Be Careful What You Wish For, page 11
‘Your sisters must be young,’ said Molly. ‘From where I’m placed girl sounds more than acceptable.’ But her smile was chiselled on and her spirits dwindled. He fancied Helen, chances were he was hoping to coax an introduction. No such thing as a free muffin.
‘Does she live with you? You seem to be together often.’ Georgie’s revolting hairy hands, his unnaturally hairy hands, crumbled cake.
‘Who?’ asked Molly, perfectly well aware whom he meant.
‘Your friend. The one with the disappointed eyes and the sweet smile.’
She contemplated telling him Helen lived with her professional wrestler husband and six children with a seventh on the way. Be gracious, Molly, she counselled herself, and ate a chocolate shaving for energy.
‘You mean Helen – she’s gorgeous, isn’t she? Single too. We don’t live together but she’s only down the road in Sandycove. She discovered it after I bought my place in Blackrock and we started going for walks by the Forty Foot, obviously in the hope of spying on the naked male bathers there but they have so far eluded us. They must strip off very early in the morning to go swimming at the Forty Foot. Helen’s none too keen on retsina either so now we all have something in common.’
Georgie looked dazed as he stroked his not-quite-a-dimple. Molly kept an eye on the jungle spouting from his hands by way of solace. He probably had acres of it clambering across his back too, and all over his shoulders and feet. If he were like that in his twenties heaven knows how simian he’d be by his thirties and forties. She recoiled. Then caught a whiff of fragrance and noticed he was wearing Fahrenheit, her favourite male scent. Sometimes for a fix of it she walked past the counter where it was sold in Arnotts, inhaling avidly. Imagine, disappointed eyes were what he was searching for in a mate. If she’d known that sooner she could have cultivated the disconsolate look.
Molly decided on heroism, since sour grapes were singularly indigestible, and proceeded to ferret out as much relevant information as possible about Hercules just in case Helen was interested in him. Which she seriously doubted. Even so, she should be encouraged to think in terms of having a crack at fun with the Glasthule Greek because she was too abstemious by half. And as far as Molly was concerned, sooner or later the body objected. Stashing money for a rainy day was a fool’s enterprise let alone saving your body, in Molly’s view. She suspected Helen’s was already quibbling – why else would she turn all weepy on her the other night?
She discovered that:
he was only twenty-five (black mark)
he was single (gold star)
he lived at home (pitch-black mark)
he was writing a doctorate thesis on an obscure Armenian poet (borderline, but perhaps he should be awarded a gold star for originality)
he worked part time at the off-licence to earn pocket money (neither a gold star nor a black mark)
he had signed up for the art course at the National Gallery and fully intended to attend every lecture (gold star)
the woman with whom he’d been immersed in conversation in Bewley’s was one of his three sisters (gold star – men with sisters tended to have their act together).
She reviewed the situation as gallery staff called shutting-up time. More gold stars than black marks. On the one hand he was a moveable feast on the eyes plus he was bright. On the other hand he was a shade too young, subsisting on a grant and you couldn’t really take a boyfriend seriously who lived with the mammy and daddy.
They separated on the corner of Pearse Street; he was steering towards Trinity College to collect some books and she was headed for the station.
‘Thank you for the coffee. I’ll buy next week if I manage to turn up for the lecture,’ she said.
‘But you must.’ He waxed animated. ‘It’s about Harry Clarke, his stained-glass windows leave me awestruck. I have a book with some of his best examples – it highlights his love of detail, he was a great man for the finishing touches – but nothing compares with the vibrant colours of the originals. Apparently there’s three corkers in a little church overlooking the sea in Castletownshend, commissioned by Edith Somerville who co-wrote The Irish RM books. One of the windows is a nativity scene. It’s magnificent. Believe me, you can’t miss the lecture.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ Molly was nonplussed by his insistence. He obviously wanted to pump her about Helen. Good job she had Fionn McCullagh on the back burner or her ego would be seriously dented. And there was always Barry, who’d once pledged to donate sperm if her biological clock went into overdrive without another supplier on the horizon. Admittedly he wasn’t stone-cold sober when she wrangled the offer from him – in fact it was unlikely he remembered making it – but she fully intended pinning him down and holding him to it if the ticking accelerated. Not that her biological clock would get a look-in while her wedding march neurosis was still festering.
