Be Careful What You Wish For, page 23
Meanwhile, Molly lay in bed with her brain on a work-to-rule and a cafetiere of coffee on the bedside table. Today was a day off. Ostensibly she was re-reading Anne Frank’s Diary but it was less than congenial charting the cabin fever rampaging through the attic inmates’ hidey-hole. Instead she counted the buds on the tree outside her window. Spring was about to be sprung, in another month or so she’d be woken by sunlight streaming through the window. Touch wood. Perhaps she should pick up some travel brochures and plan a holiday – the dangling carrot of a fortnight in May somewhere exotic might encourage the rising sap to the surface. She’d cajole Helen into joining her; she seemed in dire need of a break judging by her performance the other Monday. It might cure her moods – nothing like sun on the back for defrosting someone. Apart from valium, of course. A suntan would sort Helen Sharkey out in record time. Whereas Barry was a trickier proposition altogether although he could do with chilling out too, he was way too libidinous. Luckily Molly’s shifts hadn’t coincided with his at work since last week. She tapped her teeth as her coffee cooled. She was supposed to be treating herself with Jamaican Blue Mountain, which meant it deserved to be consumed black, but she’d added a splash of milk. However, cold coffee was cold coffee even if it cost twice as much as her usual brand. Molly absentmindedly took a sip and wrinkled her nose. A trip to the microwave was in order.
Only one way of defusing Barry, she decided, back in bed with heat-zapped coffee and the Irish Film Centre bulletin, which she’d found lying on top of the microwave. It was out of date but she could scan it and mourn all the films she’d missed. Barry needed his eye redirecting to the ball, namely Kay. If he were reunited with his wife he wouldn’t have time to imagine he was in love with Molly. So now all she had to do was unleash the brainstorming potency of Jamaican Blue Mountain on her febrile imagination and she’d be inundated with solutions.
Just a minute … Molly held the coffee in her mouth, swishing it from cheek to cheek, as she remembered the genius of her serenading idea. How had Barry been received when he arrived at Kay’s salon word-perfect in Love Is All Around? It should have been the clincher but it augured inauspiciously that he’d pitched up at Molly’s and pounced on her; Kay was the woman he should be pouncing on. Despite her reservations about Stephen’s grasp of the concept of days off if there were stories to write and no staff to write them, Molly decided to drop by the office. Self-respect demanded she quiz Barry on his singsong; there was no point in wasting her inspiration on people if they didn’t enact her brainwaves. She’d have a shower, collar Barry and sort him out, hive off to Café Davide for a well-deserved plate of blueberry pancakes and she’d ask for extra maple syrup this time because they never trickled enough into those minuscule pots they provided. Then she could check out the swimsuits in Arnotts – if she were going to balmy climes she’d need a new costume. Her current one must have shrunk in the wash because it didn’t fit her any more.
Barry gave her a dazzle-you-in-the-next-county grin when she appeared in the newsroom, sidling past Stephen, who was engrossed in the racing pages.
‘Couldn’t stay away, Molly?’ beamed Barry.
‘You’ve got me bang to rights, guv.’
‘Glad to see those two years in London weren’t just wasted on journalism and you took diction lessons from cabbies too.’
‘Nope, did a week’s worth of shifts on the Currant Bun. Even filled in for their Page Three girl one day when she went on a bender with some sports reporters the night before and missed her 10 a.m. photo-shoot.’
Barry brightened still more. ‘Back issues will be ordered. Don’t think you can suppress this pic with the success I’ve achieved in quelling copies of my own, er, somewhat under-clothed pose. And where were you when there was drinking and steam being let off and sundry high-jinks with sports journalists? How come you missed the roistering?’
Molly tossed her hair so boisterously the blonde curls pirouetted and all but took a bow. ‘For starters I wouldn’t want to suppress the shot, my body looked exceptionally luscious in the Soaraway Sun, if I say so myself. Must have been the Vaseline smeared on the camera lens. I was approached by a lingerie catalogue on the strength of it. Just because your weedy art-class pose did nothing to promote confidence in your physique, don’t imagine others are ashamed of their forays into the world of glamour modelling. Secondly, who do you imagine organised the knees-up with the sports department and invited along Jenny Jivebunny, 44–24–34, a girl with her brain cells stored inside mammaries, whose grooming for stardom did not include advice on declining the occasional drink when a dozen men on testosterone overload are including you in their round. She told me the next time we met up she thought testosterone came with a conscience. Now that,’ Molly paused for ultimate impact, ‘counts as truly dim.’
Barry ignored the jibe about his art-class photograph, concentrating on the infinitely more tantalising information about a lingerie catalogue. ‘So there’s photos of you in flimsy undies too?’ The needle on his excitometer threatened to spin off the scale.
Molly took pity on him. ‘Of course not, Barry, nor is there a Page Three spread featuring my unclad bosoms, but I did manage a week of reporting shifts on the Sun. Bought a CD player with the proceeds.’
‘At least tell me Jenny 44–24–34 Jivebunny exists,’ pleaded Barry.
‘There is no Easter bunny and no Jenny Jivebunny either.’ Molly steadied him with a hand on his shoulder before recalling that she was meant to be discouraging the man, not pressing flesh. Or in Barry’s case, bony ridges.
