2000 - The Feng-Shui Junkie (11 page)

She stops suddenly to do some window shopping and I almost bump straight into her. I proceed past her and duck into a nearby porch. She is inspecting the posters of a competitor travel agency. Market research? This is impressive. And she the glorified coffee grinder.

A few minutes later she proceeds up the street past me and I fall into motion behind her again, still dying to locate the brand of perfume. I close in once again. I’m getting White Linen. No. Charlie? Hm, difficult one, that, when you’re dealing with this end of the scale.

God, though, I am so tempted here and now to shove her off the pavement in the path of an oncoming CIE bus. And shadow Ronan to the funeral celebrations, surprising him over my Calvin Klein sunglasses with a graveside eyebrow smirk that reads:
this is just a warning
.

She turns her head to the right and I duck left. This is a dangerous business. I fall back. She leads me across O’Connell Bridge, thronged with tourists and prams, and mis-fed Dublin-ers. She muddles her way through the human blizzard, stopping and starting, and avoiding and hesitating, and moving forward by degrees.

A few minutes later we hit pedestrianized and busy Grafton Street. I’m on to my second cigarette. She leads me to the top of the street, through the gigantic entrance of Stephen’s Green shopping centre on the corner, a huge rectangular edifice with three floors of absurdly white galleries, columns, arches and glass roofing that reminds you of a wedding cake.

She drags me through a succession of clothes shops. In the first, she dives head first into a loose lingerie bin, but the knickers and bras on offer are too cheap (decency-wise) for her liking – which is curious. In the second she gets into this conversation with the shop assistant about bra-strap rashes, while I contemplate nightdresses behind a nearby pillar. In the third she purchases black stockings, suspenders, panties and a few Wonder brassieres – not a drop of lemon-yellow in sight.

I follow her to a fourth clothes shop, where she buys a long dark-red dress with a diamond pattern sewn in gold. In an adjacent shoe shop she splurges on a pair of light-brown (Ronan’s colour) knee-high leather boots.

Now she trawls me through the interior-decoration section of Dunnes Stores. With cash she buys a white tablecloth and a medium-sized mirror, and several vases and a mantelpiece-type clock. I had no idea I destroyed her clock.

In a small furniture shop she delays for several minutes at the coffee table section, investigating some specials. Then she spends ten minutes in a television shop. This is getting to be fun. In a craft shop she buys a green silk batik scarf. Her eyes are green, if I remember correctly from the photograph.

Now she hauls me into a bookshop. She seems to know what she’s looking for. From the non-fiction she chooses a book which I notice is entitled
Taking Better Care of Your Indoor Plants
. From the best-sellers, she grabs a Catherine Alliott, a Jackie Collins and an American paperback about how to get in touch with one’s hidden powers. From the alternative section she picks up a book bearing the large letters in pink:
Feng Shui and Sacred Space
.

After making her biblio purchases with a credit card, she lugs me into this tiny, cluttered aromatherapy booth. It’s so narrow that when she slips past me on the way out she brushes against my back, making me want to turn round and start a scrap.

One after the other, we ascend the escalator to the top of the shopping centre. She is burdened down by a lot of plastic bags. She reminds me of a well-to-do bag lady, only younger and in fashion. She goes straight into a jeweller’s. With all her luggage.

I follow her in. There are eight or ten people inside this sleek, red-carpeted interior. She dumps her bags – apologetically – on the floor beside the entrance. Sophistication for you. She goes over and peers down into a glass cabinet with a Raymond Weil placard on top.

I move discreetly in her direction, pretending to be fascinated by the gold and silver chains in the glass cases to her left. I edge closer to her. The floozie’s legs are so long, she must be at least two inches taller than me.

Still, what use is being tall when you’re crippled?

I sniff. I can get her scent better inside. She smells rather good. Seems like it might be Happy. I slide behind her and pause to gaze into the same Raymond Weil case, sparkling with men’s watches from Geneva, the most expensive in the shop at just under a thousand pounds.

How could she possibly afford those?

She leans down for a better look. I am observing her carefully.

