Next thing, I saw woman in a wedding dress twirling around and around! Smooth, shiny, white satin, tight bodice, wide skirt, not risible meringue, but like exaggerated A-line, if you can imagine. Like upside-down cone. Almost certain was a Vera Wang. Arresting image. Despite self’s tragic circumstances, couldn’t help but be happy for her beauty and evident happiness.
White elbow gloves. Elaborate diamanté; choker – might have been Swarovski, but couldn’t be certain at this distance. Stunning dark hair, thick and long and smooth, swinging as she twirled, perfect little tiara perched on crown of head.
She came right up to window, mouthing words – probably practising vows – chatting away to herself, good old chinwag, then she did that thing people do in films when they suddenly realize they are standing on a crocodile. She froze, slid eyes downwards very, very sloooowly until got to my level, when she forced herself to look at me, standing
in road, gazing up at her, like supplicant. Even though still too far away to be able to say if choker was Swarovski, no denying the shock, horror even, on her face. She backed away from the window as if on castors. Why? What is big secret?
I remained rooted in place, wondering if she would reappear, until farmer chugging along in tractor emitting evil-smelling black smoke, shouted, ‘Out of the way, Jackeen!’ and tried to run me off the road.
Internet café
Have BlackBerry, no real need to go to internet café but, honest admission, wanted reason to talk to someone.
Inside was a girl, smoking a cigarette, sitting on a stool, legs crossed elegantly. Very short dark hair, like Jean Seberg in
À Bout de Souffle
. Few faces can take haircut that severe. Beautiful pointy eyebrows. Dark red lipstick. Matte. Interesting choice in these glossy times.
I said, ‘Er… hello.’
‘’Ello.’
She had to be French. That or cockney.
Clothes simple but beautiful. Black polo-neck, black and white skirt, almost puffball, but pulling back just at vital moment. Wide belt tight around waist. Black ballet slippers. Understated but chic. French women simply have knack. Like Irish people are skilled at being great craic and getting green freckles instead of tan.
Said, ‘Can I use internet?’
‘Certainement
’ she said. ‘Work away.’
Asked her, ‘You local girl?’ (Knew she wasn’t. A conversational pretext.)
‘
Non. De France.’
Can understand now why girl in DVD shop was so forward last night. Only way to get kicks around here is to poke nose into other people’s lives.
Said, ‘I love France! In fact,
j’aime
France!’
Hoped we could talk about shops in Paris. But she wasn’t from Paris. From somewhere called Beaune. Never heard of it but she
seemed proud. That is French people for you. They are proud of being French, smoke Gauloises and are excellent at going on strike. Sometimes whole country does it.
Introduced myself. Hoped not coming across as too desperate.
She said, ‘
Bonjour, Lola. Je m’appelle Cecile
.’
Asked, ‘Why you live here, Cecile?’
Reason? A man.
‘Am crazy in love,’ she said. ‘He is surfer.’
‘What is name?’
‘Zoran.’
‘Irish?’ Thinking, Can’t be.
‘No. Serbian. Lives here now.’
Only one email of interest. From Nkechi. She has persuaded woman who imports Roberto Cavalli to Ireland to sell to ‘us’ exclusively. Is good news. Excellent news, really. All Irish women hot for Cavalli will have to be styled by me – or ‘us’ as Nkechi so ominously put it. Cripes. Have only been gone a day and already she is taking over the world.
The Oak
Same barman as last night. Ol’ Prune Eyes. Asked him, ‘What is soup of day?’
‘Mushroom.’
‘Okay. And cup coffee.’
‘Latte? Cappuccino? Espresso?’
‘Er… latte.’
‘Soy milk? Skinny?’
‘Er… skinny.’
Not expecting so much choice.
Found self asking, ‘So, where you from?’
Cripes! Have become irritating person who instigates conversation with everyone she meets, which I so am not. In Dublin, make point of principle to talk to as few people as possible. Especially when buying things. Have you noticed lately how shop assistants have been told to say validating bon mot about purchase when wrapping it? They say, ‘Gorgeous colour!’ Or, ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’
Always find self wanting to say, ‘Actually no, dislike colour very much. One of least favourites.’
I mean, would hardly buy it if didn’t like it!
But they are just doing their job. Not their fault.
‘From Egypt,’ Ol’ Prune Eyes said.
Egypt! Multinational! Is like cast of
Lost
here in Knockavoy!
‘You are long way from home!’ Thinking, What a stupid thing to say. Sound like wolf in
Little Red Riding Hood
.
