The Bright Side

by Alex Coleman

  When I started work in First Premier, I was quite friendly with a woman called Wendy O’Gara. She suffered from depression and talked about it all the time; I think she found it helpful. We used to have great bitching sessions together. I would complain about people comparing my headaches with ordinary ones and Wendy would complain about them comparing depression with a bad mood. What it was really like, she’d say, was being buried alive. When the depression finally went away, it didn’t feel like cheering up to her – it felt like being dug out. I didn’t really understand what she meant at the time, but I think I got a little taste of it that Wednesday morning. I stayed in my bedroom until eleven thirty, breathing deeply all the while, and gradually I began to feel a little less entombed. Then I went downstairs for breakfast.

  “Jesus!” Melissa said when she caught sight of me in the kitchen.

  I plonked myself down on a stool. “What?”

  “Nothing. You look a bit … awful, that’s all.” “A bit awful? But not completely awful, right?”

  “Did you not sleep very well? You’re down very late.” “You could say that.”

  “Chrissy?”

  I shrugged. “The whole thing I suppose.” “It’s to be expected.”

  “Yeah.”

  Niall came tearing down the hall at that point and arrived in the kitchen like Pavarotti arriving on stage. “LAR LAR LAR!” he roared. “LAR LAR LAR!”

  “Niall, please!” Melissa said. “I’ve asked you a hundred times, please keep it down. Please, honey, for me.”

  He walked over to her and looked up into her face “LAR LAR LAR!”

  I tried to remind myself of the sweet little boy at the zoo, but he was suddenly gone from my memory.

  “LAR LAR LAR!”

  “Niall! Please!”

  I hopped off my stool. “I think I’ll go for a walk,” I said.

  Melissa turned to me with a pained look on her face. “I’m sorry, Jackie,” she said. “He’ll calm down in a minute or two. Then again, he might not. This might be one of his singing days. He has them once in a while.”

  “No, don’t worry about it, it’s not … I just need some air.” “But you’re only out of bed. You haven’t even had any breakfast yet.”

  “Five minutes,” I said. “I’ll get something when I come back.”

  In truth, I didn’t just want to get away from the noise; I wanted to get some fags. I smiled at Niall as broadly as I could and slipped away down the hall. Even if I hadn’t gone out then, I probably would have found out about Robert that morning anyway – or later that day, at worst. Someone would have let me know. Still, I should have stayed put. It would have been nice to have had another few hours of partial, as opposed to total misery.

  One evening when the twins were still in primary school, we were sitting around the kitchen table having our tea (we called it “tea” then, like everyone else – it didn’t become “dinner” until a few years later). Gerry was telling me how he’d bumped into an old pal from school who he hadn’t seen in years. Last time Gerry had seen him, he’d had a pony-tail that he’d been cultivating since he was a teenager. Now, not only was the pony-tail gone, he was bald as an egg. Gerry said that he’d almost walked straight past the guy but had done a double-take at the last second. I’d never heard that term before and asked him what he meant; he did a mime. The feeling of delight that coursed through me was the same one I’d experienced when I first heard the words “déjà vu” – there’s a name for this! From then on, every time I saw someone do a double-take or did one of my own, I experienced a fleeting echo of that same delight.

  I did the double-take to end all double-takes in the newsagent’s that morning, just as the assistant handed me my change. It was a text-book performance. I was saying thanks and happened to glance to my left, to the rack where I’d spotted Your Story a few days previously. There were bundles of newspapers on the floor at its base. I saw Robert’s face on the cover of one, turned back to the assistant and then almost broke my neck going back to Robert. But there was no feeling of delight, only a violent lurching of the intestines.

  “Jesus Christ!” I screeched as I dived down for a closer look.

  “What?” the assistant said, alarmed. “Is it a rat? Eh, not that we have rats.”

