Swallowed hard. ‘Am not racist. Am very fond of Osama, but busy Friday nights.’
‘Busy with what? Watching DVDs about clothes and revenge?’
Can have no privacy in this town, no privacy at all!
‘Why don’t you let Osama watch DVD with you? He loves films.’
‘Sorry, but cannot be done.’
‘Why not?’
Cripes
.
The Dungeon
Not even in it. Just passing it, when Boss yelled out at me, ‘Heard you turned down poor Osama. Didn’t have you pegged as racist, Lola.’
Clutching bottle of wine, show up at surf boys’ house. Jake opens door but does not permit me to enter. Instead leads me down steps to beach where table and two chairs set up on sand, white cloth snapping in breeze. Candelabra, flowers, small bonfire, wine cooling in bucket, night sky pricked with stars. Standing at discreet distance noticed Cecile and her little turtle dove.
Asked, ‘What they doing?’
‘Our waiters for evening.’
Couldn’t stop laughing. Said, ‘This is too much. You are hysterical. You are like fantasy man.’
Evening very chilly but kept warm by bonfire, cashmere blanket wrapped around shoulders and warm glow from within.
‘Food delicious,’ I said.
‘Cecile helped. Well –’ slightly shame-faced look –‘Cecile did it all. Cannot cook to save life.’
‘Thank God. So you are not entirely perfect.’ Then uncontrollable laughter began again.
Eventually repair to magic bedroom – every bit as magical and breathtaking as imagined – where enjoy much four-positions-per-shag sex.
In magic bed all day.
Ditto.
Ditto.
Had to get up and go home. Had responsibilities, to wit: deliveries of trannie clothing. Over last couple of days hadn’t cared, not a jot, that Niall the DHL man might be calling with boxes of chicken-fillet bra fillers and glittery sandals in size eleven. Wild and carefree and having such a wonderful time, hadn’t given a damn.
Jake wrapped his arms and legs around me and refused to let me go. Was pleasing to push against him and feel his muscles locked hard and tight.
‘Have to go,’ I said. ‘Really. Must. But we could see each other tonight.’
Slight hesitation. Loosening of arms and legs. ‘Lola, let’s take couple days’ breathing space.’
Looked hard at him. Was he dumping me? His silvery eyes gave nothing away, just staring blandly into mine. Cold lurch in pit of stomach. Abruptly, it went; just disappeared. Realized wonderful thing about having been destroyed by Paddy: cannot be hurt by other men.
‘Breathing space?’ I said. ‘Yes, let’s.’
Hurried home. Was not going to think about Jake. Other anxieties. Head full of disaster scenarios. What if Niall had left packages of trannie clothing outside front door and they had been half-eaten by cows?
No boxes stacked up against house, but note from Rossa Considine: he was holding three days’ worth of deliveries for me.
Looked. His eco-swot car in his driveway. At home.
Considine uncharacteristically gracious. Helped carry boxes of trannie clothing to my house. (Naturally did not tell him what was in boxes and he did not ask.)
‘Owe you drink,’ I said.
Mrs Butterly’s
Opportunity to buy Considine drink arrived sooner than expected. Him sitting at Mrs Butterly’s counter drinking pint. No sign of Ferret-Face.
Mrs Butterly made me ham sandwich, beckoned me closer and in
loud whisper asked, ‘Is it true you agreed to marry Osama in the Oak, then reneged on bargain because he is Muslim?’
‘What?’ Cripes above, was this story still doing the rounds? ‘No! No! He asked me to go to cinema – as friends! – but have another standing engagement on Friday nights. That is all!’
‘Knew it! Didn’t think it could be true! You are nice girl, Lola, that is what I told them.’
‘Who?’
‘Oh nobody. Just nosy parkers, poking noses into other people’s business.’
I cut eyes to Rossa Considine. He was staring into his pint.
He looked up, all injured innocence. ‘What?’
‘Did you tell Mrs Butterly about me and Osama?’
He shrugged. ‘Course not.’ Then added – quite unnecessarily, I felt –‘What you get up to is your own business.’
Confused. Just what was he getting at? Jake? Narrowed eyes at him.
‘In fairness,’ Mrs Butterly murmured, ‘it wasn’t him.’
Rossa Considine finished his pint in big swallow and swung himself off stool. ‘I’m away.’
‘Ah stay,’ Mrs Butterly urged. ‘Don’t leave in a temper.’