Speaking of husbands – even other people’s – she was supposed to be giving Fionn a ring to arrange another date. She should do that sooner rather than later. He was obviously in a highly vulnerable condition and apt to fall into the arms of someone else. She examined her emotions for telltale twinges of jealously and was reassured to encounter not so much as a pang. Still, at least he wanted her even if the Georgeous One didn’t, which was essential oxygen to the deflated ego.
Molly felt a cramp in her twisted ankle as she walked and it nursed her sense of grievance. Whatever happened to blondes having more fun? Surely this couldn’t be time for the brunette to bite back. Here she was, paying blood money to hairdressers and suffering hours of discomfort and tedium for that sunkissed California girl image, when she could have left well alone and mirrored Helen’s dark mystery. Provided she also bought grey contact lenses. If there was a God, he was a prankster. Which meant he had to be a man and not a woman after all, despite having prompted someone to invent lipsticks with mirrors on the side of the tube for ease of application. Somewhat consoled by her deductions, Molly bought a ticket to Blackrock. And decided to ring Fionn before she went to bed.
Greek gods were all very well but if they were determined to occupy Mount Olympus then Irish architects would have to compensate.
CHAPTER 9
‘I rang you last night to see if you fancied going to a film but your answerphone kept clicking on. I nearly invited it out instead.’
It wasn’t Fionn returning her call – he hadn’t been in when she tried reaching him with the impossibly exciting news that she was available for whisking off to dinner – but Helen on the phone to Molly at work.
‘You should have left a message, Helen. I’d have called you back – I was at a lecture – I wasn’t home particularly late.’
‘Tried to but it kept cutting out. Anyway, I had an early night instead. Do you fancy doing something tonight?’
‘Don’t finish work until nine thirty or thereabouts so we probably won’t make it in time for the opening credits of a film but we could split a bottle of wine in La Cave if you like, check out the foreign talent.’
La Cave was a winebar on South Anne Street which obviously featured in some travel guide or other, because the clientele was always peppered with tourists. The last time Molly and Helen were there they danced a merengue with two Basques between tables of diners, who held onto their glasses whenever the hip-swivelling became overly exuberant. Tipsy on too much Rioja and not enough pizza, the girls entertained themselves hugely by joking they’d nip home and change into their basques for the next set. They thought it was hilarious; the Basques’ English didn’t run to wordplay.
‘Do you think La Cave is a good idea? We always have adventures when we go there and I fancied a quiet chat.’ Helen was dubious.
‘It’s a Friday night, oh Helen of Athboy. You can have a quiet chat from Sunday through to Thursday but not tonight. When you’re fifty you can go home and watch The Late Late Show on a Friday night but until then I regard it as my duty to ensure you receive your fair quotient of fun. I’ll meet you in La Cave at nine thirty-one.’
‘That’s extraordinarily explicit timing, Molly. Remind me again, why Athboy?’
‘Because it’s dull. Like you’re in danger of becoming, only fortunately I am your self-appointed guardian angel and I’ve made it my mission to save you from boring tendencies.’
‘How about if we agree not to have more than one bottle and to catch the last DART home?’ Helen essayed some negotiation.
‘How about if we agree to wear knee-length cardigans and drink Ballygowans?’ Molly declined to play ball.
‘Fair enough. We probably have no chance of a couple of stools near the bar but I’ll scout around if I get there before you.’ Helen acknowledged there was no hope of meeting on middle ground and caved in. La Cave was designed for caving in.
‘You’ll enjoy yourself, I promise you,’ Molly reassured her.
‘I have no doubt. I’ll also have a thumping headache and smoke-drenched clothes by tomorrow.’
‘Small price to pay for a modicum of entertainment, Helen.’
