This Charming Man (34 page)

‘Lola?’ Man’s voice calling from outside house. Surprising. ‘Lola?’

Paddy coming to claim me! To tell me it had all been terrible mistake!

Not. Of course not. But it just doesn’t go away. Even when not thinking specific thoughts, am operating in mesh of free-floating dread and only takes something very, very small – e.g. mention of Louise Kennedy in magazine – to trip off high-speed chain of painful thoughts. Like this:

‘Louise Kennedy’s latest collection…’ = Alicia Thornton wearing Louise Kennedy suit in photo in paper = newspaper crowing that she was woman who ‘won Quicksilver’s heart’ = Paddy is getting married to other woman =
Excuse me? Paddy is getting married to other woman?
= unbearable sorrow.

All happens in less than second. Red-hot skewer of agony has pierced me before my brain has had time to figure out why. Every other cell in body in on the news; poor brain is last to know.

Being without Paddy is defining fact of my life. Whenever had split up with other boyfriends had been sad, yes, not denying it. But always had hope that a future still awaited me. But I’d met Paddy, I’d met my Real One. He’d been and gone and my future was empty.

Opened door. Heavy-set man. Out on road, DHL van parked.

Heavy-set man said, ‘Lola Daly?’

‘That’s me.’

‘Parcel for you. Sign here.’

Wondered what it was. Who was sending me stuff?

Under ‘Contents’ it said ‘Shoes.’ Now knew what it was.

DHL man turned box upside down to read it. ‘Shoes, is it?’

In Dublin would stare at him coldly for his nosiness. But in Knockavoy can do no such thing. Am obliged to lean shoulder against door-jamb in attitude indicating have all time in world for in-depth chinwag. ‘Yes, shoes.’

‘For a wedding, is it?’

‘… Er, no, not for a wedding.’ Shoes not even for me, as it happens, but cannot tell him that, no matter how talkative I’m obliged to be. Am bound by bonds of secrecy. Dilemma. Am pulled in two different directions, ruled by two masters.

‘Just felt like buying new shoes, was it?’

‘That’s it. Just… you know… felt like it.’

‘Down here on your holidays, is it?’

‘Er, no, longer.’

‘How long?’

‘No… er… plans.’ Ashamed by my life. Couldn’t say, Am stuck here until my friends and colleagues decide I am sane enough to be allowed back to Dublin. ‘Just… ah… playing it by ear… you know?’

‘So I might see you again?’

‘You might.’

‘Niall,’ he said, sticking out his hand for me to shake.

‘Lola,’ I said.

‘Oh I know.’

Waited until he was well and truly gone, then opened box to check it was what thought it was. It was. Rang Noel from Dole.

Said to him, ‘Your package has arrived.’

‘Finally? About time. Mint.’ (‘Mint’–word he favours, meaning ‘great’, ‘excellent’, etc.) ‘Will call this evening after work. When suits you?’

Tricky. Evenings my busiest times. Had to sit on sea wall and exchange pleasantries with strangers about beauty of sunset. Had to have non-lumpy soup of day in the Oak. Had to watch soaps with Mrs Butterly. Had to have long, in-depth chat with Brandon and Kelly over DVD selection. Had to spend time in the Dungeon with Boss, Moss and the Master, listening to the Master recite unfeasibly long poems. Packed schedule.

But today there was far bigger spanner in the works.

‘I’m sorry, Noel from Dole, I have friends coming for the weekend.’

Startled-sounding pause. Then he said, ‘Oh fine! Be like that. From Dublin, I suppose, these friends of yours?’ Said sneerily, as if Dublin pretentious hellhole.

Just minute… ‘You are the one who insisted on absolute secrecy,’ I said. ‘Don’t mind if you come to collect parcel while others are here.’

Noel quite tricky character, prone to volatile outbursts, but my welfare payments had been expedited with unprecedented speed – without me having to produce powdered unicorn horn or brass rubbing of Holy Grail. Most irregular. Still expecting to receive terrifying letter saying it was all a mistake and had to pay back every penny, plus interest.

Under circumstances, probably better not to rub Noel up wrong way.

After surly silence he said, ‘Is okay, will wait. But you are not to tell your Dublin friends about me.’

‘Of course not.’ Was lie. Was going tell them, but – obviously – swear them to secrecy.

‘How about Monday?’ Noel asked.

Monday long way away. Might have been pronounced fully restored to mental health and on way back to Dublin. But not very likely.

‘Monday fine. Come after work.’