Then I say, ‘You must miss warm weather.’ Thinking, That is also stupid thing to say, and bet everyone says it.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘That is what everyone says. But more to life than weather.’
‘Like what?’ Suddenly curious.
He laughed. ‘Like three meals a day. Like freedom from political persecution. Like opportunity to provide for family.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I see your point.’
Feel bit better. Have connected with another human being.
Warmish glow interrupted by man at the end of the bar – slumped, unkempt creature – calling, ‘Osama! Enough of chat! Where’s my pint?’
I asked, ‘Is your name really Osama?’
Thinking, Cripes! That would be hard cross to bear. Even worse than Ol’ Prune Eyes. No wonder he got political persecution!
‘No. Is Ibrahim. Osama nickname from locals.’
Walked home by seafront. Passed funny old house. Houses on either side had been modernized – PVC windows, fresh paint – but this one was weather-beaten and sort of slumped-looking. Faded blue paint on front door was coming off in handfuls. Reminded me of time I’d had chemical peel. On window sill, sea anemones, pebbles, sand, periwinkles. No curtains, so could see right into front room. Fishing nets hanging from ceiling, starfish shells, conches, driftwood pieces like sculpture. Name of house, ‘The Reef’.
Magical place. Wanted to go in there.
Mobile rang. Recognized number: Grace Gildee, charismatic journalist woman. Was stalking me! Threw mobile into handbag as if red-hot. Get away, get away, get away! Ten seconds later, double beep of message. Get away, get away, get away!
Deleted message without listening. Afraid. Obviously no one can make self talk if self doesn’t want to talk. But still afraid. Grace Gildee pushy, persuasive, determined. Also – possibly – nice.
Grocery-cum-newsagent-cum-DVD-shop
Brandon and Kelly on duty again. On Brandon’s recommendation, got
The Godfather
. Kelly tried to steer self in direction of
Starsky & Hutch
. She said, ‘Two hunks like them, they’ll take your mind off your fella getting married to someone else. So did he tell you to your face?’
She was agog to hear and I was agog to tell. As soon as I said, ‘Paddy de Courcy,’ she exclaimed, ‘I know that name! Politician man, yes? I’ve seen him! In
VIP
! Get it!’ She directed Brandon to the magazine rack. ‘Go on, get it, get it!’
She
devoured
pictures. Made many comments. Said Paddy was ‘way lush’ ‘for older man’ and Alicia was ‘minger’. Brandon said Alicia was ‘bowler’, word I hadn’t come across before. Learnt it means same thing as minger. Increase your wordpower. Both of them very impressed that my ex-boyfriend was in a celebrity magazine, even if it was only an Irish one.
‘Anything about him in
Heat
?’ Kelly asked. ‘Or
Grazia?’
‘No.’
‘Well, sure, never mind. And you knew nothing about the other woman? Nothing AT ALL?’
I shook head.
‘I’d have killed him,’ she marvelled. ‘Killed him with my bare hands.’
‘You could just sit on him,’ Brandon said, with unexpected venom. ‘That’d do the trick. Not many men would survive being sat on by your arse.’
She responded with gusto. ‘All You’d have to do is breathe on someone!’
Revised original assessment that Brandon and Kelly were boyfriend and girlfriend. Brother and sister, more likely.
‘And now you’re down here in Tom Twoomey’s house nursing a broken heart.’
‘We get a fair bit of that,’ Brandon said. ‘Women. Arriving here. With broken hearts. Don’t know why. Maybe they think the waves will fix them. Walking the beach twenty times a day. Often they go exploring up on sand dunes. Don’t realize they’re owned by golf club. Suddenly find themselves in middle of the eleventh hole, balls whizzing past their heads. Escorted off in buggy. Usually very upset.’
‘Very upset,’ Kelly said.
Strange pause ensued. Then both of them convulsing with laughter.
‘Sorry,’ Brandon said, shaking with mirth. ‘Is just… is just –’
‘– they think they’re being all soulful,’ Kelly said, face contorted from laughing. ‘Communing with nature… and then… and then… they nearly get brained by golf ball…’
‘Have no intention of walking on any beach or up any sand dunes,’ I said coldly.
Is not nice to laugh at heartbroken women.
Abruptly they stopped laughing. Cleared their throats. Kelly said, ‘You might start painting. Getting all that heartbreak out of your system.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, happens a lot. Painting.’
‘Or poetry,’ Brandon interjected.
‘Or pottery.’
