Eventually she marched out of the hotel and
hopped into a nearby taxi.
‘Where to, love?’ the taxi man enquired.
‘Er . . .’ God, where was she going? She could
hardly go back to Ranelagh. No, that would be
ridiculous. First, she didn’t want to bump into Mark
again, and secondly she couldn’t bear the thought
of sitting alone in her flat knowing that Steve and
Claudine were making out underneath.
‘Stillorgan,’ she said suddenly, ‘Stillorgan please.’
And before she had time to change her mind, the taxi
driver had taken off like a grand prix contestant.
Ah well, Anna thought, at least her parents would
be pleased to see her. She hadn’t seen them since her
birthday and life must be so dull for them at the
moment, stuck with Grandad rabbiting on about the
good old days.
Anna’s parents were not as pleased as she’d
thought they’d be. Mr and Mrs Brown from next
door were round playing bridge.
‘What are you doing here?’ Her mother frowned.
‘Just thought I’d pop in.’ Anna forced a smile.
‘On a Friday night?’ She was definitely suspicious.
‘Really, Anna, you should be out mixing with people
of your own age. You’ll never meet a man round in
your parents’ on a Friday. Grandad is in the kitchen.
I suppose you can go in and keep him company.’
She disappeared into the good room. Anna was
left alone in the hallway. God, what was the point
in being a dutiful daughter when nobody appreciated
it? She wasn’t in the mood for listening to the entire
history of County Roscommon. She slumped into
one of the kitchen chairs and shut her eyes. Was
there any woman in Ireland quite as sad as she was?
She wondered what Victoria Reilly was up to. No
doubt frolicking with fickle friends in a famous hot
spot. Consuming champagne from crystal. Goading
her friends in her latest Gucci get up. So what? Anna
wouldn’t like that kind of lifestyle anyway. It was
all so pretentious. She preferred the simpler lifestyle.
Like . . . a night in with Grandad, say.
‘I didn’t go in the end, Mark.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Listen, Mark, I wish I had all day to chat but
I’m up to my eyes, so I’m putting the phone down
now, right?’
‘Talk to you later so.’
‘Yeah, yeah, bye.’
She cut him off. God, he’d a bit of a cheek, Anna
thought as she made her way over to the checkouts.
She should start ringing his office at the IFSC with
all kind of obscenities. That would soon put an end
to the fun and games!
The checkout queues were building up. She marched
over to prevent two of the gum-chewing staff from
describing their hangovers in great detail in front of
paying customers. A headache was approaching fast,
streaking past all traffic lights and stop signs. But she
couldn’t leave the shop floor. It was manic. God, roll
on seven o’clock.
A pram collided with the back of her heels. Ouch!
She swung around ready to attack but the worn-out looking
woman with the double buggy didn’t even
know she’d hit her. Anna hobbled over to the fed-up
security guard. ‘Everything in order?’ she checked.
‘None of our regulars yet,’ he said with a deadpan
face. “Regulars” meant shoplifters. They usually
appeared on Saturdays along with the crowds, heading
straight for the sportswear. Nightmare stuff. The
bell at one of the checkouts rang loudly. A customer
was whingeing about being short-changed a fiver.
Damn!
That meant opening the register and checking all
sales for the afternoon against cash in the till. It
would take at least fifteen minutes. Oh to work in
a quiet little library. Or a church. Or in the fields as
a goddam shepherd. What was that Jean-Paul Sartre
had said? Hell is other people.
‘Oh Claire, I’m knackered.’ Anna leaned against
the communal phone booth in the hallway. How
she was going to motivate herself to get upstairs,
shower and make up, and face the howling wind,
she just didn’t know.
‘Get ready, Anna. Seriously, the babysitter is on
her way. I’m practically ready to go.’
‘Is Simon not babysitting?’
‘No, he’ll probably join us later.’
‘Oh right,’ Anna said.
‘That’s not a problem, is it?’
‘Well . . . would Simon not think of going out
with some of his own friends? You know . . . like
a lads’ night out, since this is supposed to be a girls’
night out?’
‘Er . . . er . . .’ Claire couldn’t think of a suitable
answer.
‘It’s just it might be more craic you know, just us,
the girls.’
‘I never thought about it like that,’ Claire mumbled,
‘but surely you can’t expect me to behave like
a woman on the pull. Simon is well known on the
Dublin social scene.’
‘I completely understand,’ Anna sounded sympathetic,
‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to let Simon
down. I completely understand how important he is.’
‘Yes,’ Claire agreed uncertainly. ‘Oh by the way . . .
Jake said he thought you were extremely good looking.’
‘Did he?’ Anna was pleased. It was always nice
when someone thought you were good looking.
Unless of course it was some lecherous drunk in a
nightclub when the lights had come on. Or down in
the chipper, say. Or when you were walking through
Donnybrook at 3 a.m. looking for a taxi. Or if it was
a flasher who said it to you. Or two fifteen-year-olds
taking the piss. Or when someone told you in a dark
laneway and you were on your own. In fact, when
you thought about it, there were quite a number of
occasions when you could happily live without the
compliment.
