end it all.

  25

  I walk straight up the white gravel path of number two Cherbury Court and ring the doorbell. The new red stained-glass panel on the front door is pretty, though I must say I preferred the sailing boats. The door opens almost immediately. She’s wearing a long red dress patterned with diamonds in sewn gold – the one she bought at the shopping centre yesterday.

  She gives me such a pleasant smile that I feel this spontaneous blinding urge to throttle her.

  She puts her hand on my upper arm, a gesture of shy welcome. I can feel myself deflating like a punctured lung. It’s funny: when people are nice to you it’s a mighty tough job being a bitch.

  And it’s even harder when in addition they possess face wounds that would make Frankenstein consider himself lucky. I mean, look at her! Her left eye is peeping out under a slight bulge, which is discoloured, as black eyes generally tend to be. Her thickly made-up face barely conceals heavy bruising.

  Still and all, she doesn’t exactly look miserable. She manages, in her hour of woe, to look more upbeat than beat up, and this combination, which borders on the side of happy, is managing to cause me intense irritation. I’m thinking: is there something I should know?

  “It’s really nice to see you again, Julianne.”

  “Yes. How are you, Nicole,” I inquire, “after your beating?”

  First she’s startled, then she shrugs. “Life goes on, I suppose.”

  What an odd way to view life, mere hours after mincemeat has been made of your visage.

  “Nicole, there’s something we have to talk about.”

  I’m not in the least friendly.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, about Ronan.”

  Hearing this, Nicole smiles lovingly. She takes me by the arm and tries to usher me inside. I pull back violently.

  “Julianne, is something the matter?”

  “Where’s Harry?”

  She’s frowning now, perplexed as a stranded walrus. “He’s gone out.”

  “When’s he coming back?”

  “In about half an hour. Why?”

  “Half an hour? Good. I can wait.”

  “Julianne, are you…”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You seem…”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  When my gaze returns from the hedge to Nicole, she is staring right into my soul depths with something bordering on real concern: “Is it…husband problems?”

  “What did I just say?”

  “I shouldn’t ask,” she reverses, shaking her head.

  “Oh, feel quite free to talk about my spouse.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Unlike Sylvana, Nicole is not the sort to lever gossip out of you with a pickaxe. Nor is she ‘the type to shove and kick to get her own way. “What’s his name?” she wonders nicely.

  Names and addresses again.

  “Shithead.”

  Blank stare.

  “He’s not in the good books right now,” I explain. “Is that okay?”

  “I understand.” She nods vehemently.

  Of course, it’s not that Ronan is not in the good books. Put simply, I want to beat him to a pulp, but one doesn’t admit these things in polite society.

  “But apart from that he’s in wonderful form.”

  “That’s good,” she replies, relieved.

  “Yes, it’s very good. He’s shagging his mistress like nobody’s business.”

  Tragic face on her now. “Oh, Julianne.”

  I can’t believe this: a canvas of sadness has just descended over her face. She really does look sorry for me. With kindness and sincerity she peers softly into my soul, while I stand here festering like gangrene in my own private marital cesspit.

  Now I feel like crying. I am pathetic.

  “Enough about me.” I sniff, looking around for something to distract my attention. My eyes come to rest on the octagonal disc hanging just above the front door over the porch. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a Bagua mirror. It’s to ward off negative influences.”

  Wasn’t too effective in warding me off last Thursday.

  “Before I hung it there,” she explains, “I felt these disturbances every morning when I got up…”

  “You have neighbour problems too?”

  “No – I mean psychic disturbances. I’ve been told I’m quite sensitive to psychic phenomena. I figured it must be the hospital over there behind those houses across the street. When I put up the Bagua mirror the disturbances actually stopped.”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Hospitals create a lot of negative energy because of all the suffering. A prison would be the same. The Fu dogs help.”

  “You keep dogs?”

  “Fu dogs.” She giggles. “On the gateposts, see?”

  “You mean the stone dogs.”

  “They’re supposed to deter intruders.”

  They too seriously failed in their duties.

  “And they also stop energy leaking out of a house.”

  “Whatever you’re into.”

  She opens the door wide for me to enter. I step up and in. The sun-drenched hallway has turned the curtain behind the front door into a bright orange flame. The atmosphere is warm and welcoming, from inside I can smell the burning of a scented candle: rose and gardenia, she informs me.

  The missing bannister rail has been replaced, I notice. To my right, the painting which I triply dented has been removed and replaced by Foetus, stuck right in your face in the middle of her hallway. I lean over the small wooden table under the painting and inhale a new and younger jasmine plant with tiny yellow leaves.

  “How pretty.”

  “It’s the plant of friendship,” says Nicole, eyeing me almost prayerfully.

  “Isn’t that nice.”

