Champagne Kisses (17 page)

Now praying for this to be over, I did what he said, and as he ejaculated partly over me – now literally making me a dirty bitch! – and partly across the mirror, I pulled on the stocking and winced in case I decapitated his manhood.

Despite his running commentary during the build-up, when he actually orgasmed Robert was mute apart from a few groans.

Pushing me away he stumbled to the bed and collapsed in throes of laughter.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

‘Ha. Yes, sexy. You did good.’

At ten o’clock Parker arrived home mentally drained after spending the day ordering people about. He loved his job, but always came home shattered after twelve hours of arguing with art directors over which shade of grey makes a wall look mythical.

Tossing his black Gucci man-bag of drawings across
the
floor, he kicked off his pointy black Gucci shoes and fell on to the couch beside me.

‘So how is the dark prince of Gucci this evening?’ I asked, trying to appear sober.

‘Fucked. Think pretty Thai boy working the strip in Bangkok. That’s how fucked I am.’

‘Fair enough. Glad I asked.’

‘Sorry pet, how was your day? Are you all right? You look very flushed.’

Although all evidence of my perverse afternoon had been banished, Parker had a sharp eye and was able to sniff out sex at ten paces.

Trying to be evasive, I asked him did he fancy anything to eat, but he wasn’t to be distracted.

‘You’re all red in the cheeks. What have you been up to?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, looking extremely guilty.

‘Listen, I’m not in the mood for twenty minutes of guessing games. Just tell me now because you have the look of boldness about you.’

‘Hon, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Oh-mi-God. That good? Tell me, tell me, tell me.’

Bribing him to make me one of his fabulously sinful hot chocolates, I explained the whole sordid scenario as I watched him make froth on the fancy gizmo on his €3,000 coffee machine.

Studiously he remained quiet through my whole story, and as he popped three large pink marshmallows into my giant mug and handed it to me, he
darted
me one of his serious looks and told me to sit down.

‘Now don’t get angry with me, but I’ve a theory.’

‘About what?’ I asked, but I didn’t really want to hear his answer.

‘I’m being deadly serious. And I don’t want you to shoot the messenger.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘OK, but you’re not going to like it.’

‘Parker …’

‘He’s gay.’

‘No he’s not.’

‘He’s gay. Well, bi. But he definitely likes boys’ bums.’

‘Grow up.’

‘He’s gay and I’ll prove it to you. Trust me, I’m a fag!’

‘God, you’re full of it sometimes. Listen, I know he’s only a temporary fixture. As far as I’m concerned Robert is my Mr Good Enough For Now guy. Ha! That is if I can afford to keep him in expensive stockings.’

‘Hi, Maddie, can you talk?’

‘Not really. I’ve just told my mother I’m pregnant. She didn’t exactly take it well.’

‘What did she say?’

‘That I was a no good embarrassment like my father.’

‘They’re still arguing, yeah?’

‘When are they not? You know, she almost started frothing at the mouth she got herself so worked up. All this, “you’re nothing but a dirty whore” and that I got what I deserved.’

‘Wow. We’re like two peas in a pod …’

‘What ya mean?’

‘Sorry, hon. I was just thinking out loud. Listen, I just rang to say that I think you’re being really brave.’

‘Thanks.’

‘No I’m serious. I don’t know how I would have handled the situation. I know you hate it when I get mushy, but I just wanted to tell you you’re deadly and that I’m here for you if you need me.’

There was silence at the end of the phone.

‘Maddie, are you there?’

‘Yeah, I’m just …’ sniff, ‘I just …’ sniff, ‘I have to go …’

‘Maddie?’

‘What?’

‘Keep the chin up, hon, it’ll all work itself out. I promise ya.’

6

‘HE’S GOING TO
have them lasered for me!’ screamed an excited Parker down the phone.

‘I just left you five minutes ago. What are you talking about?’ My nerves were frayed. It was my second day at work and I felt like I was about to step into a war zone.

I kept telling myself to think of the money, but it was useless. The fear of seeing Maureen again was turning my stomach. That, or the Tropicana orange juice I had necked for breakfast was gone off as Parker said.

‘Jeff. He’s just rung me to say he’ll get that furlining zapped off for me. It must be love.’

