Remind Me Again Why I Need a Man (20 page)

‘Just because he's not a fast mover doesn't exactly make him a minion of the Antichrist. You're one of his closest friends; it's hard for him. Maybe he just needs a bit of encouragement.'

‘I drip-fed him six cans of West Coast Cooler, put on a nice, romantic Lloyd Cole and the Commotions record, sat on his knee and practically threw myself at him.'

‘What happened?'

‘He said he was feeling really flabby and that the crappy lighting was doing nothing to help. And then he started giving out about the music, leaped up and put on Bronski Beat instead. Not exactly what you might call smooch music.'

‘Have you tried talking to him about it?'

‘Course I have. I started to explain to him that I was a normal, hormonal teenager with needs and desires and you know what he said?'

‘What?'

‘He said, “Why are you telling me this? Are you dying?” '

‘Oh, Rachel, I'm really sorry. I don't know what to say.'

‘You'll laugh when I tell you what else he said. That he
respects
me too much. Can you believe that? Most nineteen-year-old men would basically do it with a tree and I'm dating frigid bloody Fred. You mark my words. There's something wrong with that fella.'

‘OK, now I'm officially bored,' says Jamie, stretching out on the back seat of the car. ‘Are we there yet?'

‘Behave yourself,' says Rachel. ‘Not much longer.'

‘What are you smirking at, Amelia?'

‘Oh nothing, just remembering something.'

‘Spit it out. I'm practically comatose and my bum feels like a bag of spanners.'

‘Well, it's just that when I was seeing Tony, do you remember? You pair were having the fling, or rather the non-fling of the century.'

‘Oh dear God, did you have to remind me?' says Rachel.

‘Shut up. Easy for you to be disparaging. You made me gay.'

‘Well, darling, in that case you're on a road trip with the Gaymaker and the Man-Repeller,' says Rachel. ‘Be
sure to include that on your internet profile, won't you?'

I've booked for the three of us to stay at Limerick's Dromoland Castle, a fabulous five-star hotel, conveniently close to Glenstal Abbey. My treat, as Rachel did all the driving and, while Jamie enjoys the life of luxury, he never has any money to finance it.

However, seeing as how we're on something of a mission, we decide to hit Glenstal first, ask where Tony lives and maybe even get a phone number. The plan is to go back to Dromoland afterwards, freshen up a bit, get in some alcoholic fortification and then (gulp) call him and see if he's free to meet up with us.

What seems like an eternity later, we're finally pulling through the gate of Glenstal Abbey and zooming up the long driveway. As it's a Saturday afternoon, the rugby pitch is in use, with boys training, working out and generally making Jamie salivate out of the window at them.

‘If you persist in making a show of us I'll kill you,' Rachel snaps at him. ‘Down, boy.'

‘I'm only looking. What did I do to piss you off today anyway, Narky Nellie?'

‘Well, you got out of bed, didn't you?'

We park the car on the huge, gravelled forecourt and haul ourselves out, stretching after the long journey. It's a fabulous, sunny afternoon and I'm surprised to find
that I'm not in the least bit nervous about meeting Tony again. In fact, I can hardly wait.

‘All set?' says Rachel, linking arms with me as we totter up the stone steps to the front door.

‘Sure I am. What's the worst that can happen? Even if he turns out to be married, it'll still be great to see him. And who knows, maybe we'll even become good friends again. Every girl should have a Tony Irwin in her life. Guys like that are such rare diamonds.'

‘I'm right behind you and I heard that and I just want you to know that I'm not jealous,' says Jamie.

We rap on the heavy oak door and wait for ages for someone to answer.

‘I can't bear the suspense,' says Jamie. ‘I think I might pollute my jeans with excitement.'

Eventually, an elderly monk, bent double with age, opens up. Not surprising as the school is run by the Benedictine order.

‘Hello, Father,' I say, trying to sound casual and normal.

‘Brother,' he answers.

‘Oh, sorry, that's what I mean, Brother. And also, sorry for barging in on you like this, but we were just passing by and you see, we think that, or what I mean to say is … we were told that … Well, you see, the thing is, this guy we used to know years ago told us that this
other
guy that we haven't seen in ages—'

‘We've come to see an old friend of ours,' says
Rachel, assertively taking the reins and thankfully cutting me off in mid-ramble. ‘He's an English and History teacher here. Maybe you could tell us where to find him? His name is Tony Irwin.'

