by C. B. Martin
I had resumed texting him about a week after our Salon encounter, but he’d not answered even one of my increasingly desperate messages. I just couldn’t understand what I had done so wrong. I hadn’t even complained about, well… what he’d done.
So here I was, yet again, hiding away from the world in the Glamma-Puss staffroom. I’d been doing it for so long now, no one even bothered to pop in anymore with some inane bid to cheer me up. Even the indefatigable Siobhan seemed all out of crazy ideas. James too was strangely distant. A constant pain in the pit of my stomach didn’t help my mood. It was a physical pain too, not just one of those I-have-a-broken-heart pains. Plus, the misery of it all left me feeling so horribly tired all the time.
For a few fleeting moments, I’d considered it may be the telltale signs of early pregnancy. There might be a happy ending to that first fairy-tale night after all. Perhaps a baby might be all I needed to tame Travis. Maybe at this stage in both our lives it would be the perfect solution to bring us together as a proper family at last.
Logically though, it couldn’t be baby pains. Bloody hell, it was only a few poxy weeks ago. It didn’t stop me hoping though - or making an appointment to see a doctor. I didn’t want one of those blue line pregnancy tests from Boots to tell me my big moment. I wanted a white-coated hunk of a doctor to look deeply into my eyes and say: ‘Miss Ryan, I have the most incredible news. You’re pregnant.’
I closed my eyes tight shut and muttered yet another silent prayer.
Dear God, if Travis phones now and everything is okay, I will be so good - you’ll never believe it. I’ll go to church every Sunday and will help poor people and everything.
I waited with baited breath, my eyes still tight shut. Then, my prayer was answered. My phone rang. It was surely a miracle. My eyes flew open and my heart started hammering in my chest.
Then I saw the name on the little screen. ‘Laura’. Shit.
‘Hi Tara, do you have time for a little chat?’ asked Laura, in her usual, patronising manner.
‘Hi… what about?’ I asked, deliberately sounding as unfriendly as I could. I really was not in the mood for one of her lectures.
‘I’m rather concerned about you… you seem so unhappy - and I hear that you’re spending less and less time at work,’ she continued, blithely ignoring my reaction to her call. ‘Is he worth all this heartache?’
‘I’m fine,’ I insisted, switching my tone to sound as nonchalant as possible. Maybe this was the best way to get her to butt out of my life. ‘I’m entitled to some time off Laura. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll hear from him soon, then I’ll be okay.’
‘So you’re only okay when you hear from him?’ she brutally continued to interrogate.
‘That’s not what I meant!’ I protested. This wasn’t going well. I didn’t have the strength or energy to see off her clever, psychobabble questioning.
‘He loves me, Laura, I know he does,’ I lied, hoping this would see her off at the pass. Oh well, in for a penny, in for a pound. I’d better make this sound convincing.
‘In fact, he text me last night and told me again how much I mean to him,’ I said airily (oh I wish). ‘In fact, we had text sex till 3am!’
In actual fact, the incident in question had been weeks ago. Not long after the night in the hotel, we’d gone through an orgasm-inducing series of messages when he’d text me out of the blue at 2am one night. But, the minute his manly-hood had cum, he was gone, leaving me to play with my lady-garden while staring at a non-responsive phone. The gobshite had disappeared off the face of the earth. All the time I was texting, ‘I’m nearly there, I’m nearly there,’ (well if I’m honest, by the time I had written the text, I wasn’t there at all). For all I knew, he had probably switched his phone off and gone to bed.
‘But Tara,’ sighed Laura, ‘that’s not real. Did he call you? And actually speak with you?’
She had a point. In fact, in our entire relationship, I could count the number of times he had text me on two hands. As for real-life calls, well that was probably only one hand’s worth. Bloody hell, I had only seen him three times in my entire life and on two of those times he had shagged me and then buggered off!
I shook my head to get rid of the unwelcome thoughts. I knew he loved me. He’d said so, hadn’t he? It was just… well… complicated.