‘Not in temper. Meeting Gillian.’
‘Oh well, have enjoyable evening, so.’
No word from Jake.
Bridie rang. ‘Has Love-God dumped you yet?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’
‘He’s dumped me.’
‘Was only joking. But, sorry, Lola, was bound to happen. He was –’
‘Yes, I know. Too good-looking for me.’
‘Are you upset?’
I sighed. ‘What is life but fleeting moments of happiness strung together on necklace of despair?’
‘But are you upset?’
‘… Is hard to describe. Am sorry I had anything to do with him. Didn’t even fancy him to begin with. Now feel… dunno… shit. But had been feeling atrocious anyway. Put it this way, don’t feel any worse.’
Frenzied phone call from SarahJane Hutchinson. ‘Lola, have met new man –’
‘Congratulations.’
‘– we are going Sandy Lane for Christmas and New Year and have nothing to wear. Shops full of sparkly red dresses!’
‘Relax, relax. Resort-wear.’
‘Resort-wear?’
‘Yes. Any designer worth their salt does special collection at this time of year for this very purpose. Called resort-wear. Or sometimes Cruise Collection. But don’t worry, don’t have to be going on cruise in order to wear it.’
Got on blower. Phoned Dublin, London, even contact in Milan.
The Dungeon
Boss and his crew had just discovered Baby Guinnesses (shot glasses of Kahlua topped with Baileys) and were charmed by them. Bought me unfeasible number. Sickly but potent.
Almost walked by Jake’s house on way home. Persuaded self not to.
Despite sweetness of drinks, was quite bitter.
Weather reflecting mood. Blue skies have finally gone. Grey, misty, drizzly, cold. Uncle Tom’s cabin has central heating. Thank God. Couldn’t be dealing with coal. Am not a coal person.
Supermarket
Brandon in state of high excitement. ‘Have revenge film about clothing!
Legally Blonde
. Lots of clothes in it
and
she gets her own back on people.’
Had seen
Legally Blonde
and knew it to be more of a comeuppance film than a pure revenge one, but lavished praise on Brandon. Is good to encourage those who have made effort.
‘No, wasn’t my discovery,’ Brandon admitted. ‘Was Osama!’
‘Well… er… will thank him.’
‘Why won’t you let him come tonight? He is lonely and lives for the movies. Is what you get up to on Friday nights so depraved that he cannot come?’
Couldn’t say anything. All twisted up with conflict. Dreadful guilt about Osama but fear of giving away Blanche’s secret and Noel stopping my dole…
On way home
Woman I didn’t even know shouted across the street, ‘Why you not let Osama watch DVDs with you? He is refugee, you know. Have you no Christian charity?’
Called weakly, ‘He is not refugee, he has work permit and everything.’
Woman not convinced.
In despair. Everyone hates me.
Arrival of trannies. I let them get into their glad rags before outlining Osama situation for them.
‘Could we change from Friday to another evening?’ I suggested. ‘Any evening?’
Grim shakes of head. Noel has to do homework with kids and Blanche muttered something about having to get up very early every other day except Saturday. Didn’t really understand – maybe cows get lie-in on Saturdays? Life of a farmer alien to me.
‘In that case will have to permit Osama to join our little group.’
‘No way.’ Noel was tight-lipped.
‘All of Knockavoy thinks I am a racist! No one can understand my reluctance. Safer to give in. Drawing attention to situation by holding out.’
‘I will stop your dole.’
‘Do it, then,’ I said wearily. At that moment suddenly felt full disappointment of Jake’s disappearance. ‘Maybe it’s time I went back to Dublin. Am sick of all this.’
Blanche scandalized. Started to cry.
Noel also pretty scandalized-looking as he saw his ‘safe house’ disappear. I experienced – indeed
savoured
– moment of satisfaction.
Silence all round. Only sound that of Blanche’s sobbing. Noel spoke up. ‘Can he keep his mouth shut? This Osama chap?’
‘Don’t honestly know. He seems decent type but it’s a chance we have to take.’
Noel and Blanche had lengthy, muttered, head-to-head talk.
‘… certain could get him deported if he tells on us…’
‘… cannot go back to old life. Need this outlet…’
‘… need never see us in our civvies…’
‘… all day long looking at cows’ backsides…’
Some sort of resolution finally reached. ‘Okay,’ Noel said to me. ‘Invite him. So long as he doesn’t come until after we are changed. We need to keep our identities secret.’