Expensive-looking gold chain round her neck, dangling in the air as she bends over. Long aquiline nose. Not unlike Ronan’s. Enragingly lineless eyes. Some freckles. The lips again. Next time I kiss Ronan I’ll be kissing them too. Next time I kiss Ronan I’ll be participating in a threesome germ orgy.

Suddenly she raises her head and smiles towards one of the assistants and she points towards the display with a carefully hand-crafted fingernail. “Could I see this one, please?” she shyly asks in this sickly-sweet voice that tries to be full of girlie appeal.

While she’s inspecting the watch on and off her wrist I move along, frowning deeply at some engagement rings.

“Do you have a nice box?” she wonders.

She’s buying Harry a watch.

She’s buying Harry a watch!

I was right! It was just a silly little fling.

Quietly I withdraw, flooded with relief.

Feeling ever so slightly foolish, I slip past Nicole’s messy bundle of shopping bags by the door and leave the shop.

On the way I take out my mobile and dial Ronan’s number.

I must see him. Now. I must go to his surgery, to prove to myself that everything is okay. To show him – in deeds rather than in words – that I forgive him his little fling. That I still love him. To remind him that I’m the one he loves.

“Julie, are you free for lunch?” is the first thing he says.

I can’t believe I’m hearing this. He’s just asked me out to lunch. And his voice is gentle and soft and kind, nothing like it was before. He feels guilty. He’s trying to make up.

Okay, he played around.

But can he help being male?

We arrange to meet in Dalkey in the King’s restaurant-bar.

“But how will you get there, Ronan, with your car…out of circulation?”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

Sunstream beaming straight into my soul, I blissfully dance the remaining distance to my car, skipping along the beautiful litter-filled pavements of the city.

R
onan doesn’t seem too bothered about the fact that I’m spooning chocolate chip ice cream straight into his mouth at this time. Actually, neither of us is batting an eyelid despite the fact that we’re sitting plonk in the middle of a busy bar.

This is an excellent sign.

Also, since I arrived here at three Ronan has been kind and sensitive, and utterly fantastic with me.

“Anyway, how have you been?” he says nicely, suddenly peering into my eyes.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“I’ve been fine,” I reply, lowering my head.

“Are you sure?”

I nod.

“You’ve been behaving strangely since you got back,” he says.

“How do you mean?” I ask, the Porsche suddenly flashing like a wailing police siren into my mind.

“Well, you haven’t seemed yourself.”

“Haven’t I?”

He knows I suspect something. He is worried about the Nicole thing and its implications for our marriage.

“Everything’s fine, Ronan. If I’ve seemed a bit tired, or argumentative, don’t mind me.”

Art and the Postmodern
quadruple-flashes across my brain.

“Are you sure?” he inquires again.

He’s looking for reassurance. He wants to know things are okay with me, so that we can get back to the ordinary business of our marriage and put this whole thing behind us. I put my hand over his.

“What happened…it’ll be fine, Ronan. Really it will.”

He looks confused. “What happened?” He frowns.

“It doesn’t matter.” I stroke his hair. “At all. Let’s just forget about it.”

He sips his wine, staring at me. There’s a hint of embarrassment. He must be so ashamed.

He plunges the eight-inch spoon into the bowl, scoops out a dollop of ice cream and feeds me with it. A waterfall of emotion gushes through me. I know it sounds sick, but I feel like I’m in eighth heaven: Haagen Dazs plus Ronan dispensing it, what more could a woman ask for?

“Oh, by the way, Julie, you were wondering about the sheets.”

“Oh yes, those. Forget about them.”

“I can explain what happened.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“I’ll tell you anyway.”

I put a finger up to his mouth. “Ronan, will you excuse me for a second?”

Once in the loo, I call Mother.

But get her answering device instead.

“Mother, there’s been a bit of a situation. Now I know you’re going to kill me, but do you remember I phoned you this morning and sort of said you could come and stay with us for a while? Do you remember I said that? Well, there’s…there’s been a slight change of plan. Ronan’s been acting up. Not over you. At all. Over something else and it’s just that right now wouldn’t be the right time…Mum I’m
really
sorry, would it be okay if we put it off…for a while? I’ll call you later to explain.”

I punch out, unsure quite how I am going to explain.