  I didn’t reply. I was too busy taking in the headline: “SOAP STAR’S DRUNKEN SHAME”. The paper – it was The Irish Sun – shook so badly in my hands that it must have looked as if I was fanning myself. I tried to read the first paragraph, but the letters seemed to be moving around like tiny insects.

  “Are you all right there?” the assistant asked.

  I nodded my head and put the paper down on the counter. “This,” was all I managed to say. I paid and turned towards the door.

  “We haven’t got rats, you know,” she said to my back.

  Outside, I sat down on the shop windowsill and stared at my son’s picture. It was one I’d seen before – his first publicity shot for The O’Mahonys. He’d begrudgingly thrust it at me in his flat one day and rolled his eyes when I said he looked like James Dean. The caption underneath read Robert O’Connell plays bad boy Valentine Reilly. I took another deep breath – my four hundredth of the morning – and started to read.

  Actor Robert O’Connell, who plays Valentine Reilly in the hit soap The O’Mahonys, was in hot water with his RTÉ bosses last night after getting involved in a vicious night-club brawl. O’Connell, twenty-one, was drinking with pals in trendy private night-spot Club Zed on Monday night when the row erupted. The target of O’Connell’s alleged assault was Michael Rice, a twenty-nine-year- old architect, who was enjoying a night out with his girlfriend. Eyewitnesses reported that O’Connell approached Rice’s table and began hurling abuse for no apparent reason. A fight broke out at which point night club staff intervened, but not before Rice suffered a broken nose and severe facial bruising. He is understood to be considering the possibility of taking legal action against O’Connell.

  The story continued, briefly, on an inside page. There wasn’t much more to tell; it was all background stuff on Robert and snide asides about life imitating art (if you could call The O’Mahonys art). I read the whole thing twice, half-imagining that there might be two Robert O’Connells, both of whom played characters called Valentine Reilly in rival soaps of the same name. And who also looked identical.

  When I finished for the second time, I grabbed my mobile from my bag and rang Robert, hoping to get some sensible explanation. There was no answer. When his voicemail kicked in, I said, “Robert, it’s your mother. I saw the paper. I hope you’re all right. Please call me. Please.”

  I hung up and called Gerry. He took a long time to answer. “Jackie?”

  “Yeah. It’s me.” “Are you okay?”

  “You haven’t seen it then.” “Seen what?”

  “The Sun.”

  “The newspaper?”

  “No, Gerry, the big fucking yellow thing in the sky. Yes, the newspaper.”

  “All right, calm –”

  “Robert’s plastered all over the front of it. He attacked someone in a private club. ‘Soap Star’s Drunken Shame.’”

  “You’re codding me?” “Go out and buy one.”

  “Attacked someone? Robert?” “Yes! Club Zed, wherever that is.” “Has he been arrested?”

  My head spun. It was the second time in as many days when I’d discussed whether or not a child of mine had been picked up by the police.

  “Apparently not. But the guy’s threatening legal action. He’s got a broken nose and facial bruising. Severe facial bruising.”

  “I don’t understand. Who is this guy?” “What does it matter?”

  “It doesn’t, I suppose.”

  “It says his name’s Michael something, wait … Michael Rice. He’s an architect. He was out having a drink with his girlfriend when Robert, according to this anyway, just went for him.”

  There was no reply, but I thought I heard gulping. “Gerry? Are you there?”

>   “Yeah.” “What is it?”

  “This girlfriend … does it mention her name?” “No. Why?”

  “Eh … Lisa’s got a boyfriend who’s an architect. I’m pretty sure his name’s Michael.”

  The blood drained from my head and for a moment the world looked very bright.

  “Jackie? Are you still there?” I hung up.

  Back at the house, Melissa did her best to be reassuring. “Let’s not go jumping to conclusions,” she said. “Let’s wait to hear from Robert.”

  “ROBERT!” Niall yelled. “LAR LAR LAR!”

  “We could be waiting a long time,” I told her. “He’s only just started talking to me properly again. He’s hardly going to ring me up to discuss this, is he? I’m going over there. To his apartment.”