‘I don’t mind, because I know how much pressure he’s under,’ I began to stammer, drying up almost immediately because I couldn’t think of how else to defend him.
I could feel the tension as my sister fell silent. She always did this. It was something they taught her at ‘Shrink School’ I guess. I hated it when she did this. My mind reeled as I desperately sought ways to excuse Travis’ behaviour.
‘Laura, he texts me as often as he can. Why would he waste his time contacting me at all if he didn’t love me?’
‘Love,’ said Laura, primly, ‘is an action word. If he really loved you, he would show you.’
Lickarse! Only she would know something like that. I never did get that grammar stuff at school. All those ‘action’ words, ‘doing’ words and God knows what else. Please don’t even get me started on the ‘pro-nouns’, what the feck were they? Heck, nerdy lickarse even knew how to do ‘logarithms’ - I had always thought they were some kind of street dance.
‘So what if he puts his actions in a text and doesn’t see me very often. Don’t you think he cares about me at all?’ I spat, recovering my poise somewhat valiantly, I thought.
‘But your so-called relationship is purely virtual,’ she said, beginning to sound exasperated. ‘At best, it’s a fantasy pantomime played out over a plastic handset.’
I sniffed hard and had to bite my tongue to refrain from telling her to feck off.
‘I’m sure he does care about you, but he does seem wildly sporadic and inconsistent,’ she added, poking at my insecurities like they were on display.
‘Please stop confusing me with your big words, you sound like you have eaten a dictionary!’ I blurted out, trying my utmost to steady my quivering voice.
‘Okay, sorry. It just makes me feel sad when I hear you so down,’ she said, switching to her ‘soothing’ shrink routine. ‘It just seems that Travis is nearly always the cause.’
She was right, but there was no way I would admit it. I wanted everyone to love him. I hated the thought of my family not approving of Travis. I would have to be careful what I told them in future.
‘Okay… but I do really feel I have met the one and, you know Laura, they do say the course of true love never runs smooth, don’t they? We have so much in common. He’s a Virgo and I’m a Taurus, so we are both earth signs. Also both of our names begin with the letter T.’
Warming to my theme, I prattled on excitedly. ‘If you think about it, what were the chances of us ever meeting, with him working in Ireland and me living over here? Yet, we both just happened to be out on the same night. I think the universe pulled us together. It was like fate and destiny all wrapped up in one!’
As I paused for breath, I could hear Laura sighing down the phone. She wasn’t buying it. But I needed her approval, I always did. Nicknames notwithstanding, I admired Laura so much. Nothing ever seemed to phase her. She always came up smelling of roses. After her husband walked out on her, she didn’t fall apart for a moment. She simply dusted herself down, went to university and studied Psychology. Now she had an amazing, high-flying career. If I could have just a drop of her drive and confidence, I’m sure I wouldn’t be in the situation I am today; hurtling towards forty, childless and in a (now clinically diagnosed) dysfunctional on - but mainly off - relationship with the world’s most elusive man.
‘It may appear that you have a lot in common,’ she continued, ‘but these commonalities are just circumstantial - they don’t really mean anything. You’re not looking at the relationship itself.’
Each sentence was a like gunshot wound and yet she just wouldn’t stop.
‘It’s not really a relationship when you think
about it. Those few conversations you have had are just hollow words typed on a mini keypad that get sent through the airwaves. Your two ‘dates’ have been extended, meaningless shagathons. You know each other more orally then emotionally. I bet you've had more conversations with his balls than his face. How can you base a loving relationship on that alone? Where is the effort there? Have you two even been out for a meal?’
I was devastated. My head started to throb and I felt like it was about to explode. I felt sick and dizzy and the pain in my stomach now felt like someone was stabbing me with a knitting needle. I had to end the conversation quickly.
‘Laura, I have to go now, I have an appointment at the hospital and I’m running late.’
