Friends Like Us (16 page)

Liam Connelly was shouting, something he enjoyed immensely. As features editor of the
Irish Standard
, he was never silent for long and relished the sound of his own voice, liberally articulating freely and loudly his thoughts, feelings, itches and twitches. He loved a good shout and his voice carried easily from the partition walls of his corner office, echoing down the corridors of the Standard.

At his first staff meeting, six months ago, he announced that there were going to be changes. Unpopular ones, he added darkly and ominously. Lost readers would have to be unscattered, scooped up, won back, and he had set to the task with vim, verve and vigour, which mainly consisted, as far as Melissa could see, of meting out a series of bollockings.

She noticed Jimbo was looking at her.

‘Yes?' she said.

‘Weren't you off to Paris?' he said. ‘You never divulged the gory details.'

‘That? That was ages ago now.' Don't remind me, she thought. She hadn't heard from Alistair since that humiliating day he dumped her. It wasn't Alistair's fault, though. It was hers. She had been too needy and who would want that? She thought instead of Cormac, wondering what he was doing. He was being distant again. She glanced at her phone to see if he had texted.

‘And was it, is it… um…' he searched for the right word. ‘Fun?'

‘Paris?'

‘Aye. Paris. City of romance, the beret, the boulevard and the baguette. Fancy-pants central. Am I right?' He drank some of his tea.

‘You've obviously never been.' She looked at him curiously. ‘You're not thinking of going, are you?'

‘Never,' he said, shaking his head. ‘Sounds too insipid for me, too flowery. I don't think my stomach could take it. All that smoochy stuff.' He took another biscuit. ‘Give me Berlin. Or Madrid. Stockholm. Proper cities, so they are. Not soppy, with moony honeymooners and torrents of tourists, too afraid to lose the rest of the group just in case they accidentally have an adventure.'

Melissa realized that this was his way of trying to be nice to her, making conversation, he'd obviously noticed she wasn't herself. Before Paris she had been quite giddy, almost excited and now she was quieter. But he had picked up on something, that much was obvious. Was she that transparent? Did she wear her feelings on her shirt like a badge for everyone to see? She and Jimbo didn't do much sharing of their lives away from the office and normally spent their time when not typing away, engaged in mindless banter. It certainly helped the time pass. And now she felt as though they were moving from banter to something else. She quickly brought the conversation back to the light and the frivolous.

‘I can just imagine you in Paris,' she said. ‘Reading Sartre in a cafe… trying to order an Ulster Fry in a Belfast accent.'

‘A croissant just isn't breakfast.' He dunked his biscuit into his tea.

‘And nor is a custard cream,' she said. ‘You've got to stop substituting biscuits for meals.'

He shrugged. ‘You'd be surprised. So… good was it?'

‘Paris? Of course. It's
Paris
. It's never not amazing!' She beamed at him convincingly. ‘It's bad manners not to drink red wine in copious quantities in Paris, apparently,' she said. ‘So, not to cause a diplomatic incident, I imbibed a great deal. I told you, you would like it.'

Jimbo's eyebrows rose approvingly. ‘Aye. That sounds right up my
rue
.'

‘Jimbo!' It was Liam, shouting across the office.

‘I am to be today's bollockee, it would seem,' he said.

‘Good luck!' said Melissa, giving him a thumbs up.

He returned twenty minutes later.

‘Cock. He's a cock,' he said, returning. ‘A tool of the highest order, so he is.'

Melissa laughed. ‘What was the problem?'

‘My story…' Jimbo sat himself down and pulled his chair up to hers. ‘You know the interview with Mary Oliver – the one whose husband…'

Melissa nodded. ‘The vest and pants man.' She was referring to a politician who was once caught in just his underwear, dazed and confused, in the rose garden of a posh golfing hotel.

‘Exactly. Anyway, well, she's gone to the
Express
. She rang me last night – all upset – but she said that they turned up on her doorstep and she did the story – she didn't realize the fucking meaning of the word “exclusive”. So she told the
Express
about dubious pleasures of life with Mr Undies and how she is now happier and in her prime et cetera-et cetera-blah-blah-blah-cliché-cliché.'