  “But he might not even be there. He’s probably working.” “If he hasn’t got fired …”

  “He won’t get fired, Jackie.”

  “I have to do something. I’m going.” “I’ll come with you then.”

  Momentarily, the idea appealed to me. Then I remembered the obvious. “What about Niall?”

  “It’ll just take me a minute to get him ready. He can come too.”

  “WE’RE GOING TO THE ZOO ZOO ZOO!” Niall roared. “YOU CAN COME TOO TOO TOO! LAR LAR LAR!”

  I had a vision of the three of us in the car, one of us hoarse, two of us deafened.

  “No,” I said firmly. “You stay put. I’ll be grand.”

  I grabbed my bag and turned on my heels before she could form an argument.

  “Aw!” said Niall.

  * * *

  Robert’s latest apartment – his third since he’d left home – was in a new development in Ballsbridge. He was living alone for the first time, which was just as well, given the size of the place; it was like a fully-furnished cupboard. I’d pointed that out to him during my first visit, presuming he thought as much himself. But no. He’d taken offence and another epic row had ensued. I’d tried to calm him down by praising the relative lack of litter and weeds in the grounds – only about half as much as at his sister’s – but that was no good either. He went from row-mode to fuming-silence- mode and I ended up leaving him to it, not fifteen minutes after I’d arrived.

  I parked on a meter around the corner and took a quick walk (and fag) to help get my thoughts together. It didn’t work. My thoughts stayed just the way they were, separate little rubber balls bouncing around in my skull, crashing together only occasionally. I had a call from Gerry as I walked, but I ignored it. A young couple came out the main door of Robert’s building just as I reached it and I briefly considered running in while I had the chance. But I didn’t go for it. I rang the buzzer instead and waited, wringing my hands together. There was no reply. I buzzed again, with the same result. Then I took out my phone and called him, in case he was in there but not answering the door. I got voicemail again.

  “It’s me,” I said, looking around. “I’m outside … never mind.” I hung up.

  Robert was coming through the main gates with a bag of groceries. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses. I might not even have recognised him if it hadn’t been for his walk, which was just like Gerry’s – sort of John Wayne-ish, but not as comical. He was looking at the ground and didn’t see me until he was about thirty feet away. When he did, he turned and started off in the other direction.

  “Robert!” I called out. “Don’t be silly, I just want to talk!” He’d only taken a few strides when he slowed to a crawl, then stopped. I guessed he’d concluded that he looked ridiculous, which he did. He turned and came back towards me.

  “How are you doing?” I said as he approached.

  He didn’t reply until he was by my side. “Never better,” he said and swiped his card at the electronic door thingy.

  “Can I come in for a chat?”

  He nodded as the door clicked open, then held it open and did an exaggerated bow like a butler.

  Great, I thought. Sarcasm.

  It had been quite a while since I’d been in Robert’s place and I was reasonably impressed. There were no more than a dozen or so plates and cups lying around unwashed and the dust was only millimetres, as opposed to inches thick. He hadn’t spoken a word in the lift or the corridor outside and I hadn’t gone beyond mumbling pleasantries, so things were a little awkward as we took our seats at his kitchen table.

  “Tea?” he said by way of an opener.

  “No thanks. I value my health too much.”

  He shot me a look and was clearly on the point of saying something unpleasant. Then he removed his cap and then his sunglasses, revealing a blackened right eye.

  “Robert! Are you all right?” “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look –” “I’m fine.”

  “Okay. If you say so. Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe you –”

  “It was just a fight, all right? Nothing to get excited about.” “A fight over what?”

  “Nothing much. It doesn’t matter. Who told you anyway? I didn’t have you down as a Sun reader.”

  “I saw it in a shop. It’s on the cover.” “It sure is.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek for a moment. “Robert … was it Lisa? Your man’s girlfriend?”