Still, it was nice that Jake had noticed. Jake had a
nice BMW. It wouldn’t look out of place in the drive
at Victoria’s party. Or her own drive. Not that she
had a drive, of course. And the county council had
now gone and painted double yellow lines outside
her gate.
Anna promised Claire she wouldn’t be long.
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ she promised before
going back upstairs and lighting her first cigarette
of the day. It was nice to have a cigarette before
you went out. It put you in the mood. As did a
little drink. Good idea! She’d have a beer. But to
her dismay she found the fridge practically empty.
Two out-of-date yoghurts, a very yellow half tub
of butter, an egg (God knows how long that had
been there!) and one can of beer left over from
a party she’d had months back. That would have
to do. She snapped it open, gingerly sniffing the
contents. It smelled off. It was always hard to tell
with beer. She sipped a little. It wasn’t horrendous.
It wasn’t that pleasant either. Then again, if you
wanted something pleasant you’d drink coke or
orange juice or something, wouldn’t you?
Anna reluctantly undressed. It wasn’t nice undressing
in a place that wasn’t room temperature.
The flat wasn’t sub zero. But it wasn’t far off. She
brought the beer into the shower and drank a bit
more. There, it tasted better already. She turned on
the water. Jesus, it was like frigging ice! Then it hit
her. She’d forgotten to switch on the bloody immersion.
Ah no! She couldn’t go out with unwashed
hair. She positively stank. Hours of crawling around
unclean cardboard boxes in the stockroom hadn’t
exactly added to her appearance. At least ten creepycrawlies
were planning a soire´e in her messy bun.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the tarnished
bathroom mirror. Her eyes were like two bullet
holes in her sunken face. An angry spot above her
left eyebrow was seriously threatening a night out.
She felt like collapsing on the bed, finishing the box
of cigarettes and getting hammered all by herself.
Feck the night out. It was Saturday. That meant
queues. Queues for buses. Queues for pubs. Queues
for taxis to get from pubs to clubs. Queues for
clubs. Queues for cloakrooms. Queues for the bar.
Queues for the toilet. For the sink. For the dryer.
For the mirror. It meant getting squashed on the
dance floor . . . freezing your ass off as you walked
home swearing that this would be your last night out
until the summer.
The doorbell rang. Oh God, she was still naked.
She scrambled into a pair of tracksuit bottoms and
pyjama top and pulled on a pair of odd socks.
‘Claire,’ Anna grinned, ‘you look beautiful.’
‘Anna, I can’t believe you haven’t even started to
get ready.’ Claire looked cross. She’d made a huge
effort. Boots, leather mini (to the knee and not at all
as tarty as it sounds) and black cashmere jacket. A
hint of make-up (God, Anna envied girls who just
hinted) and a subtle spray of Miracle. Perfect.
‘Sorry, I got held up.’ Anna ushered her in. ‘Now
tell me honestly, do you think I’d get away without
washing my hair?’
‘Honestly? Well . . . you’d get away with it but
you wouldn’t look your best.’
‘In other words I’d look like shit.’
Claire said nothing. This was a common Saturday
night scenario in Anna’s. Nothing new here. Eventually
Anna would give her hair a quick splash, add
some new make-up to the old and spend the rest of
the night wishing she’d made more of an effort.
They abandoned the flat at 10:10 p.m. Not a sound
was to be heard from the flat downstairs. The air
outside was damp. The front path was covered in
wet leaves and faded crisp bags. Anna trod carefully
in ridiculously high heels. Her short skirt must have
caught the attention of a passing cab. It screeched
to a halt outside the front gate. Classic. The girls
clambered in.
They decided on a new ultra-trendy club along
the quays. Problem was, so did everybody else. The
queue was the length of the Liffey. There wasn’t a
hare’s sniff of getting in. Unless you were shagging
one or more of the bouncers.
They ordered the taxi man to drive on. He recommended
a dodgy-looking place around Clarendon
Street and the girls agreed to get out there so as not
to hurt his feelings.
‘I’d love to go to Burger King,’ Anna’s stomach
was talking to her. She tipped the taxi man.
‘Are you mad? We’re not going to Burger King
dressed like this.’
‘You’re right,’ Anna sniffed. ‘Somebody important
might see us.’
‘We’ll go for a drink first and then find somewhere
to eat,’ Claire suggested.
‘Fine.’
They entered a pub at the top of Grafton Street.
The place was wall-to-wall jammed with people
trying to look cool but failing miserably because
of the thermal atmosphere: it was hard to be sophisticated
when beads of sweat were bonding on your
forehead and two damp patches were propagating
at accelerating speed around your armpits.
‘See anyone nice?’ Claire roared above the crowd.
‘Keep your voice down,’ Anna hushed, ‘I don’t
want the whole place thinking I’m some kind of
desperate eejit.’
‘Sorry,’ Claire shouted. The jazz band in the corner
was obviously playing havoc with her ears. ‘What do
you want to drink?’
‘A beer. Preferably a well-known brand.’
‘Right. Crisps?’
‘Are you mad? I’m not eating crisps in a place
like this.’