He leaned back on his chair and took the last custard cream. ‘So, the story's gone – through no fault of mine by the fucking way – but Mr Cock-man over there thinks it is.' He jerked his head in the direction of Liam's office.

Melissa tried deflection. ‘Just forget it…'

‘I don't know why I bother. All this saving-the-world, Pulitzer-winning journalism is exhausting.' Jimbo was warming to his theme of career annihilation. ‘I'm done. I'm going to give Liam what he wants. Banality.'

Melissa was used to Jimbo's rants. They were often at his own expense and her job was to soothe and bolster when needed but her phone beeped and she dived for it. Cormac! At last! ‘Sorry Jimbo… been waiting for this,' she said, as though it was an important work missive.

Cinema?

They always went to see a film every week but they hadn't for at least a month.

The new Bond was out. ‘Yesh pleash,' she texted back.

Text back: ‘Sean Connery is long gone.'

There's a new Bond? When did all this happen?

While you were shagging that idiot in Paris. Probably.

Devashtated.

Life and its general crapness was put in its place by Cormac. Nothing seemed too bad when he was around. He even got her jokes. Weak, admittedly, though they were.

She looked out of the tiny window of the aeroplane which was circling over Ciampino. I shouldn't have come, she thought. A Rome
rugby
weekend. It was some kind of evil oxymoron. They'd caught the six a.m. flight from Dublin and the whole plane was quiet, everyone trying to work out what madness had caused them to book a flight which meant they had to be at the airport at 4.30 a.m.

But Steph was thinking of Rachel. The previous evening, she had brought her up to stay with her parents and she'd watched how different Rachel was with them, just the way she used to be with Steph.

Nuala scootched up on the sofa for Rachel to sit down. Most unusually, Nuala was wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms, far from her usual attire. ‘I'm far more comfortable like this, Stephanie,' she explained. ‘I should have bought a pair of these years ago.' Her mother looked tired, but Nuala brushed aside all concern. ‘Just been overdoing the walking, haven't I Joe?' she said. ‘Now, Rachel, love, are you all set? Have you got all your bits and pieces?'

Joe had got a classic comedy,
Tootsie
, out from the library and had bought popping corn for the occasion. ‘It's either
Tootsie
,' said Joe. ‘Or…' he peered at the box set. ‘Or
Borgen
. It's meant to be very good. It's Norwegian, I think. What do you think, Rachel? I met Paul Stafford in the library and he said it was “must-see TV”, which sounds like a recommendation. And, after all, we are now Europeans.'

‘Grandad, we have been for some time…' said Rachel, smiling at him.

‘And, I never miss the Eurovision,' he said.

‘But that's because,' said Rachel laughing, ‘you are always convinced Ireland will win.'

‘And why wouldn't we? Haven't we won it loads of times before? I have no idea why we are still not winning. They should just ask Johnny Logan to enter. We'd walk it.'

‘By the way,' said Rachel, pretending to lecture him, ‘
Borgen
is Danish.'

‘Isn't that what I said? Lovely bacon too. So are we on?
Tootsie
or
Borgen
?'

‘I don't know,' said Rachel, turning to Steph. ‘What do you think, Mum?'

What was this? Was she actually asking Steph her opinion? Surely some mistake.

‘Well,' she said, giving the matter some serious thought. ‘
Tootsie
is
very funny… you do have the whole weekend – two nights.'

‘Okay…' Rachel was actually thinking about what Steph had said. This was nothing short of a miracle. ‘What about
Borgen
now… and then
Tootsie
later to recover?

‘Well,' said Nuala. ‘I'm on… as long as you explain things to me when it gets complicated. Is that a deal, Rachel?'

Rachel put up her hand for a high five which Nuala met like a professional. Steph watched as her daughter pulled some of Nuala's rug around her. The two of them looked happy, snuggled together, she wished she was under that rug with them.

‘It's like
Downton Abbey
in this house,' Joe said, pushing the footstool under both Rachel and Nuala's legs. ‘Are Madams ready for their popcorn and chocolates?'

‘Oh, I think so, what do you think, Rachel?' said Nuala.