  She shows me into the living-room. I halt at the door, flabbergasted.

  The place is like new. It’s almost exactly as it was before I got to work on it last Thursday evening. It is elegant and clean and neat. I look around for signs of my recent rampage.

  But I can’t find any. Was I hallucinating?

  I move inside. Before long, I start to notice tiny differences. The drinks cabinet which I rendered into firewood has been replaced by one not quite identical. There’s a new TV set. There are two dark-green-leaved rhododendron plants in ochre pots, one on each side of the television. I was seriously under the impression that I’d decapitated them.

  Of course I did. These are new. Replaced in record time. She informs me that they are narcotic, which is of course of interest. She also points out that they absorb some of the chi that creates rheumatism. Why does she insist on taking for granted that I know what the hell she’s talking about?

  “What a lovely room.”

  The phrase sticks in my throat like a chicken bone.

 
“Harry does all the work; I just come up with the colours. Colours are very important. They affect the way you…you know, the spiritual side of life.”

  “Do you paint?” says I, diverting my eyes to the repolished floor.

  “I do my best,” she replies.

  “Don’t knock your talents.”

  “I really love painting. I find it very uplifting.”

  “I used to paint walls myself.”

  Nicole stops suddenly. “No, I mean, I paint pictures.”

  “Do you use rollers?”

  More confusion. “No, I mean, I paint paintings, Julianne.”

  “Paintings?” I just stare, like it’s incredible she’s chosen such a designation.

  “You thought I meant painting walls?” She laughs. “I never paint walls. Harry does that. I paint paintings. Up in the attic.”

  “The madwoman in the attic.”

  “In my spare time.”

  I move past the mantelpiece, above which I notice something different: a new mirror.

  “So,” I drawl, “you’re an artist.”

  “I wouldn’t say that. Maybe I’ll show them to you some time?”

  I remember the nudes in her sketch pad. “That won’t be necessary.”

  I inspect the rest of the room. The dinner table is covered with a new white tablecloth. I’m tempted to look underneath for any dents. On the table lies the book I saw her purchase yesterday: Feng Shui and Sacred Space.

  Sacred space. I love it.

  There’s a new glass coffee table in place of the old one – only less elaborate. On top of this there lies the same plethora of books and junk magazines I breezed through on Thursday evening last.

  And the aquarium? It’s disappeared completely. Pedestal and all. In the front right corner now stands a large chrysanthemum in a white square box.

  You would never know I was here just two days ago. How did they manage to clear it up and paint everything so quickly? Two days: that’s marathon cosmetics. The room is perfect. There may still be a slight odour of alcohol from the monsoon I created around the stone fireplace, but that piercing wine-vat smell has totally disappeared.

  “There were bloodstains on the couch. I tried to remove them, but there are still traces left.”

  “Did you stab Harry or something?”

  She laughs, shaking her head, then quietly informs me that the room was ransacked last Thursday evening by intruders.

  “You’re joking.”

  Me the great big innocent.

  Sighing, she tells me she walked in the front door and everything lay in ruins before her eyes. I can just see it: Hannibal returning to a devastated Carthage.

  “I was really upset,” she mourns. “I mean, they didn’t even steal anything. The only thing they took was a manual about babies and a small book on Feng Shui.”

  I turn to admire the view of the front garden.

  “They smashed our lovely coffee table and especially our antique drinks cabinet. There was glass and alcohol everywhere.”

  “Flying cocktails?”

  But there’s no response from behind me.

  She just doesn’t get it, does she? She thinks her Bagua mirror and her Fu dogs will protect her.

  There’s one born every minute.

  “Break-ins are a regular feature of modern life, Nicole,” I observe, concentrating on the robin redbreast poking about on top of the bird stand. “One must take precautions. You need to double-lock your doors and bolt your windows…and of course, fortified glass is to be recommended.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “You keep a lovely garden.”

  “They were probably just young gurriers.”

  Suddenly, despite the depression weighing me down like leaden cannonballs, I want to burst out laughing. I very nearly do, as well. The poor gurriers have come in for quite a knocking recently. It’s sheer prejudice, straight out of Ronan’s mouth. It’s like the vibe that goes: if you are, say, a travelling person then you’re automatically a congenital kleptomaniac knifing rapist. It’s so bizarre.

  “Really, though, you have a lovely garden.”

  “It’s based on a Japanese design,” she says quietly.

  “Tell me more.”

  “Did you know that the Japanese were the first people in the world to cultivate a garden for aesthetic reasons alone?”

  Aesthetic: where have I heard that word before?

  “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “They thought gardens were sacred places where you meditated and destressed. So when we first moved in I was careful to get the vibrations right, I made sure to have something from the element of fire – the lantern outside. And water – in the fountain. And metal – in the statue, and there’s plenty of wood. I had it all done myself – Harry’s not great on gardens. I made sure to have lots of curved shapes. Don’t you love the bird house? Our hedges were evergreen, which was lucky. Deciduous hedges are inauspicious.”