No word from Jake.
The Oak
‘Ibrahim, we need to have private chat.’
He looked nervous. ‘Never said you were racist, Lola.’
‘Never thought you did. As you probably know, from Brandon, I hold… club… on Friday nights in my house.’
‘The revenge film club!’
‘Er, yes.’ In a way. ‘You are welcome to join us. Only condition of membership – and you must tell NO ONE, not now, not ever – is that you have to dress up like a lady.’
Long pause. Eventually Ibrahim spoke. ‘In order to join your film club, I would have to dress up in women’s clothing?’
‘And keep it secret.’
He thought about it. ‘Very well.’
‘Very well?’
‘Very well.’
Very well…
No word from Jake.
No word from Jake.
Arrival of SarahJane’s resort-wear. Swimsuits, beach-wraps, filmy kaftans, palazzo pants, towering wedges, whimsical sunhats, massive sunglasses and many, many DVFs. (Diane Von Furstenberg wrap-dresses. Can’t go wrong.)
So many adorable pieces. Prada beach bag, adorned with seahorses. Best bit – matching seahorse-encrusted sandals! Turquoise Lisa Bruce swimsuit with coordinating wrap-around. Raspberry-coloured Gucci sunglasses and vertiginous wooden-soled mules in same colour. Blindingly bright hues, wonderful antidote to dismal grey grip of winter.
Niall from DHL officially hates me. Says he is doing Ennistymon to Knockavoy drive so often, he is actually dreaming about it. After I signed for parcels he stared out at waves and said, ‘If never see that fecking view again, it’ll be too soon.’
Still no word from Jake.
Frenzied knocking on front door. Jake!
No. Considine.
‘Quick, quick!’ He was frantic. ‘Turn on your telly!’
‘No telly.’
He pointed at telly behind me. ‘That looks like telly.’
‘No, is microwave.’ Too complicated to explain true situation.
‘Come to my house, so. Quick. Put on shoes!’
‘Why?’
‘Colin Farrell on telly. Footage of him doing travelling line-dancing.’
Magic words, ‘travelling line-dancing.’
Shoved feet into Chinese satin slippers. Unsuitable for rough terrain, but didn’t care. Ran across field, ducked under wire fence, ran across other field and into Rossa Considine’s house. Sat on edge of couch glued to Colin Farrell programme but there was nothing about him doing line-dancing. Just lots and lots about all the girls he slept with. Went on fearsomely long time.
When show ended, Rossa Considine defensive. ‘There
was
stuff about line-dancing.’
‘Oh sure.’ Jocular. ‘You just wanted to lure me over here.’ Then remembered girl in wedding dress who was perhaps kept prisoner in bedroom. Brief but genuine moment of fear. Jocular no more. ‘I’ll be off.’
‘How you manage without telly?’ he asked.
‘Oh reading, other things. Don’t miss it at all.’ Airy. Smug. ‘If emergency, need to see documentary or something, can call upon friend.’
‘That’s right. Remember Mrs Butterly mentioning you watch soaps with her every evening.’
SarahJane Hutchinson arrived.
Wonderful day. Uplifting being with magnificent clothing. Both of us in top form. Everything worked.
‘SarahJane, am feeling candy stripes, deckchairs, salty air, screech of seagulls…’
‘So am I, Lola, oh so am I!’
Wrote out detailed list of what SarahJane was to wear every day: for breakfast; at poolside; to dinner; for New Year’s Eve gala knees-up.
She tried to reject list. ‘On holiday. Relaxing. Surely can mix and match?’
‘No! Not! Please do not make that mistake! Remember, SarahJane, you may wear the Missoni swimsuit with the Missoni sarong, but NEVER with the Missoni sandals or sunhat.’
‘Why not?’ Quite mutinous.
‘Unwritten fashion rule. Cannot fully explain. All I know is you will be laughing stock if you do.’
This carried weight. SarahJane does not want to be laughing stock. Has had quite enough of that, what with husbands running off with Filipino houseboys, thank you very much.
No word from Jake. But forgot to notice.
Into Ennistymon with Boss and Moss to sign on. Didn’t want to. Getting plenty of money ‘under the counter’ from Blanche and SarahJane, but Boss wouldn’t hear of it. ‘Is your right, Lola,’ he kept insisting. ‘Is your
right.’