The monk looks a bit puzzled. ‘Emm, let me see, did you say Tony Irwin?'

‘Yes. If it's not too much trouble. If you even had his phone number, that would do us just fine.'

The elderly monk still looks a bit baffled. ‘I'm trying to think now, my dear, we have so many staff here, do you see …'

‘It's TONY IRWIN,' says Jamie, speaking as if the man was stone deaf. ‘He'd be about our age. Tallish, brown hair …'

‘Oh, yes indeed,' says the monk, all smiles. ‘You mean Brother Anthony. He's at vespers now with the senior boys in the chapel. Would you like to come inside and wait for him? I'm sure he'll be delighted to see you.'

‘There, there, there,' says Rachel soothingly. ‘You just drink up. Lovely gin will soon obliterate the memory.'

The three of us are sitting in the bar of Dromoland Castle, all a bit shell-shocked at this latest turn of events.

‘Thanks,' I say, trying not to slur my words. ‘I think there's a tiny danger there might be some blood in my alcohol.'

‘Who'd have thought,' says Jamie for about the thousandth time that night. ‘Brother Anthony. Never write your autobiography, Amelia. In a million years, no one would ever believe it.'

‘I'll say this for him,' says Rachel dismally. ‘He looked really well. Don't you think he looked well?'

‘Yeah, suppose,' I answer morosely.

‘What I mean is, the monastic life must really suit him. We can't even console ourselves by saying “what a waste” because he seemed genuinely happy. He had
that serene, far-away look in his eyes that elderly nuns always get.'

‘And not a line on his face, lucky bastard,' says Jamie.

‘Is this meant to cheer me up? That he has a good skincare regime?'

‘Sorry,' says Jamie. ‘My mouth sometimes works independently of my brain. I just meant, well, what else improves that well with age after … what, eighteen years?'

‘Only three other things in this world,' Rachel replies. ‘U2, Madonna and
The Simpsons
.'

No one answers. We're all too busy gazing out into the middle distance, still trying to take it all in …

Our stay at Glenstal Abbey was mercifully short and sweet. We were shown into the visitors' parlour, a beautiful, vaulted Gothic room, almost Tolkienesque. In fact, I'm half expecting to see Gandalf and the Hobbits coming out from behind the curtains. The heavy, dark stone walls are stuffed with pictures of rugby teams and past pupils who went on to be the president, that kind of thing. There's also an incongruous-looking platinum CD, wall mounted, which looks completely out of place beside a photo of the Pope. We're all three of us drawn to it and Jamie reads the caption below out loud: ‘ “For the monks of Glenstal Abbey. For the remarkable achievement of sales figures over one million copies. Sony Records.” '

‘Oh yeah,' I say, remembering. ‘Didn't the
Benedictine monks release a CD of Gregorian chant music a few years ago? I think they may even have had a number one.'

‘Ironic, isn't it?' Rachel says to Jamie. ‘You were the one who was in a boy band and yet all Tony Irwin had to do was become a monk and he still managed to have a more successful career in the music industry than you.'

‘Oh, shut up. Emergency Exit broke up because of artistic differences.'

‘Really? I thought it was because you sounded like a bag of cats being doctored without anaesthetic.'

I'm about to shush the pair of them up when the door opens and Tony – sorry, I mean Brother Anthony – strides in, in the long, flowing brown robes, the crucifix, with his head shaved, the full works. Still the same, gorgeous, warm, friendly Tony; still the same magnetic charisma.

In an instant, I revert back to being a giddy teenager with a crush, and Rachel is the very same. We're both staring at him as if we've just met Jesus. In fact, if they were ever remaking the Jesus of Nazareth story, the casting department need look no further than Tony. I swear, the blue eyes alone would burn through celluloid.

He's delighted to see us, shakes all of us by the hand and asks how each of us are doing with the great, unaffected sincerity that made him so irresistible all
those years ago. He never refers to the fact that he's become a monk, as if it would be too vulgar even to presume that we didn't already know all along.

