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Authors: Sinead Moriarty

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BOOK: Whose Life is it Anyway?
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Normally I met guys in pubs or nightclubs and they never seemed to have real jobs. My last boyfriend, Sean, had been an apprentice jockey. The fact that he was a foot shorter than me hadn’t bothered me too much. The fact that he weighed a stone less than I did bothered me a lot. I could never bring myself to sit on his knee because I’d have crushed his legs – which wouldn’t have been great for his career.

Whenever Sean and I went out for dinner – which was rare – he’d comment on everything I ate and inform me how many calories each forkful contained. He was permanently dieting to try to meet his target weight. Eventually we stopped eating out. Sitting across the table from someone who’s eating a plate of lettuce is no fun. Food – or lack thereof – affected every aspect of our relationship. When we went to the cinema, I couldn’t have popcorn, when we went for coffee, we had to have skinny-milk lattes, which tasted rotten.

Sean also had an unhealthy obsession with his horse. He talked about Prancing Queen as if she was another woman. He was always going on about how beautiful she was, how elegant and sophisticated, fit and feisty. I actually found myself becoming jealous of an animal!

Things came to a head one day when I walked into my apartment to find him wrapped in clingfilm doing star jumps in the living room, sweating all over my new rug. I was going out with an anorexic midget who preferred his horse to me. It was time to call it a day. But before I could get the words out, the cellophane man said, ‘I’m sorry, Niamh, but it just isn’t working. Prancing Queen has to come first and she needs my full attention. I just called over to tell you that and to borrow some clingfilm. I’ll see you round. I’m off for a ten-mile run. I need to lose five pounds before my weigh-in on Saturday.’

And with that, he jogged out of the door and down the road, leaving a trail of sweat in his wake. How dare he dump me for his horse? It doesn’t get more humiliating than that. I cried for weeks afterwards. My already fragile self-esteem was completely shattered. I couldn’t even bring myself to write about it in my column, I was so ashamed.

So here I was, having just met a normal man who drank coffee with full-fat milk, had a proper job and was incredibly attractive. Where was the catch?

My phone rang. It was Emily.

‘Hi.’

‘So, what happened after I very discreetly left you?’

‘Thanks for that.’

‘To be honest, the sparks between you were so hot I was afraid I’d get burnt.’

I giggled. ‘Was it that obvious?’

‘Serious sexual tension.’

‘He’s gorgeous, isn’t he?’

‘I think he’s one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen.’

‘I know, so why’s he interested in me?’

‘Come on. You look great at the moment, thanks to the jockey. Going out with him did wonders for your figure.’

‘At least something good came out of it. Pierre asked me out to dinner tonight.’

‘Lucky you.’

‘It’s too good to be true. There must be something wrong with him.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t jinx it. Just enjoy it.’

‘I’m really nervous.’

‘I’m not surprised. I’ve never seen you so smitten. You were dumbstruck.’

‘That’s what’s freaking me out.’

‘It’s serendipity.’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘Niamh, just get dressed up, go out and have a great time. Otherwise, I’m going instead of you.’

I spent ages getting ready. I wanted to look as good as I possibly could, so that he wouldn’t take one look at me and run off in the opposite direction screaming, ‘Sorry, mistake.’

When I arrived at the restaurant he was sitting at the table drinking a glass of wine. He stood up and kissed my cheek. My stomach flipped. He was gorgeous.

‘You look great,’ he said, smiling at me.

‘Ditto.’

‘Wine?’

‘Large glass, please.’

‘Thirsty?’

‘Nervous.’

He filled a glass to the brim and I slugged it back.

‘Better?’

‘Much, thanks.’

‘So…’

‘So…’

The waiter came over and we ordered our food. When he’d left, Pierre leant over. ‘I have a confession to make.’

‘I knew it, you
are
married.’

‘I’m forty-two.’

‘Botox?’

‘Good genes. You?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Young!’

‘Do I look older?’

‘No, you act it.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

‘For an old codger like me, yes.’

‘Makes you feel less like a paedophile.’

‘You could say that.’ He laughed.

‘OK, my turn to confess. This is my first date with a man who is black, over thirty-five and has a proper job.’

‘That’s a lot of firsts.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘What did your previous boyfriends do?’