‘Hang on, are you talking about his hairy hands again? You can’t be serious? You’re not actually going to push the poor bloke to get the hair on the back of his hands removed – are you?’

‘Yes, it’s gross. I feel like I’m being groped by a giant
silverback
ape when he touches me. And anyway, he offered.’

‘Mmmm, just out of the blue he offered. You’re such a diva. Listen, I’m very happy for you and your gorilla, but I’m about to walk into my own version of hell. I gotta go.’

The hairy hands saga would have to wait till later. I was standing on the bottom step of an impressive Georgian building which was now my place of work. It had a fabulously huge fire engine red door, with tall white pillars surrounded by delicate stained-glass windows. The kind you see on postcards.

In nature the colour red signals danger. If I were looking at a traffic light it would be telling me to stop. But despite the warning signs I still had to pass the threshold and face the ramifications.

But I had nothing to stress about. When I arrived into the office, Louise told me that Maureen was on annual leave and that I had nothing to do but drag a sack of invites to the post office and answer any calls that came through on Maureen’s phone.

Happy days.

With little to do other than physically be in the office, which was fairly cold and bare with its stark white walls that reached up high to old ornate cornice work and coving, I busied myself with sending e-mails to friends I hadn’t seen in ages.

Catching up on old correspondence was only ever done when I was really bored. And my mates from
around
the world knew this. But they were guilty of the same crime.

Approximately once or twice a year I’d hear from old pals who had defected to foreign spots as far afield as Australia or Hong Kong. All of whom had gone on to lead much more successful and fruitful lifestyles abroad.

There was Christian, who moved to Johannesburg, who was far from a religious man. He found his happiness down the bottom of a diamond mine instead of helping the missionaries.

He now lives with five Dobermanns, two cleaners, one gardener and ten security cameras, that he sits and watches each evening as he has his dinner alone.

There was also my old friend Anna Maria, who flew down to Sydney while taking a year out from studying Business & Law at UCD, but she fell in love with one of the few straight men on Bondi beach and never returned.

She now has six kids under five, three girls, three boys, with her youngest, Sam and Jake, being six-month-old twins.

Her last e-mail was to say her mother-in-law René was moving in to help out with the kids, and that her husband Thomas had been diagnosed with skin cancer. I had terrible nightmares for ages after, imagining myself in her shoes.

I had visions of myself climbing a mountain of dirty nappies but never quite making it to the top. All the while some shrivelled-up old bat was standing
over
me telling me I was doing everything wrong.

Argh! It was my idea of hell.

But she felt blessed by all of her healthy children and her ability to produce them.

‘Not everyone is lucky enough to be able to have kids,’ she boasted. I agreed with her, but told her it wasn’t her duty to repopulate on behalf of eggless women across the world.

The last of my globetrotting friends was Jean. She was my best friend from primary school, and to this day we share very little in common, except the aptitude to keep in touch. Despite her mother’s best efforts to split us up, because she didn’t think I was a suitable friend for her studious princess, we always stayed in touch via notes, letters and now e-mails.

According to her mother, I was a bad influence on Jean because her free time would be better spent at home practising her piano scales and reading Enid Blyton. Although I only wanted to drag her to the nearby park and climb trees or look at the local flasher expose his bits, I wasn’t deemed suitable company, and to this day I still can’t work out why.

My own mother wasn’t as concerned with my extra-curricular habits. She always preferred me to be outdoors, not because of the fresh air, but so I wouldn’t be in dirtying her house.

I was never allowed to bring friends over to hang out, God forbid ever asking for a sleepover. No, my mother just didn’t like children that much. I think she expected us to pop out of the womb fully functional
adults
, with impeccable manners and the ability to understand the saying, ‘Only speak when you are spoken to.’

I was halfway through writing a generic e-mail to the gang explaining the ups and downs of life as a single girl in Dublin, when Maureen’s phone rang.

Snapping into work mode I diligently picked up the receiver and in my best phone voice said, ‘Good morning, Tiswell Properties Limited, Eva speaking, can I help you?’

A confused female voice at the end of the phone line asked, ‘Is this not Maureen’s number?’ ‘Yes, it is,’ I explained, ‘But she’s on holiday this week, can I take a message for her?’