Late. Hurried to town. Like it mattered. Conducted business briskly – buying food, wine and much, much chocolate for arrival of Bridie, Treese and Jem – then hurried home again. Changed back into pyjamas, wellingtons and feather boa. Pulled couch round to back of house and spent afternoon lying on it, reading Margery Allingham thriller.

Funny thing. If people were asked to describe perfect life, they might describe mine: living in beautiful, beautiful place – sea, nature, all that; not having get up crack of dawn, sleeping half the day, none of stresses of work, having time to watch DVDs on revenge, read damp thrillers and chew each mouthful of food twenty times. But cannot enjoy it. Anxious, antsy. Feel life passing me by. Feel everything have worked hard for slipping away.

Ashamed of my ingratitude. Now have other unpleasant emotion to feel. Variety is nice, I suppose. Makes change from terror and heartbreak.

Gave self pep talk (silent one, not yet at stage where talking out loud to self): One day life would be different and stressy and busy again and I would love to disappear to small beautiful place and do nothing. So really must try to enjoy my time here. This is not for ever!

Put down book, closed eyes and thought about Paddy. Sometimes I thought had made peace with it. But other times, I am seized by frenzy of missing him, of needing him. From time to time, still think: There was such a bond between us, all that feeling can’t simply have gone away, just because he’s getting married to someone else.

Haven’t rung him since return to Knockavoy. Well, only once. Drunk, of course. Only time could convince self to be hopeful. (Had got drunk by accident. Had been bought drinks by everyone from Ol’ Prune Eyes to Mrs Butterly to Boss to rival Alco’s Corner. Impolite to refuse native hospitality. Could cause terrible insult.)

Had been walking home, happy and hopeful and – let’s say it like it was – pissed, and decided ring him. Would convince him to break it off with this so-called Alicia Thornton. Beautiful evening. Balmy. Moon smiling on ‘wine-dark’ sea (quoting the Master). Everything seemed possible.

Sadly not. Simply drunken misapprehension.

Made call all right. But went to voicemail. Should have hung up, but in grip of unstoppable force.

‘Paddy, Lola here. Just ringing say hello. Er… that’s all. Um, don’t marry that other woman. Right… ah… goodbye.’

All set to ring his landline, but was overtaken with sudden queasiness. Too much emotion, probably. Or perhaps mixture of red wine, Southern Comfort and Guinness, sweetened with blackcurrant.

Next morning, thought I’d dreamt it.
Hoped
I’d dreamt it. But forced self to check phone. No. Had definitely rung him.

Shame. Bad shame.

Which counted as progress. In immediate aftermath of news, shame conspicuous by absence.

Not spying. Not this time. Dragging couch back inside when glanced towards Firestarter Considine’s house and saw him in his kitchen. First thought, a nosy-neighbour one: He’s home early from work. Second thought: Is that ACTUALLY Firestarter Considine, and if so, what on earth is he WEARING?

Stared. Stared hard. Was he really wearing swimming goggles and a shower cap? Yes. Undeniably yes.

Strange goings-on in that house.

Arrival of Bridie and Barry
Listening for car, like lonely rural person. Hear it long before it arrives. Not because it is only car on road – indeed not, road is main Knockavoy to Miltown Malbay highway, quite busy – but because of music Bridie has on, on car stereo. Oasis, if not mistaken. Bridie’s taste in music almost as bad as taste in clothing, but she is unrepentant.

Car pulls up beside me, music abruptly shut off and Barry emerges from driver’s side. Barry permitted to come for weekend, because does everything he is told to, does not express opinions of his own, causes no waves. Unlike other people’s husbands.

‘Three hours, forty-nine minutes,’ was first thing Bridie said to me. ‘Excellent time for Friday rush hour. Hold on, just have to write it down.’

Treese and Jem arrive
Treese driving adorable little blue Audi TT – gift from Vincent! Perhaps to apologize for having abnormally large head? Jem in passenger seat looking uncomfortable. Too low to ground and slightly too chubby for car. Also embarrassed to be in such girly vehicle? (Claudia on hen weekend which is reason Jem allowed to visit.)

Treese v. glam-looking, in heels and sleek tailoring.

‘You are fabulous,’ I say.

People used to say about Treese, ‘lovely-looking, for fat girl.’ Patronizing. And to her face, ‘Treese, you really should knock off the sweets. Worked for my sister-in-law, she lost four stone. If you stopped being porker, you could be quite attractive.’

