Three Wise Men, page 21
‘Gloria won’t come, she’s still hibernating,’ Kate reminds her. ‘The eggs haven’t had their full week’s bed rest yet. We should go to Ranelagh and check on her later.’
‘True, you couldn’t rely on Mick the Hick to look after her,’ agrees Eimear.
‘Mick’s still at his mother’s. And if he’s a hick, so are we.’
‘At his mother’s!’ Eimear is outraged. ‘What in the name of God is he playing at?’
Kate shrugs. ‘That’s between the two of them.’
‘Who’s looking after her?’ demands Eimear.
‘I am, I stop by every night to cook her an evening meal – well, bring her a takeaway – and I leave sandwiches and a kettle by her bed to take her through the next day.’
‘You’ll be canonised next. Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have helped out.’ Eimear feels excluded.
‘Gloria didn’t want you to know.’
‘What have I done to offend her?’
‘Nothing.’ Kate presses her eyelids, leaving a dark smear around each one. That’s why she’s looking so tired, thinks Eimear, Florence Nightingale probably had her mascara half-rubbed off too.
Kate continues: ‘Glo’s just behaving a little oddly at the moment. She probably thinks I’ve been so wicked I need to do penance, and what better way than tending a sickbed, while you deserve some peace and quiet.’
‘It’s ludicrous that they’re trying to have a baby.’ Eimear is nettled. ‘Gloria’s convinced a child will work miracles, make Mick her devoted slave. God love her wit – their troubles would be only beginning.’
Kate doesn’t want to know.
‘All we can do is leave them alone to sort out their own problems,’ she replies. ‘I think we should drop the subject.’
Eimear is too pumped up to abandon anything. ‘Kate, I know you like Mick but he isn’t treating Gloria well, even you have to admit that. His disappearing act when she’s trying to have his baby is disgraceful. I wouldn’t want to share a house, never mind a bed, with a man like that.’
‘Your poetry’s getting to you,’ says Kate. ‘You’ve painted them so black it has you thinking all men are beasts.’
‘They are when it comes to money,’ Eimear complains.
‘Jack being miserly?’
‘He wants us to sell the house so he can have his half of the lolly,’ she elaborates.
‘Selling up sounds fair enough, the property’s in your joint names,’ Kate suggests cautiously.
‘But it’s my home,’ wails Eimear. ‘I don’t want some other couple moving into it, it belongs to me. I planted the lilies in the back.’
‘Take them with you.’
‘Lilies don’t travel well,’ she carps.
‘This has nothing to do with lilies, Eimear. Now let’s think it through: could you buy Jack out?’
‘No. Maybe.’
‘That’s helpful,’ she smiles. ‘Is that a “No. Maybe” as in yes or a “No. Maybe” as in possibly?’
‘I thought my poems might drum up some cash. And my hotshot lawyer is pressing for a share of Jack’s royalties.’
‘The sums won’t add up, angel,’ Kate explains gently. ‘Jack may well owe you some royalties and you may indeed get your own poems published, but it’s dicey to expect a golden egg, never mind the goose that laid it into the bargain.’
‘I know, I know, but I want to keep the house, I’ll never find anywhere I like so well.’
‘Can you afford the mortgage on your salary?’ Kate is brisk.
‘No.’
‘So how are you managing?’
‘Jack is still paying half the mortgage.’
‘Obviously he won’t want to do that forever. Could you take in a tenant, use the rent to repay a bank loan and buy Jack out that way?’
‘I’d still have to find all the mortgage on my own and I couldn’t do that.’ Eimear sighs.
‘There’s only one way forward then, ‘Mulligan,’ she chews a strand of red hair that just about stretches to her mouth. ‘You know what it is you have to do.’
‘Tell. me anyway,’ she suggests, hoping Kate’s version will be more palatable than her own.
‘Slap up a “For Sale” sign, walk away and start again. Your equity will buy a little cottage somewhere.’
‘But not in Donnybrook, I love Donnybrook, I don’t want to live anywhere else.’
‘Not in Donnybrook,’ Kate agrees, ‘but this Dublin 4 address is a lot of nonsense anyway.’
‘That’s rich coming from someone who can see the trees on St Stephen’s Green from her living-room window.’ Eimear wanders the room moodily.