‘Oh right, eh, no. It’s a personal call. I’ll ring her mobile.’

‘OK so. Bye now.’ I did my best to sound professional and cheery.

I was just returning to my e-mail, explaining how I’d been the star of an erotic porn movie with a guy called Robert, when Maureen’s phone rang again.

‘Hello, Tiswell Properties Limited, Eva speaking, can I help you?’

‘Is that Eva Valentine?’

‘Yes it is, hiya, who’s this?’

There was silence.

‘Hello. Is there anyone there?’ I said.

‘It’s Annette Barron.’

My heart sank as panic set in.

‘Listen, Annette … I don’t want to argue with you, so I’m just going to hang up.’

‘Don’t!’ she pleaded, with a quiver in her voice. ‘I’m sorry I slapped you before. And I’m sorry I threatened you. I was extremely upset, as you can imagine. But I need to talk.’

‘I’ve nothing more to say, Annette. I’ve already said I’m sorry and I meant it. I’ve no interest in your husband. You’re just going to have to take my word on that.’

‘I really need to talk to you though, in person.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’

‘Please. What time do you take lunch?’

‘Annette …’

‘Please,’ her voice sounded emotional again. ‘It won’t take long.’

‘Emmm, one o’clock, I suppose.’

‘Thank you. I’ll be waiting outside.’

As I hung up the phone a wave of claustrophobia flooded over me. Annette was coming to see me and would be waiting for me at the front door.

Could there be a back exit?

Should I just leg it now?

As I plotted a possible escape route, I could feel my temperature rising as if I’d been plunged into an oven. I felt trapped. And the black woollen poloneck jumper I was wearing wasn’t helping matters.

I was terrified of seeing this woman. What if she wanted to hit me again?

Tugging at my polo to allow air at my neck I began
to
feel nauseous and dizzy. This was the nightmare that just kept giving. Was I ever going to be free of this bad Barron karma? As total panic gripped my body, I started to hyperventilate.

Feeling like a ton of bricks had been dropped on my chest I gasped for fresh air but couldn’t catch my breath. All I could think of was to run outside. As I got up from my chair in slow motion to head to the door, everything blurred and then blacked out …

The next thing I recall was Marcus standing over me asking, ‘Are ye all right luv?’

‘Wha … What happened?’ I felt strangely calm as I lay on the floor.

‘Ya crashed, darlin. Ye’ve been out cold a few wee minutes.’

Trying to piece it all together I remained still on the floor as my senses of smell, touch, sight and sound returned.

‘Drink this,’ ordered Emma and handed me a plastic cup of water, almost spilling most of it on top of me.

‘Yeah … thanks,’ I muttered, trying to elevate myself to a sitting position.

‘That was one spectacular fall, Eva. One minute you were running across the room and then the next you just dropped to the floor. You’re lucky you didn’t crack your head on one of the desks.’

As if someone had flicked a switch, I promptly felt pain, a heavy throbbing pulse at the front side of my head. Lifting my hand to my forehead I could feel a sizeable bump forming.

‘I’ve hit something.’ I looked around at my assembled audience for suggestions.

‘It was the floor ya hit, luv,’ chuckled Marcus, trying to stifle a giggle.

‘Sorry for laughin’ but ya looked so funny. You looked like a fat Sonia O’Sullivan collapsing across the finish line.’

‘Thanks for that.’ As if my day wasn’t bad enough, I’d just been called fat.

‘Ach no. I meant just fat compared to her. That one’s got more of a man’s body than I do.’

‘What time is it?’ Suddenly I remembered why I had got so upset.

‘It’s a quarter to one,’ offered Emma. ‘Are you hungry? Is that why you collapsed? You should just go for lunch now.’

‘I’ll go to the loo first,’ I said, thinking out loud, and shuffled in the direction of the hall. As I let the door swing closed behind me I could hear the office erupt into fits of laughter.

‘Did ya see her go?’ cackled Marcus hysterically. ‘Poor wee lass looked a state!’

‘A fiver says she’s pregnant,’ laughed one of the girls.

‘Ha! A tenner she’s a dipso,’ laughed the other.

Normally I would have run back inside and let them know exactly what I thought of them. But I hadn’t the energy. I was going to have to face Annette in a couple of minutes. I had to pull myself together.