  “That’s a point.”

  I can hear her footsteps behind me and the doors of the drinks cabinet opening. She offers me a drink and I turn round. A black cat streaks across the floor, eyeing me with knowing menace. It’s almost as if he spied me last Thursday evening, and it’s making me nervous.

  “Max, say hello to Julianne.”

  “He wouldn’t know me,” says I.

  The cat glares at me accusingly.

  Nicole pours herself a Cointreau. I tell her to pour me one of those. Handing me my drink, she shakes her head and sighs.

  “Poor Max. He was affected, too. His box of cat biccies got soaked from all the bottles of alcohol thrown at the fireplace.”

  “Don’t tell me you fed him alcohol-soaked biscuits? No wonder he’s behaving strangely.”

  She laughs at this point. “They destroyed your dinner, Max, pet. Aren’t they animals?”

  He should know.

  Nicole bends down to feel him but he evades her long thin fingers, slinking back out of the room, leaving deadly vibes hanging in the ether.

  I swing round to the garden again. Gardens. What can I ask her about gardens? I trawl for a relevant topic of conversation, but she beats me to it.

  “We had an aquarium over there beside you.”

  “A fish tank?”

  “It was beautiful. They totally destroyed it. There was glass everywhere.”

  “How could anyone do such a thing?”

  “I know.”

  “People have no respect any more.”

  “We had a clownfish…”

  A skunk-striped clownfish, she means.

  “…and an oriental sweetlips, and a few yellow-bellied devils and – ”

  “What strange names.”

  “When I came in they were lying all over the floor.”

  She falls silent. I turn round again. A reverent, sad expression has overcome her. I can see that despite everything Nicole is essentially a good person.

  “Do you know what Harry did?”

  “No. What?”

  “He stood on two of them. They were squashed like pancakes.”

  “Fish cakes?”

  Bad joke. Still, I can see her point. Although my personal record with fish would hardly qualify me as Honorary Secretary of the ISPCA, nevertheless I am not so cruel that I would actually stamp on the poor things. This was Harry losing his temper at beings a hundredth his size. I mean, how would you feel being trampled upon by King Kong’s huge sweaty foot in the middle of Fifth Avenue? What an awful bully.

  “Do you know what he did to the clownfish and the oriental sweetlips, after he stamped on them?”

  “No.”

  “I didn’t want to say this, because every time I think of it it makes me so angry, but I will. He dropped them in boiling water.”

  She looks furious.

  I burst out laughing; I simply cannot help myself. I immediately apologize to her and try to explain that I’m only laughing because what she said reminded me of something I once did as a naughty child man
y years ago.

  She looks like she thinks I’m making fun of her. “Don’t laugh, Julianne,” she pleads. “They were in the pot, all puffed up like jelly. It was horrible. His excuse was that it saved him a trip to the fishmongers.”

  “Some people seem to get a kick out of hurting poor defenceless creatures.”

  “Harry refuses to buy another aquarium. He acted like it was my fault.”

  Mournfully, she fetches a cloth from the fireplace. “Basically’ – she sighs, dusting the mantelpiece lethargically – ’he likes to make out I’m stupid.”

  Nicole? Stupid?

  “I wish you could meet him. You’d see what I mean.”

  The idea that if I met Harry I would see what she meant irks me. Okay, she’s proved her point that Harry is a bastard, but there are life alternatives open to her other than attempting to net Ronan for marriage: she could try moving out and getting her own place, and doing what many normal women do – meet single, unmarried men, for example.

  “Will he be back soon?”

  She consults her watch and nods. Then she throws her cloth back into the fireplace and slumps down on the edge of the couch next to the bloodstain. “Ronan’s great with fish,” she says mournfully, clasping her hands together in front of her.

  “Excuse me?”

  “He loves tropical fish.”

  That’s what she thinks. I know Ronan. Tropical fish bore him to tears. It’s a typical strategy of his: he simply figured that flattering her fish was the Ml motorway into her knickers.

  “I gave some of the surviving fish to Ronan,” she says.

  “You think that’s fair?”

  Pause.

  “It’s the best chance they’ll get,” she replies.

  “I don’t mean fair on the fish, Nicole. I mean fair on his wife.”

  “But she loves tropical fish.”

  “How do you know that?” I laugh.

  “He said so.”

  “I hope he’s right. For the fishes’ sake.”

  “Oh God, don’t say that.”

  They’re safe, I crave to tell her. In a glass bowl.

  Me: “She’s a total saint to be fostering your fish like that.”

  No reply.

  “She sounds like a caring kind of person,” I add.