‘True, but I don’t have a semi-detached period house, I have a minute flat with a brown stain on my bathroom ceiling from my overhead neighbour’s leaky shower and I have a bedroom a few feet away from the lift, so if anyone uses it at night I hear every creak.’
‘You seem to like it there.’ Eimear is surprised at her unalluring description.
‘I do, but nothing’s perfect – welcome to the real world, at the age of almost thirty-three. Being independent isn’t all about no queue for the bathroom and having the freedom to wear a face mask in bed. There’s a down side too.’
‘Donnybrook suits me,’ whines Eimear. ‘I like the delicatessen on the main road and there’s a handy flower shop near the house, the dry-cleaning staff know me by name and I’ve made friends with my neighbours.’
‘Stop your carry-on, Eimear O’Brien, you’ve only lived in Donnybrook a couple of years, you were perfectly happy in Portobello before that and in Harold’s Cross before that.’
Eimear reflects on her previous addresses: she’s perfectly right, there was life before Donnybrook.
‘You pays your money and you takes your choice,’ continues Kate. ‘Perhaps you could afford a small flat in Donnybrook if you’re determined to stay. Or maybe you might cast your net further afield and try for a cottage in Milltown – you never know what’s out there till you start looking. You could head for the hills, you could end up by the seaside, it’ll be an adventure.’
An adventure. When she puts it like that …
‘I haven’t had an adventure in years,’ remarks Eimear, buoyed up. ‘I think I’m ready for one of those yokes.’
CHAPTER 26
Eimear’s feeling fluttery. Jack’s just phoned and she wasn’t expecting to hear his voice on the line. She’s over him, of course she is, but she prefers advance warning before speaking to him. So she can settle her emotions, steady her voice, measure her heart-beat. That unreliable organ is still pumping erratically ten minutes after the receiver’s been replaced.
‘Be still my beating heart,’ she instructs it aloud, hoping the sheer nonsense of the admonition will give her a reality check. It doesn’t. She eats a square of chocolate to calm herself, wishing she hadn’t thrown away that last half-empty packet of cigarettes in a fit of self-improvement.
She was minding her own business, channel-hopping, when the call came.
Jack: ‘This is Jack, Eimear.’
Eimear: ‘I’d never have guessed.’
(That sounds caustic, why is she starting the conversation on such a negative note?)
Jack: ‘We need to talk.’
Eimear: ‘Of course.’
(Promising – does he want a reconciliation?)
Jack: ‘About the house. We have to move this situation on, sell up and divvy up – I can’t afford to keep you in luxury in Donnybrook while I huddle in a couple of minuscule rooms at the top of a building that should be demolished brick by brick.’
Eimear: ‘You put it so poetically, my dear.’
(You put it so bluntly, you heap of dung.)
Jack: ‘We have to accept the marriage has failed.’
Eimear: ‘There’s no question about that.’
(So the reconciliation’s off.)
Jack: ‘My poetry’s suffering, I need to get my life in order.’
Eimear: ‘I thought writers were supposed to crouch in garrets, summoning their muse by gaslight.’
(He miscalculated badly, he thought he’d have a nest at Kate’s as well as a bolthole at Trinity. But she rescinded your parking permit, didn’t she, my Jack-in-a-box.)
Jack: ‘That’s nonsense. I wrote some of my best poetry in Donnybrook.’
Eimear: ‘Too bad you turned to your groin for inspiration, you lecherous layabout.’
(Ditto.)
Jack: ‘Let’s not dredge up old scores, Eimear. We were tearing each other apart, one of us had to be strong for both of us.’
Eimear: ‘Big brave boy.’
(Little cowardly man.)
Jack: ‘So are you going to be reasonable? About the house?’
Eimear: ‘There’s an estate agent coming by on Saturday.’
(I’m doing this for me, not you.)
Jack: ‘Excellent. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.’
Eimear: ‘Feel free, you’ve wasted five years of my time – what’s another five minutes.’
(Shove off and never speak to me again.)
Jack: ‘There’s nothing much else I had to say. Except – how’s Gloria, is she pregnant?’
Eimear: ‘Possibly, she doesn’t know yet.’
(What’s your game?)