It was true. In precisely one hour, ‘Dr. White Coat’ could step into my life and make all my dreams come true. I was vaguely aware Laura was beginning to launch into her next attack as I dug about in my handbag for my diary to double-check the time on my hospital appointment. My hand fell upon the Perspex of the small plastic vial the surgery receptionist had given me with the curt instruction to bring a urine sample. I headed for the loo and put Laura on loudspeaker, placing her on top of the cistern and flushed it (not the short flush, the long flush), drowning out her lecture, literally.
Did people really pay for this kind of demoralising bullshit?
I sighed heavily, yanking my tights and knickers down and placing the narrow vial underneath myself. Even though I could feel it was in the correct place, I just had to tuck my head down in between my legs making sure that enough urine was being collected.
It wasn't. Instead, my wee shot out in every conceivable direction and dribbled down my hand.
For the love of God! I stopped mid flow and adjusted my stance.
My lady-garden used to pee out in the most beautiful, reliable, straight and gentle stream. Now it resembled that of an old, broken showerhead; leaking and pissing all over the place. I peered through my legs, concentrated and tried again. Managing to catch the some of the spraying splutters that were shooting to the left, I screwed the lid on and popped the sample beside Laura. I inhaled deeply, shook my head, pulled up my underwear and washed my hands, only to find that she was still talking…
‘Okay, look, I’m sorry if it appears that I’ve been a bit hard on you; it’s just… I don’t want to see you get hurt,’ Laura summarised. ‘How about you do a little work on yourself?’
‘What do you mean?’ I queried, snapping out of my reverie about my peeing ability. I didn’t understand… I had already had more Botox than I was allowed.
‘Well, how about trying some emotional-personal development? Try and fill your life with things that don’t involve him, some structure of your own that fulfills and nourishes you.’
‘Structure? Actually Laura, that’s not such a bad idea. Sheila was going on about a new nourishing filler that can plump your cheeks out, I might give that a go…’
‘Not that type of nourishing structure,’ sighed Laura impatiently, ‘I meant in the emotional sense.’
Are you serious, I thought? I’m not exactly the happy-clappy personal therapy type. I realised quickly that if I didn’t get off the phone fast, I’d probably never get away.
There was nothing else for it. I’d have to humour her.
‘Yes, yes, that’s a great idea,’ I said, trying to sound enthusiastic, ‘well done you. You really are so clever, Laura. Thanks so much. I do have to go now, but I swear I will do some personal stuff. Call you later.’ I stabbed the hang-up button on the phone so hard, I chipped a nail.
(Sigh)… Personal feckin’ development! What the feck’s she on about now? She has no clue of how I’m feeling. In fact, I really don’t like her attitude today, I thought, as I stuck my two fingers up at the phone.
Stealing myself for my appointment and needing to feel better after Laura’s lecture, I decided to read back some of the (admittedly few) filthy, dirty text messages Travis had sent me. My insides started racing and dancing with desire again. He was just so exciting and unpredictable. But yes, I sighed to myself, maybe Laura did have a very minor point about his inconsistencies.
Sitting in the hospital waiting room, I slid my phone out from my handbag and stared at the blank screen. No new messages. The aching for him to contact me was never-ending. My heart descended ever deeper into the achy land of limbo. Reluctantly, I looked at the clock. I had been in this poxy hospital for two hours now. I was far from meeting the hunky ‘Dr. White Coat’ - so far I had just met a bored-looking, grumpy nurse who ordered me to go upstairs for blood tests.
‘It’s on a first-come, first-served basis,’ she said, as she handed me a form, barely looking at me. ‘You might have a bit of a wait. When you’ve done that, come back down here and the nurse will go through the rest with you.’
I sighed heavily. I really couldn't be bothered to hang around anymore. But I had to go; I had been feeling too poorly for too long.
It had been 13 days, 3 hours and 23 minutes since I had last received a text from Travis, but even that was only to confirm he was meeting me at the Salon for our ‘date’. Having said that, this was the longest he had ever gone without contacting me. It was nearly two whole weeks of crippling uncertainty. It had been nearly 14 long, wine-indulging, nail-biting, comfort-eating, uncontrollably sobbing ‘bastard-I-hate-him - fuck-it-I-love-him’ days of hell.