Barry, eavesdropping shamelessly, pushed a coffee he’d brought from the canteen Molly’s way.
‘Going on the batter tonight?’ There was more than a suspicion of envy in his voice.
‘Just having a few drinks with Helen.’ Molly grappled with the plastic lid, spilling frothing liquid on her notebook. ‘Do you have a home number for anyone from the employers’ group IBEC? I need a reaction to this shopworkers’ strike story I’m writing.’
‘I can manage a mobile for their press officer. Helen’s the stern one with shoulder-length black hair, isn’t she?’ He told Molly the phone number. ‘I met her at your flat-roasting party.’
‘Sounds about right. What’s the PR’s name?’
‘Sally Halligan. You’ll have no bother with her, she’s up to speed.’ Barry sounded wistful. ‘I wouldn’t mind a night out myself. I’d love to go on the town with the two of you but Kay would never agree to it.’
‘Voicemail.’ Molly replaced the receiver. ‘So have a night out with Kay. Any chance of a home number for Sally Hartigan?’
‘Halligan.’ Barry read it out and sighed. ‘She’d never agree. We’re supposed to be saving for a new kitchen although the old one hasn’t a mark on it.’
Molly pulled a sympathetic face and made a mental note that the single life had its compensations.
La Cave was jammed. Molly, liberated from work earlier than expected thanks to the next day’s paper being tight on space – hallelujah for active advertising staff – was paying for a bottle of house red when Helen arrived.
‘Your little suede skirt, you must mean business.’ Molly appraised her.
Helen tugged at the clotted-cream skirt without managing to pull it any closer to her knees. ‘May as well look the part if you’re planning to have me dancing on tables with the tourists.’
‘Around tables, angel face. The owner worries about the pock marks heels leave on his table tops.’ Molly shuffled a few inches so that Helen could squeeze in beside her at the bar. ‘Quick, empty a glass of this down your throat. Hundreds of grapes gave their life’s blood so we could knock it straight back without bothering to taste it. You’ll never guess who I saw at the lecture last night. Go on, guess.’
‘I wanted to talk to you about something,’ protested Helen, but Molly was so preoccupied with thoughts of Hercules that she didn’t notice. Although not so distracted that she failed to spot she was being given the eye by a thirtysomething in the sort of stylish co-ordinates that marked him out instantly as European. Irishmen’s idea of casual wear was inevitably crumpled.
She wrenched her attention back to Hercules with the heroic effort a Greek god deserved. ‘He’s an aesthete, Helen,’ she announced.
Helen was bemused. ‘Your man over there with the perma-tan leering at you?’
‘Is he really leering? I must be looking happening tonight despite the work suit. No, Hercules. He materialised a couple of rows ahead of me at the National Gallery lecture, like Venus rising from the waves only fully clothed, of course, and male obviously.’
Helen smiled as she sipped at her wine despite Molly’s injunction to wallop it into her. ‘So this is one course of night classes where you’ll manage to turn up for every lesson. Perhaps he’s a plant, brought in by the gallery to encourage attendance.’
Molly laughed and attempted to refill Helen’s near-brimming glass. ‘We had a coffee together afterwards. It turns out he’s from Glasthule, just around the corner from you, and I scarcely exist as far as he’s concerned but he’s smitten by you. He called you my friend with the disappointed eyes. So he’s on special offer to women with that thwarted look if you’re available. By the way, his name’s Georgie. Suits him. He has that look of a little boy who kissed the girls and made them cry.’
Helen was embarrassed and twirled the ends of her hair around her index finger. She knew how much Molly liked her Greek and was touched by her generosity in passing him on. Not that he was hers to dole out exactly. However, Helen wasn’t the least bit interested in Georgie – those features could be carved from marble as far as she was concerned.
‘He’s all yours, Moll,’ she said. ‘Mediterranean types were never for me. I prefer pale, brooding individuals, even if their tortured expressions are due to hangovers as opposed to poetic angst.’