‘Yes, Granddad, we're ready!' Nuala and Rachel giggled together and for a moment Steph lingered, not wanting to leave. She really wanted to say that she would miss them but it seemed unnecessarily dramatic.

‘Take care, please?' She hugged her mother. ‘Don't get up.' Nuala did look very tired and drawn. ‘See you Sunday afternoon?'

‘
You
take care. And don't be taking any nonsense from anyone.' Steph knew exactly what she meant. Nuala had long guessed that all was not right with Steph and Rick.

Rachel didn't stand up to hug Steph, so Steph leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

‘Bye sweetheart, I love you,' said Steph.

‘Bye Mum,' she said. Teenagers don't say that they love their mums, so don't expect it, Steph told herself. The most important thing is that Rachel is happy. She looked back to see Rachel offering Nuala a Minstrel.

And now she was in Rome, sitting beside her husband, and an arm-length from the woman he was sleeping with, but her heart was back in Dublin. They were taxi-ing to the terminal. She looked out of the small round window of the plane. Steph had no idea why she was there, what made her so weak that she clung pathetically, to this fake life, her fake husband, her fake marriage. We are all lying to ourselves, Steph thought, that it is okay to have a disappointing life as long as no one knows about it. And Steph was the biggest phoney of all. From the outside, her life seemed lovely but in reality she was being humiliated, laughed at by her husband and her friend. What was worse, Steph was letting them do it. And here she was in Rome, sucking it up.

When you are young, thought Steph, it's so easy to change your life. You can suddenly move flat, meet a new group of friends, you can decide on a radical lifestyle change and become a vegan or be a Goth for a few weeks. You make choices and decisions all the time, you can change your mind as quickly as you made it up. It's all so easy. Things go wrong and you just do something else but with age, it's not so easy to change direction. You get stuck. Which was how Steph felt right now.

‘Coming?'

It was Rick, standing up, waiting for her. He didn't make eye contact, he never did. He tolerated her and she never had managed to lose the fluttering fear when she was around him.

‘Coming.' Steph gathered her things. ‘Sorry,' she said to him.

They began the aeroplane-exit shuffle. There were six of them together: Steph and Rick, Miriam and Hugh, and Theresa and Harry, Hugh's partner at work. They seemed nice, thought Steph. But when you meet someone for the first time at dawn, you don't ever get a clear impression.

Miriam looked over Hugh's shoulder and back at Steph. What actors we are, Steph thought, flashing an Oscar-winning smile. But there was something in the air. Danger. Why, she thought, exactly had Miriam arranged this trip? Was she playing some kind of game? What was going on?

And she had to act the dutiful, happy wife as well. It was the first time Steph and Rick had been together for a long time. They lived together, slept in the same bed, ate food at the same table, but it never failed to surprise Steph how impersonal the intimate could be. Living with someone and not speaking, seeing someone naked and never noticing.

And now, they were away together in Rome. She felt suddenly awfully awkward.

The noisy, bantering group took a taxi to their hotel and then the couples split up, each twosome making their way to their rooms. She and Rick busied themselves opening suitcases.

‘Nice room,' tried Steph.

Rick nodded back. ‘Yeah… nice room.'

‘Pity about the weather.'

‘Yeah… it'll be a wet match.'

‘Muddy…'

‘Muddy, right.'

That was more than she had got from him for years, so Rome was obviously working its very special magic.

‘So… what is everyone doing?' Steph was not part of the organizing committee for this weekend. It was clear her role was tag-along, and it was all too obvious that Rick didn't want her along.

‘The match is at five,' he said. ‘It's lunchtime. They are all going for something to eat. That,' he paused, ‘suit you?'

‘Yeah, I suppose so.'

‘Miriam knows Rome. She says there's a place by the Spanish Steps.'

‘What's it called?'

‘O'Donoghues.'

O'Donoghues?

‘Is it a pub?'

‘Yeah…'

‘An
Irish
pub?'

‘Well, it's a restaurant as well,' he said. ‘Not just a pub. Anything wrong?' He was taunting her, willing her to show her pretentious side, her arty side, to remind her just how out of place she was on a rugby weekend.