Jack: ‘When will she know?’
Eimear: ‘Later this week.’
(There’s something going on here.)
Jack: ‘Right, give her my best.’
Eimear: ‘Do you have a best? I thought you only had a worst.’
(He’s getting to me.)
Jack: ‘I’ll say goodbye now, Eimear. I’ll be in touch again about the house.’
Eimear rustles the chocolate wrapper and speculates about Jack’s uncharacteristic interest in Gloria’s pregnancy. Is it a wind-up because he knows Eimear wanted their baby? And who told him Glo was having another IVF attempt anyway? Is he trying to imply that he’s still in touch with Kate and that she’s keeping him informed?
Her brain hurts. Jack O’Brien insinuates himself under her skin like no other man. Imagine having to force-feed herself chocolate just to recover from a telephone conversation with him. Eimear knows she has to take her mind off this, she needs to speak to someone. She lifts the phone again.
‘Gloria, it’s Eimear here. How’s the hatching going? That’s good news, fingers crossed – legs too. You sound tired, Glo, I hope you’ve not gone back to work too early. Any word of Mick? You’re kidding, I wish I had a boss like his who’d let me swan off indefinitely. I’ve just had a phone-call from Jack, he’s being his usual arrogant self, ordering me to sell the house so he can get on with being Ireland’s Greatest Living Poet in comfort. Apparently he doesn’t like his rooms at Trinity as much as he thought he would.
‘Anyway I have every intention of selling the house – of course I have, Glo, I decided it ages ago, Kate and I talked about it and I decided to put it all behind me, start a new chapter. It’ll be an adventure. Sorry? Well I did mean to talk to you about it but you’ve been busy with the embryos and I didn’t want to distract you from that vital task. No, I’m not being flippant, honestly, Gloria, you’re so touchy these days. Look, can we start again?
‘The update on my life is that the marital home is now about to be advertised for auction, fumiture included. I’m not being rash, I just want rid of it all now. Yes, I know I love my tables and sofas but they’re only things and you end up being the one possessed by possessions. Feel free to ask for anything that tickles your fancy – you always liked that hall-stand, it’s yours if you want it. Gloria, stop, it was meant as a friendly gesture, I don’t know where you come by the notion you’d be a vulture. Offer me twenty pounds if it makes you any happier. Kate’s welcome to anything that catches her eye too. Well, she’s already had the most important asset of mine that appealed to her, why stop now?
‘I know, sometimes resentment oozes out but mostly I can handle it. I have forgiven her, truly I have, it’s just when I talk to Jack, pus starts seeping from barely sealed wounds. Anyway I’ll be completely free of Jack once I’ve sold this millstone. I don’t know where I’m going, that’s the whole point of the adventure, it could be that I’ll find a little artisan’s cottage in Dundrum that needs renovating. Of course I can handle builders, you must think I’ve been wrapped in cotton wool all my life. Where did you get that idea from?
‘Certainly I like Donnybrook but I’m not wedded to it – there’s a divorce coming up, remember. Of course I’ll find somewhere I like just as much as Donnybrook, I don’t know why you keep banging on about it. New home, new life, new video shop.
‘Jack the Rat was asking after you. Gloria? Are you still there, it sounded like you dropped the receiver. You have to go and lie down? A stitch in your side? Mind the embryos, don’t lie on your front, take it very, very easy. I’ll come straight around. Fair enough then but you rest yourself and I’ll call by tomorrow.’
Poor Gloria, thinks Eimear, all alone with three embryos. ‘Entombed in the Womb’, that would make a good title for a poem – or maybe it’s too bleak. How about ‘Womb-Mates’? Hey, she’s really thinking like a poet, she’s awash with ideas. That woman from Bitchin’ Babes will discover she’s signed the find of the century.
Euphoria is replaced by reality as she remembers she hasn’t enough pieces for a collection, she has to drum up some more. Where’s the paper, must get cracking while the tide’s in.
The phone side-tracks her.
‘What’s cooking, Mulligan?’ Kate’s voice sparkles down the line.
‘My brain cells, they’re in overdrive. I’m in poetry writing mode. What can I do for you, oh fan of my art?’
‘Got a brilliant wheeze,’ Kate announces. ‘We’re all going to a fortune teller.’