Once she lost the weight, she suddenly clicked into being soignée woman. All other parts had already been in place, just waiting. People who had urged her to be thin had to swallow hard. Taken aback. Wrong-footed. Unhappy. Kept her away from their boyfriends.

‘How is Vincent?’ I asked. ‘Keeping well?’ Had to ask. Polite. He was invited for weekend – obviously he had to be if Barry was – but nothing ever said. Not even, ‘Vincent says thanks for invite, but he is busy this weekend trying to get his head reduced in size.’ Simply, we all – Treese included – in silent conspiracy that it would be better if he didn’t come.

Newcomers taking deep breaths of salty air. Standing facing sea, hands on hips, filling lungs with ozone, saying, ‘God, that’s fantastic!’ Took seven to eight minutes. Then Jem clapped hands together and said, ‘Right! Which pub?’

The Oak, for preprandial libations (Margery Allingham)

Ol’ Prune Eyes took time out to sit down with us. Very smiley, twinkly-eyed, pleasant. Told others that he had heard lots about them. Delightful. I felt proud, almost as if he was my invention.

He told them how I came in every lunchtime (it’s not
every
lunch time, but never mind, no need to contradict, much goodwill floating around) for soup of the day. ‘She always says, “Ibrahim, is it lumpy?” ’ He laughed hard and hit thigh and repeated, ‘ “Ibrahim, is it lumpy?” Every day.’

Everyone joined in with laughter, not quite sure what laughing at, but charmed that he found it so funny. (Different cultures, different senses of humour.)

‘Ibrahim, can I buy you drink?’ Bridie offered.

‘No, thank you. Don’t drink.’

‘Why not? You an alcoholic?’ Bridie so
nosy
!

‘Don’t drink alcohol for religious reasons.’

Bridie stared, clearly wondering what kind of peculiar religion forbade alcohol. To be Catholic, is practically obligatory to have drink problem.

‘What religion is that? Christian Science?’

‘Muslim,’ he said.

‘Oh yes, didn’t think of that one. Well… er… fair play.’

Subsequent conversation stilted. Then two golfers, seeking respite from rawlrawlrawl of the Hole in One, came in and Ibrahim had to resume his bar duties.

As soon as he was gone, Bridie leant close to rest of us and hissed, in splurge of admission, ‘Is terrible, but when I hear people are Muslims, my first thought is that they are secret suicide bombers.’

‘Yes!’ Jem agreed, in enthusiastic whisper. ‘And that they despise me.’

‘Yes!’

‘When I was in Morocco with Claudia, the men used to look at her like she was a whore.’

That’s because she
is
a whore
. Bridie and I had moment of strong, steady eye contact while this message flashed between us.

‘They have no respect for women,’ Jem said. ‘Beating their wives when they don’t cover their hair!’

Treese was getting agitated and trying to interject. ‘That is outrag –’

‘And I bet they are all mad pissheads in private,’ Bridie said. ‘Getting lamped out of their skulls and pretending to be –’

‘That is outrag –’

‘– teetotallers and saying everyone else is unclean swine for having glass of wine and ham sandwich once in while.’

‘That is
outrageous
way to think!’ Finally Treese had the floor. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves! Over two billion Muslims in world – they cannot ALL be suicide bombers! Is nothing but racism!’

Worst fear confirmed. Don’t want to be racist.

‘Vast, VAST majority of Muslims are moderate.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Jem said soothingly. But too late. We
are treated to lecture, the gist of which is that everyone in world, regardless of race or religion, is entitled to respect and fully functioning latrines.

Back in the Oak after having bite to eat in Mrs McGrory’s pantry.

Place far busier. Ol’ Prune Eyes rushed off his feet.

Jem went to bar to buy round and returned, flushed and happy. ‘We’re invited to a party tomorrow night!’ He had made new friends while purchasing drinks. Not first time such a thing had ever happened to someone. Don’t mean to be cynical, but…

‘What party?’ Bridie asked.

‘Those lads at the bar.’

Surf boys. Five or six of them. Barely dressed, flip-flops, cut-offs, tans, earrings, salt. And there was Jake, in washed-out T-shirt, low-slung jeans and shark’s-tooth neck ornament, lounging against bar, drink in hand, watching me. He mouthed, ‘Lola,’ and smiled.

Bridie rounded on me. ‘YOU KNOW HIM?’

‘Jake?… Um… yes.’ Quite proud, to be honest. Is like buying fabulous new Chloé coat, but not telling anyone, just arriving along in it and seeing everyone’s faces.