Molly was relieved. ‘Felt I had to give you the option since you haven’t paid much attention to men in several decades. God, this place is lethal, I may as well be back on twenty a day as sit in here.’ She shot a baleful glance at a couple billowing smoke in their direction and was ignored.
‘Stop behaving like a reformed smoker. If you fancied breathing clean air you should have opted for a stroll on the seafront.’
‘True. Here’s the plan: I am now going to undulate my way past that mahogany-skinned gentleman from foreign climes, flinging him my boldest come-hither glance. I don’t actually propose to do anything with him if he does approach but it’s essential to keep your weaponry in working order.’
‘You’re incorrigible, Molly,’ said Helen.
‘I know,’ she replied complacently, and swayed her way towards the man in question and his friend, also a sun-worshipper from his complexion, tossing her curls as she manoeuvred by them.
Helen snatched the opportunity of her absence to order and dispatch a stealthy mineral water. Such a country they lived in, where drinking water was regarded as a social solecism.
Molly returned, lavishly lipsticked in babydoll pink, plonked her elbows on the bar and announced: ‘So now we need to formulate a campaign which allows me to don a loin cloth and swing through the jungle ululating and snatching up my Elgin marbles mate who’ll be trembling with desire and swooning in my arms.’
‘On the other hand you could try throwing him one of those potent come-hither glances of yours and leave the athletics to the trapeze artists.’
‘Also a possibility,’ agreed Molly, ‘but the way I see it –’
Insight into her perspective was delayed by the barman. He produced a bottle of Valpolicella, uncorked it and said, ‘Compliments of the two gentlemen there.’
‘You see, your come-hither glances are dynamite,’ said Helen. Addressing the barman she added: ‘Could you send it back, please? Tell them we only accept sweets from strangers. Unsolicited alcohol is too perverse by half.’
‘Do nothing of the sort,’ objected Molly. ‘Splash a dollop in here and we’ll toast their good health.’
She raised her glass to their admirers, hissing ‘Smile’ at Helen.
‘I will not. We’ll be tormented with them all night and I wanted to have a private chat with you.’
Helen had hoped to raise the subject of Patrick in a roundabout ‘I have a friend with a problem’ sort of way. Molly wasn’t having any of it.
‘We can have a private chat any time. These lads will buy us drink all night and the craic will be mighty. It’s our duty to drink wine or vineyards will go out of business – there are countries where the annual per capita consumption is only a teaspoon.’
‘Which countries?’ asked Helen.
‘The entire Indian subcontinent for starters. Which nationality do you think they are? My money’s on Italian. Here they come. Play nicely, Helen, for my sake. I fancy a flirt. You should try it yourself, sets the blood coursing.’
‘Molly, we can buy our own drink. We’re not penniless students any more.’
‘I know but I like to relive the glory days.’ To the tourists: ‘Thank you for the wine. Would you like to share a glass with us?’ My name’s Nora and this is my friend Bridget, we’re ban-gardaí here in Dublin. You don’t know what ban-gardaí are? Female policemen. Yes, I know it’s a contradiction but that’s language for you. Don’t look so worried, we’re off duty. I promise this isn’t an undercover assignment – would we admit we were in the police force if it were? Now tell us where you’re from. Sicily, how fascinating. I tasted some of your Mount Etna firewater once. It left me all fired up – I suppose that was the intention.’
Helen raised her glass to her lips. The skirmishing was under way. She needed some ammunition and the bottled sort was at her elbow. Convenience had much to recommend it. She edged away from one of the Italians, who didn’t recognise ground rules about personal space; if she were a garda she’d slap out her badge and intimidate him with it. Even amorous Italians had to back off from women with impressive police credentials.
Trailing her fingers down the stem of the glass, Helen smiled at her Italian without any particular zeal. Her mind was elsewhere. If only she’d been able to raise the subject of Patrick with Molly – her friend was unshockable. Sometimes Helen’s brain seemed to constrict with the effort of clinging to her secret. It would be the sweetest relief to spill out the words, let them trickle into a sympathetic ear. She was at a crossroads – and undecided. What she could do and what she should do were vying for supremacy.