Rejoining our table, I bend down and kiss Ronan tenderly on the mouth. His lips are soft and warm. We sit quietly together for some time. I just watch him finishing off the ice cream. As I observe him eating, chin in my hand, I’m beginning to notice a softer Ronan than earlier on, a more relaxed Ronan, a thoroughly nicer Ronan.

The sort of Ronan, actually, who would make a great father.

I can just see it.

Ronan and me and Judy our new baby, my wonderful little daughter. There she is, toddling into the lounge from the hall. Ronan and I are seated on the couch. She crawls over to me. I pick her up off the floor and give her a hug. Now her daddy takes her from me. Giggling, she starts playing piano with his cheeks, now she’s chortling as Daddy rubs noses with her, now she’s poking her tiny sweet fingers into his ears as he lifts her on to his shoulder.

This is how it will be. To Judy, Ronan will be the sun-god with aftershave. (How every man secretly wishes to be viewed.) He will be the hero of her universe. (I’ll have to settle for best supporting actress.) He will have a direct impact on her intellectual formation, including reading
Rumpelstiltskin
and
Cinderella
and
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
at her bedside.

Of course, when Judy gets bigger we will have to move from our present apartment because, although there’s a stunning sea view, babies can’t play on balconies. Not if you want them to stay babies.

We’ll buy a house with space for Judy to breathe and develop her creative potential with daisy chains and slug trains and hide-and-seek and muck formations. No prams or dolls, of course.

And when I and my other dinosaur half are old and withered, Judy will return to us all the care and affection we bestowed a thousandfold.

And Ronan will finally understand the true mystery of life: that what’s important is not what lies in your groin – but in your heart.

“Julie?”

I exit from my daze.

“You’re daydreaming again.”

I smile. “What would you say to the following suggestion, Ronan?”

H
alf an hour later I am removing Ronan’s shirt and tie and belt, while gnawing at the flesh around his neck. We are in the middle of the office attached to his dental surgery. It was the closest available emergency location.

He, needless to say, is doing something similar to me. “This is incredible,” he gasps, blubbering his moist lips and tongue around the top of my brassiere.

“You get way too little practice,” I add, chewing his earlobe.

“You’re so…caustic,” he says, wetting my bared shoulder.

“Like soda.”

“It turns me on.”

“That’s nice for you.”

“I mean, it really turns me on.”

I check to see that he means it. And he really does mean it.

“Don’t stop,” he gasps.

So I don’t. He backs me on to the desk. Helplessly, I hang from his shoulders.

I love Ronan’s smell. It’s like no one else’s. It’s a comforting potion. It blanks out my mind. It’s been a nightmare, this last day. And it’s over now.

The bare skin on my heck is tingling under his six-hour bristle, his strong, hot, quickening breath. He’s moving fast. Fingertips in his hair, I push him back a little, to slow him down. He comes up for air now, enclosing my lips in his.

When I open my eyes again they come to rest on a painting on the wall behind him. I haven’t noticed it before. Must be a recent purchase. It’s a picture of goldfish swimming in a large round bowl: eight in all. Some are red, some are green, others gold. It’s a very beautiful colour combination. The background is of flowers and grass, which is not green, as you might expect, but a shade of dark-blue.

In a flood of shock, I realize that this must be Nicole’s painting.

“Ronan, wait!”

But he is now gyrating his hips against me. Perspiration is trickling down his forehead. Eyes closed, jaw stiffened into what looks like a forced smile. Thrusting and squeezing and grunting. He is concentrating.

I could be anybody.

A woman with a body.

For all I know I could be Nicole.

I
am
Nicole.

“Ronan…”

“What’s the matter?” He quickens his pace as if he’s afraid I’ll suddenly back out.

“Where did you get that painting?”

“What?”

“The painting.”

He doesn’t answer. He quickens his pace a little more.

“Stop!” comes from inside me.

“Hold on.”

He’s still ignoring me. He’s straining and puffing like I’m being bench-pressed: short sharp bursts of air like a piston. He’s completely taken over by this thing which is
me
. Eyes still closed. I am being enjoyed. Consumed.

My mobile rings.