‘Zippidy-doo-dah.’
‘You don’t think it’s a brilliant wheeze?’
‘Oh, I do, from the fortune teller’s point of view,’ Eimear assures her. ‘It’s masterly – you troop three gullible women into your tent, invite them to cross your palms with silver, promise them the moon and then show them the door.’
‘I don’t think silver works any more,’ says Kate. ‘Fortune tellers have been converted by Ian Paisley, they insist on a silent collection.’
‘Look, I tell you what I’m going to do, Kate, I’ll hold a few notes against my lighter and promise myself there’s an irresistible man waiting to enter my life, plus an inheritance on the sidelines. Then I’ll set fire to it and I’ll be saved the bother of schlepping off to darkest Ballybogeyman, or wherever your dodgy seer lives.’
‘Oh, ye of little faith.’ Kate sounds saddened. ‘This woman is the Real McCoy. Isabel at work swears by her. She’s been house-hunting for a year and had all but given up on finding something. She goes to the fortune-teller, who says she’ll be living under her own roof within a few months and hey presto, the next week she hears about a house before it’s officially on the market, makes an offer and it’s accepted.’
‘That’s miraculous,’ breathes Eimear. ‘You don’t think that after a year of trying, she was bound to come up with a place sooner or later?’
‘But how did Mrs Gilmartin know she was looking for one?’ asks Kate triumphantly.
‘So that’s her name, Mrs Gilmartin, not Gypsy Rose or Madame Olga. It sounds normal enough.’
‘She is normal, she just happens to have an abnormal gift. She lives out in Ashbourne, she’s a widow, she keeps hens in her backyard, she was babysitting her granddaughter the night Isabel went along. What do you say, Mulligan, will we round up Gloria and make an expedition of it?’
‘It’s a sinful waste of money but why not. At least you’re not bringing us to one of those soothsayers off O’Connell Street that all the tourists visit.’
‘Would I?’ Kate injects an aggrieved tremor into her voice.
‘Yes, you would. Remember the time you tried to force me to hunker down at the foot of the Molly Malone statue and have that dark-haired fellow who sits there with his Tarot cards sort out my future for me?’
‘That was nothing to do with fortune telling, I just wanted a closer look at your man,’ admits Kate. ‘It’s not often you get a lad telling fortunes, the girls have the job stitched up.’
‘Is that because women are more intuitive?’
‘Nah. They just have more time on their hands. So I can definitely count you in then, Mulligan?’
‘I may as well, it might spur me on to another poem. “She held my loveline in her hands/And said the track was broken …”’
‘No more doggerel please,’ pleads Kate.
‘I’m glad you’re not the managing director of Bitchin’ Babes Press,’ complains Eimear. ‘When are you planning this expedition – before or after we go sharking for Beautiful Boys?’
‘After, definitely. We want Mrs Gilmartin to give us the low-down on the highfliers we’ve lined up. I’ve worked out which nightclub we should hit, it’s the Den of Iniquity, the name sounds promising.’
‘An omen,’ remarks Eimear. ‘What about a meeting place, I suppose we have to go to one of those disco bars?’
‘It doesn’t much matter which one we pick so long as we steer clear of Temple Bar and the stag party herds over from England for the weekend – they’ll all be too drunk to be much use to us.’
‘Too old, as well.’
‘Positively withered.’
‘There isn’t a rugby international on the same night as our shindig, Kate, is there?’ Eimear’s panicked. ‘We don’t want to be distracted by hordes of maudlin fans celebrating their sporting victory over our boyos.’
‘Not as far as I know, but I’ll double-check. Anyway why should you assume they’ll be crowing it over our supporters?’
‘Have a titter of wit, woman, when did the Irish team ever win a match, especially on home ground?’
‘True.’
‘Isn’t the Den of Iniquity popular with Trinity students?’ Eimear asks casually.
‘As far as I know,’ Kate responds, instantly cagey. There’s a pause, then she continues: ‘Is that a problem? I don’t think it would be the lecturers’ scene if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘The last thought on my mind,’ she assures Kate. ‘I have nothing against Trinity students, wasn’t I one myself. It was an idle thought, no hidden agenda.’