‘But mostly painting. Let’s face it, better than cutting off your man’s lad with a bread knife.’ Brandon gave Kelly meaningful look.
‘What?’ She turned and yelled into his face, ‘That was an ACCIDENT!’
Then to me, ‘We have crayons and copybooks, but if you need proper paints and all, there’s shop in Ennistymon.’ (Ennistymon nearest proper town.)
No intention of starting painting.
Or poetry.
Or pottery.
Things bad enough.
Godfather
marvellous film. Simply chock full of revenge. And quite fancy Al Pacino. Hopeful sign. All evening only picked up the phone to ring Paddy three times. Or thrice, if you prefer. Like that word. Got it in Margery Allingham book.
‘Turned in’ as they say in Margery Allingham. Strange saying. But so are many sayings when think about it. Example, ‘Don’t go there!’ That is very odd saying, unless you are talking about Afghanistan, or Topshop on Saturday afternoon, two weeks before Christmas.
Jerked awake, in the absolute horrors. Gripped by terrible compulsion to get into car and drive straight across country to Dublin, to find Paddy and beg him to be with me. Began flinging things into bag. Heart pounding. Mouth dry. Waking nightmare. He was getting married to someone else? But that couldn’t be!
Should I have shower? No. Should I get dressed? No. No,
yes
. What if I actually found him? Couldn’t be like an asylum escapee in my pyjamas. What should I wear? Couldn’t decide. Couldn’t decide. Muzzy from sleeping tablet but thoughts going too fast. Whizzing past before could snag one.
Bumped first bag down stairs. Must go to bathroom to collect things. No. Leave them. Who cares? It’s just stuff. Opened front door, cool night air, flung bag into car boot, back into house for other bag.
But by the time I was lugging second bag down stairs, my heartbeat had slowed. Thoughts more ordered. Saw my lunacy. Pointless driving to Dublin. He wouldn’t see me. That had been his plan all along and was hardly likely to change his mind now.
I sat on front step in my pyjamas, staring out at darkness. Fields out there, couldn’t see them.
Funny thing is, when first met Paddy de Courcy in graveyard, didn’t think would end up falling for him. So not my type. Previous boyfriend, Malachy the photographer, very different. Small, neat, sparkly-eyed
charmer. Loved women, women loved him back. Charmed models like Zara Kaletsky into doing mad poses for him. (In fact, that was how I met Malachy. I was Zara’s stylist until she left Ireland so abruptly. She fixed us up.)
Malachy not very hairy. But, as I was buffeted by icy winds that day in the cemetery, I could tell
simply by looking at Paddy de Courcy’s overcoat
that he would have hairy chest. Picking up on subliminal signs. Dark raspy stubble on jaw. Backs of hands scattered with dark hairs. (Not like woolly mammoth King Kong paws –
nice
coverage.) Smooth hair-free chest simply wouldn’t fit.
He asked, ‘Do you come here often?’
I said, ‘Do I come here often?’ I surveyed marble slabs of death stretching out in all directions. Just goes to show, you can meet a man
anywhere
. ‘About once a month.’
‘This is slightly unorthodox…’ he said. ‘Graveyard and all that… Could come back in a month’s time hoping to bump into you, or… would you like to come for hot chocolate now?’
Clever. Hot chocolate the one thing – the
only
thing – I would have accepted. Safe. Totally different if he’d invited me for alcoholic drink. Or, indeed, cup of tea. Alcoholic drink – lecherous sleaze. Cup of tea – dullard with mother fixation.
Went to pub across road (Gravediggers Arms) where drank hot chocolate with marshmallows and reminisced about dead mothers.
He said, ‘Every time something good happens to me, I want to tell her, and every time something bad happens, I want her help.’
Knew
exactly
how he felt. We were both fifteen when our mums died. Was nice – glorious relief, actually – to meet someone who had lost their mum the same age I had. Talked openly, compared feelings, was drawn to him but didn’t fancy him. Actually felt I was almost doing him a favour, spending time with him, so he could talk about his mother.
He said, ‘Probably in bad taste, considering where we met, but any chance I could see you again? Promise I won’t talk about my mother the next time.’
I retreated against upholstery. Assailed by image of him looming over me, him naked, hairy-chested, hard-on in hand. My stomach did unpleasant squeeze. Excitement? Possibly not. Maybe nausea. He wasn’t my type. I thought he looked too old, also (shallow, shallow!
Yes, I know) I didn’t like his clothes. Too buttoned-up, too safe. But why not give it a try?