Clutching my phone close to my heart, I decided it was time to have another go at bargaining with the Big-Man upstairs.
‘Please, let him contact me today and I promise - in fact - I swear on everything I own, I’ll say a decade of the Rosary and I’ll go to your house and light a candle for St. Jude, the patron Saint of lost causes,’ I muttered. This has surely got to work, hasn’t it? Mum always said that if we did this, we would have our request granted.
‘Now, I know it seems that I only talk to you when I want something,’ I continued, oblivious to the looks I was getting from the elderly man sitting beside me. Feckin’ hell, I was only whispering, why doesn’t he mind his own business? ‘I know that you’re busy, with at least a million other requests from all your real fans who actually attend mass every week, but to hear from him now would really be good for me. A call, or even a lousy text with just an ‘x’ is all I ask for’.
I drew a slow, quivering breath. Moments passed, but there were no immediate results. Maybe I wouldn’t see the results right away, or my request was waiting in line and would come through shortly. Mind you, the Big-Man hadn’t even got to my prayer from this morning. Strikes me, he might need a few angels to sort out his admin for him. I counted to three, then to ten, then to thirty very slowly. Nothing. I stared at my phone willing it to stir into life. Giving it a shake, I performed my now obsessive switch-off/ switch-on routine. This was now becoming a fully-fledged compulsive disorder. Okay then, your Holiness, when you’re ready then… but can it please be today?
Travis’ silence was eating me up from the inside out. Come to think of it, my phone had been very quiet in general. Maybe there was something wrong with my network. Craving some form of acknowledgment, I decided to give it a test.
[Text to Siobhan]
I’m testing my phone - I think its broken, did you get this? And if you did, can you text me back ASAP? Thanks Xx
[Text from Siobhan]
Testin testin! I like 2 b wined dined & 69nd. I take it u haven’t heard from him then? Did u get this?? xxxx
Disgusted, I threw my phone into my handbag and headed towards the ladies. I’d been dying for a pee for ages and couldn’t hold on any longer. If my appointment with the nurse came up, they’d just have to wait.
‘Jesus!’ A flash look in the grubby hospital mirror made me jump. My peroxide blonde hair, recently extended by ten inches, had settled itself into a shape that could only be described as resembling that of a cat’s arse perched on top of my head. It had a mind of its own. What was happening to me? I also had started to notice that the growth of my leg hair had slowed down in recent da
ys too. Excellent, you may think - Wrong! It seemed all my leg hair had actually decided to migrate to my upper lip. Adding to that, my newly acquired ‘retained water’ look left me with a permanently jutting tummy. It was safe to say - I was not looking my best. It was no wonder Travis wasn’t returning my calls.
Forgetting all about my pee, I stepped up close to the mirror and began my routine facial inspection; pulling the skin by my hairline tightly upwards, momentarily taking away ten years worth of the effects of gravity. Of course, this only ever lasts about a nanosecond. As I let go, ten years came flopping back.
‘I don’t remember that line in my face,’ I gasped. This was becoming a regular catchphrase of mine. It certainly wasn’t there yesterday. Frantically I tried smoothing it away with the tips of my fingers, hoping it might be a crease mark from frowning so much. No such luck, it was most definitely a new wrinkle that had crept up on me.
You, little bastard, are going to get filled tomorrow, I said to myself, wagging my finger at the offending wrinkle. I pulled my face this way and that, lifted my brows up with my fingers and tilted my head at different angles. God I looked rough. I need a face-lift. I’ll have to put that on my want-it - need-it - must-have-it list. Oh, I wish my Botox would hurry up and kick in, I thought, as I continued scanning the rest of my ageing body. I hated this cruel mirror. I was almost certain that it was faulty. Hang on a minute. I staggered back from the mirror in horror.
No. It can’t be. It’s not possible. WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN? I could actually see my own arse without even turning round. Bloody fantastic. I am definitely going to demand a refund on my poxy gym membership. Could things get any worse?