I can't help myself though. I'm dying to find out. So, after some polite chit-chatting and general catching-up, I go for it. ‘So, Tony, sorry Brother Anthony—'

He smiles. ‘It's OK, you're grand. Tony will do me just fine.'

‘I hope you don't mind me asking you, but …'

‘But what am I doing here?'

Rachel, Jamie and I all titter nervously.

‘It's OK,' he says, laughing. ‘I get asked that all the time. I think I realized I had a latent vocation about ten years ago. I used to come here on retreat quite a lot and the Benedictines helped me to realize that this was my true calling. I suppose I just fell in love with the spiritual life and with the solitude here. Have you ever felt that strongly about something, Amelia?'

He's looking me right in the eye now, in that way he has which makes you feel like you're the only person in the room.

‘Do you know what I mean? That you've finally found the one true path God wants you to follow?'

Coming from Tony, this didn't even sound cheesy, like a door-to-door bible salesman. In fact, he's so persuasively sincere that five more minutes with him and he'd probably have had me thinking I should really have been a nun. A distant bell rings though, and he
excuses himself, saying that it's time for evening Mass and that he has to be on his way.

‘Matins, lauds, terce, Mass, compline, it's all go here, you know.' He smiles again.

‘It's certainly not what you might call happy-clappy, is it?' says Jamie.

Tony – sorry, Brother Anthony – takes it in good spirits. ‘You're very welcome to come and stay with us, you know. We have a guesthouse here for weekend visitors. If you ever want to recharge your spiritual batteries, the offer is there. Ordered calm and contemplation can be a gateway to the spirit.'

He asks us to stay in touch and then blesses us, which I can see out of the corner of my eye is making Rachel giggle like a schoolgirl and Jamie react as though he was the Antichrist and had just had holy water sprinkled on him.

But it makes me feel better.

Back in the bar at Dromoland, we're all three of us well on the way to being completely sozzled. Particularly Jamie, who's been drinking doubles and who's always crap at holding his drink anyway.

‘Shhho what'shhh up next then?' he asks me. ‘You braaave little footsholdier.'

‘Next up,' I answer, trying to sound positive, ‘I have to work out my own personal matrix.'

‘Your whatshhh?'

‘It's about expanding my target market and casting my net wider and … oh, forget it, you'll only laugh.'

‘After the day we've had, I think we could all do with a laugh,' says Rachel, knocking back the dregs of her G and T, sober as a judge. ‘Who's for another round? Come on, when you're out, you're out.'

‘You and your hollow legs,' I say to her enviously. Rachel can drink anyone, male or female, under any table, easy as eggs.

‘Go back to the … whasssit … oh shit … that movie with Keanu Reeves …' says Jamie, clicking his fingers.

‘Matrix,' I answer.

‘Explanation, please.'

‘Simple. What you do is think about the type of fella you'd normally go for, then expand your market. You divide it all up into separate categories – you know, age, profession, income, hobbies; all of that – and then you figure how to cast your net a bit wider. The idea is that I start looking at blokes who might have been invisible to me before.'

‘HAAAAAAAAAAA, ha, ha, are you listening to that?' says Jamie, prodding Rachel in the ribs. ‘Shoooo? Would that make you look at Gormless Gordon in a whole new light, my serially celibate one?'

‘PISS RIGHT OFF,' Rachel snarls back at him. ‘I only wish to God he
was
invisible.'

I should explain. Gordon (nicknamed ‘Gormless
Gordon' by who else but Jamie) owns the bistro right across the road from her boutique and is a living, breathing example of the devastating havoc the lethal Rachel pheromone can wreak. Every week he asks her out; every week she shoots him down and the following week he's bounced right back and is hanging around the boutique, desperately trying to date her again. There's nothing wrong with the guy, he's perfectly normal in every other way apart from this huge, life-threatening crush he has on our Rachel.

‘You have to feel a bit sorry for him,' I say, sadly.

‘Poor kamikaze bashhtard,' slurs Jamie.

‘To call Gormless Gordon thick is an insult to thick people everywhere,' snaps Rachel. ‘Now can we please change the subject?'

‘I'd kill to have a lovely fella chasing after me, asking me out all the time,' I say. ‘Even if I wasn't interested, at least it's marginally better than what I have going on at the moment, which is a big fat nothing.'