‘Confession number two. There haven’t been very many previous boyfriends. There was an apprentice jockey, an out-of-work actor and a photographer.’

‘Photography’s a proper job.’

‘You didn’t see his photos. You?’

‘Boring, really. Went out with the same girl for nine years. We broke up six months ago.’

‘Reason?’

‘It just fizzled out and I moved to Dublin.’

‘Define “fizzled”.’

‘We realized it wasn’t meant to be.’

‘Who realized first?’

‘I suppose I did.’

‘Was she English?’

‘French.’

‘Ugly?’

‘Good-looking.’

‘Obese?’

‘Slim.’

‘Thick?’

‘Doctor.’

‘Selfish?’

‘She works for the Red Cross.’

‘I’m just going to pop outside and shoot myself.’

Pierre laughed. ‘She wasn’t funny.’

‘Funny’s all very well, but it has to come as part of a package. I’m not beautiful, French or intellectual. I hate flies and creepy-crawlies so I could never go and save people in Africa even if I was a doctor. Besides, my hair goes fuzzy in the humidity and I look worse than normal. So maybe you should save yourself a few quid on the dinner and we’ll call it a day now.’

‘I think you missed the part about Brigitte and me breaking up.’

‘And I think you need your head examined. She sounds amazing.’

‘She was in lots of ways, but she wasn’t right for me. I’m sure she’ll make someone else very happy.’

‘Pierre, you need to understand something here. I’m not a clown. I’m not funny in the morning or, truth be told, for most of the afternoon. I can occasionally be amusing in the evening – alcohol units depending – and in my column. But that doesn’t mean I’m a barrel of laughs to be with. In fact, I can be a right grumpy old cow.’

‘I happen to think you’re gorgeous, sexy, very clever and witty. Maybe you won’t save the world, but I can live with that.’

‘What did your family think when you broke up with your girlfriend of nine years?’

‘My parents were fond of Brigitte and I think they hoped we’d settle down, but it was my decision and they respect that.’

‘What about your brothers and sisters?’

‘I’m an only child.’

‘Oh.’

‘That’s bad?’

‘Very.’

‘Why?’

‘Only children are used to undivided attention, not having to share their toys and are bossy.’

‘And this is based on?’

‘Observation.’

‘I’m forty-two. I’ve learnt to share my toys.’

‘That remains to be seen.’

‘How many siblings do you have?’

‘If my father had had his way I’d have ten. But my mother put the skids on after three children. I’ve one older sister, Siobhan, and a younger brother, Finn.’

‘Middle child!’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t they tend to be chippy and resentful because they have an undefined place in the family?’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘How did your family feel about your break-ups?’

‘The only one I bothered to tell them about was the jockey because my dad’s mad into horse-racing. He had high hopes we’d be going to Cheltenham celebrating Gold Cup winners. He was a bit put out when I told him I’d got dumped for a horse. Needless to say, the rest of them thought it was hilarious.’

Pierre roared laughing.

‘I was quite upset at the time.’

‘Sorry.’

‘It’s OK, I’m over it now.’

‘What was the horse called?’

‘Prancing Queen,’ I said, and we both giggled.

Our food arrived and we ate in silence for a while.

‘How did you get into journalism?’ Pierre asked.

‘My auntie Nuala suggested it and I liked the idea. English was the only subject I was good at in school. So I came to Dublin to study.’

‘Why Dublin?’

‘I wanted to get away from my family. It was a bit crowded in my house before I left and I needed some space. My sister, her husband and their two kids were living with us, not to mention the steady stream of relatives that come through the kitchen door every day. We’re a very close family, which is great, but when you’re a teenager it can be a little claustrophobic. I knew my parents would be supportive of me coming to Ireland so it kept everyone happy. Then I got a job on the paper, writing about anything that needed to be covered – literally from obituaries to shaggy-dog stories. You name it, I wrote about it. It was good training and it eventually led to me getting my own column. So I stayed.’

‘Do you miss London?’

‘I miss my family but I go home regularly. What about you?’

‘Studied phonetics at Cambridge followed by a PhD. Then I decided I’d like to lecture so I went to teach in Berlin for a while, moved to Paris and now I’m here.’