  His good eye widened. “How the fuck do you know that?”

  “I spoke to your father. He told me Lisa has a boyfriend called Michael who’s an architect.”

  Robert half-turned away in disgust, then brought his fist down on the table so hard that his salt cellar jumped. “He’s had conversations with her about her fucking boyfriend? What the fuck’s the matter with him?”

  “Robert, please don’t sw–”

  “I’ll fucking swear if I want to! It’s my house. Apartment, whatever. This is all his fault and I’m telling you now, if I lose my job over this, that’ll be both of his kids who are never going near him again. Fucking asshole!”

  My hands trembled. “Don’t say that. Please.”

  “It’s the truth. And why are you defending him, for Christ’s sake?”

  “I’m not defending him.”

  “You’ve been weird about this since the start. I –”

  “It’s hardly your father’s fault that you picked a job where you’re liable to end up in the papers when something goes wrong!”

  He shook his head. “You’re priceless, you are. Unbelievable …”

  “Tell me what happened in the club,” I said. “You might as well.”

  “Why? So you can have a go at me?”

  “I’m not going to have a go at you. Tell me about it, please.” He sat back and did his jaw-rubbing thing, saying nothing.

  I said, “If you don’t give me your side of it, I’ll have nothing to go on but the piece in The Sun. Is that what you want?”

  That seemed to get through to him. Another few seconds went by and then he finally spoke up.

  “I was rotten drunk, for a start. I was out with Ginger and Bogie.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know them, never mind that bit. Club Zed. It’s a private, after-hours sort of joint. About one, maybe one thirty, I got up to go for a whizz. Y’know, go to the toilet.”

  “I know what a whizz is, Robert, I’m not a nun.” “Christ, I’m just saying –”

  “All right, all right. Go on.”

  He shook his head and muttered something indecipherable. “On my way to the jacks, I spotted her. Lisa. Sitting with this greasy-looking gobshite with a fake tan and a bucket of wax on him.”

  “A bucket of what?” “Wax. On his hair.” “Wax?”

  “Jesus, yes. It’s like gel. People use wax now, all right? What does it matter?”

  This was starting to resemble one of our old-school conversations. I told myself that he was under a lot of stress and tried to remain pleasant.

  “It doesn’t matter. But you don’t have to take my head off.”

  He glanced away for a moment. “Righ
t, so I’m on my way to the jacks and I spot them in the corner. He was all over her, pawing at her, and she was giving it loads, all that business.” He paused and did a reasonable mime of a woman being pawed and loving it, head back, eyes-a-flutter. “I mean, I’d seen her in there before and all, but I dunno … for some reason I was sure I’d never see her again. I was kinda staring, I suppose. I don’t think I was even planning on saying anything, to begin with. Then she caught my eye and I could see that she was trying to place me. I’d only met her the once, at that barbeque you had. Then she sort of … smirked.”

  I recalled the look she’d given me through the front-room window and nodded.

  “Well, maybe not smirked, but … she certainly didn’t look embarrassed or anything. Then the boyfriend turned to see what she was looking at and I caught his eye and there was another bit of staring. Then he crooked his finger at me, you know, like he was beckoning a fucking waiter. I knew he was going to start, but I marched over anyway. He says, ‘Do you think my girlfriend’s attractive?’, all cool and sneery. And I said, ‘Lots of people do, by all accounts’ or something similar. Then he says, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ and I ignored him. Then I made some sort of a comment to her.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t remember.” “Robert …”

  “I really can’t. But it was something about being a slut or a tramp. Or maybe a whore. Something along those lines.”

  “Brilliant. What did you think that was going to achieve?” “I thought you weren’t going to have a go at me?”

  “This isn’t having a go, Robert. If I wanted to have a go, I’d –”

  “Anyway. The boyfriend jumped up and punched me. I went back on another table or a person or something – I didn’t fall anyway. And when he came for me again, I was ready and I … beat the shit out of him.”