‘Do you like it here?’

‘I like it more and more by the minute.’

‘I was just thinking the same thing.’

‘Dessert?’

‘Not hungry.’

‘Coffee?’

‘Not thirsty.’

‘My place?’

‘I thought you’d never ask.’

3

As I walked into Pierre’s apartment I realized that this was another first. I had never gone back to a man’s place on a first date. If I liked them enough, I always brought them back to my apartment. It was safer that way. If they turned out to be a psychopath and attacked me with an ice pick, kitchen knife or some other culinary utensil, I could scream and my neighbours would hear me through the paper-thin walls and call the police.

Yet here I was, strolling into Pierre’s apartment without a care in the world. Everything about this day had been surreal. I looked around me. The place was gorgeous. Unlike the jumped-up broom cupboard I lived in, this was a proper, grown-up apartment with floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out on to the river Liffey. The walls were painted a creamy-beige, the furniture was chocolate brown, and beautiful rugs were strewn on the wooden floors. The walls were covered with incredible paintings and tall, striking sculptures filled the corners of the room.

The bookshelf beside me groaned under the weight of French literary greats – Flaubert, Balzac, Hugo, Maupassant, Baudelaire – plus a copy of Joyce’s
Ulysses
. I had had
Ulysses
beside my bed now for six months. But somehow, every time I went to read it, it got replaced after the first page by Dan Brown on a good day and
Hello!
on a bad one.

‘Welcome to my bachelor pad,’ said Pierre, coming out of the kitchen with a bottle of wine and two matching, unchipped wine glasses.

‘So this is how real grown-ups live.’ I smiled.

‘I’m sure your place is lovely.’

‘It’s a dump and you’re never going to see it. This is incredible. I feel as if I’ve stepped into another world.’

‘I’d like to take all the credit but my mother came over and helped kit it out. It’s her thing.’

‘Is she an interior designer?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, she’s been running a business for years. Very successful.’

‘I’m not surprised. She’s got amazing taste. Is this her?’ I asked, picking up a photo from the mantelpiece.

‘Yes. It was taken a couple of years ago in Paris at her sixtieth birthday party.’

‘She looks about thirty!’ I said, peering at the photo. The woman smiling back at me was beautiful, stylish and youthful. Pierre was sitting beside her. He had one arm round his mother and the other round a woman of about thirty, who looked like Jennifer Aniston, only better.

‘Is that your ex-girlfriend?’ I asked, praying he’d say it was his cousin.

‘Yes, that’s Brigitte.’

Bollox.

‘Have you read all of these?’ I asked, gesturing at the bookshelf in an attempt to divert from the stunning supermodel ex-girlfriend beaming down at me from the mantelpiece.

‘Yes. My father was a professor of French at Oxford, so French literature has always been a high priority for him. I didn’t get footballs for my birthday, I got books.’

‘Did you mind?’

‘They wouldn’t have been my first choice. But we only children don’t have anyone to kick a ball with so reading was something I did a lot of.’

‘To be so well read is such an achievement. Your dad did a good job.’

‘What did you get on your birthdays?’

‘I never got what I wanted either. When I asked for Barbie Ballet, I got Barbie with a home-made Irish dancing costume sewn on to her. When I asked for luminous pink leg-warmers, I got scratchy woolly socks that my great-auntie Josie knitted. And on my fourteenth birthday I asked for a Duran Duran T-shirt and ended up with one that said, “E´irinn go Br´ch” instead.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I hadn’t a clue because I never paid attention in Irish class, but my father proudly announced that it meant “Ireland for ever”. Needless to say, it never saw the light of day.’

‘Poor Niamh, you sound more deprived than I was.’

‘I was very nearly a social outcast.’

‘What saved you?’

‘My sense of humour. You?’

‘I was good at sports. When you’re a guy and you’re good at sports, you automatically have kudos.’

‘I wouldn’t say you were too shabby academically either, Professor.’

‘I got by.’ He grinned.

‘Confession.’

‘Uh-oh.’

‘I’ve read precisely none of the books on your bookshelf. I still haven’t even got round to reading
Ulysses
although I bought it two years ago.’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘Really?’

BOOK: Whose Life is it Anyway?
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