‘Molly, the very woman. We’re short-handed at the Four Courts. Can you zip straight down and cover a rentboy trial in court number two? The accused is the justice minister’s son. This is a stonker.’ Stephen was standing behind Molly, emanating too much of something squirty from a can that must have been bought in a Pound Shop.
‘No, I’m on a day off and I’ve appointments to keep. Dentist’s and a facial.’
‘Your teeth are perfect, so is your face. It’s going to be a sensational trial. The word is the prosecution intend to subpoena a circuit court judge alleged to be one of his regulars. His mother is expected to be in court offering family solidarity. You must know Sheila Mulvey – she’s on the board of at least three charities and never out of the social columns. If the copy is spicy enough they’ll run a front page write-off and a story inside.’
Molly wavered. It sounded like a cracker. And she had a weakness for seeing her byline on the front page.
Stephen scented blood and moved in for the kill. ‘It might even be a picture byline on the inside copy. Come on, this has everything: rentboys soliciting around the papal cross in the Phoenix Park, a kinky judge and pillar-of-the-comrnunity parents struggling to understand their deviant son.’
Molly plucked a notebook from her drawer and spun on her heel. ‘I expect a Sunday off for this the next time the roster has me marked for weekend duty, Stephen. And Barry, I’ll be back here late afternoon when the court rises. We’re going for coffee.’
Barry and Stephen wore identical triumphant grins as she stalked out.
‘Is a circuit court judge really implicated in the rentboy scandal?’ asked Barry.
‘Negative, just lobbed that into the mix to sell it to Molloy – she has a weakness for stories about deviant legal eagles. She maintains people who wear wigs and aren’t country singers are fair game.’
‘You mean you lied to persuade her to cover the story?’ Barry was impressed. Stephen shrugged modestly. ‘Creative use of the truth, no more. For all I know there could be a bent judge on his client list.’
* * *
Back at base in the late afternoon, Molly flung off her coat and started pounding the computer keyboard.
‘What about our coffee?’ asked Barry.
‘It’ll have to be a pint in The Kip. This story is The Business. The judge fined the defendant for contempt of court over an outburst. I thought the old boy was going to shout “Off with his head!” he was so unhinged. But he’d obviously left his Queen of Hearts outfit at home.’
‘What sort of outburst?’ Barry was passing time. He’d finished all his own stories but was avoiding sending them to the newsdesk in case he were given more to do.
‘Magnificent. He leaped to his feet in the middle of the arresting officer’s testimony and yelled that at least he earned his money honestly by performing sexual favours, he didn’t snatch handbags or mug old ladies. I nearly burst out cheering. It’s set to run for another day. I’ll be back in court number two tomorrow listening to details of these same sexual favours. A detective told me the kid’s policy seemed to be that no request was too extreme if the readies were lavish enough.’
‘Why’s the expensively educated son of a government minister selling his body in the Phoenix Park?’ Incredulity radiated from Barry.
‘Drugs. Rebellion. Intoxication of the illicit. I’ll fill you in later but I want to wrap this up. The sooner the subs have their hands on it the better my chances of a decent show in the paper. Apparently his clients tended to be happily married men who didn’t want to admit they were gay or bisexual.’
‘There aren’t any Irish bisexuals. Just men who like women as well as drink,’ said Barry.
Molly laughed. ‘Stop distracting me, I’ve just spelled “soliciting” wrong. By the way, the judge is antediluvian. I keep expecting him to ask, “What is a rentboy, anyhow?” Although I imagine he understands the concept, if not the terminology.’
The chief sub passed Molly’s computer terminal en route to the water cooler and called over his shoulder: ‘I presume Stephen’s told you we want eight inches for the front to go with a photograph of the rentboy.’
‘Working on it now,’ Molly nodded.
‘I could crack a rude joke about column inches and rentboys,’ remarked Barry.
‘Quit while you’re ahead,’ advised Molly.
A couple of hours later, in The Kip, Molly and Barry were walloping into their drinks. There were too many people from the office within earshot for Molly to enquire about the efficacy of her plan for a yodelling Barry to woo Kay at work. On the other hand, she’d need to intimate her intentions were the strictly supportive variety sooner rather than later because he appeared to think they were on some class of date. She scooped the lemon slice out of her gin and sucked it. Barry and herself had been drinking together in The Kip for years – why was he suddenly going off the rails on her? If he had to have a crush on someone he should have chosen Natasha, the education correspondent. She bought her entire wardrobe from Louise Kennedy. Or that new sub, Aileen O’-something, who was a ringer for Enya.
‘Fancy a curry later?’ asked Barry.
She shook her head. ‘You should be making tracks home to your nearest and dearest – the salmon en croute will be crisping in the oven.’
‘It’s meatballs in tomato and basil sauce on Wednesdays,’ Barry corrected her. He lowered his tone: ‘And I’ve told Kay not to cook for me any more.’
‘That’s a bit extreme. I understood you were as wedded to her culinary prowess as to the woman.’
‘Habit, Molly, but habits can be broken. Is that a new blouse? Green suits you.’
‘Hold it right there, Dalton. Point (a) you’ve seen this shirt dozens of times, and point (b) the couple who slurp meatballs together stay together.’ Oblivious to the consequences Molly raised her voice. ‘You’ll never patch up the marriage at this rate, Bar. Now tell me how the salon serenade passed off.’
‘Sssh,’ Barry hissed. ‘It didn’t. I couldn’t get the chorus memorised and I took it as a divine red card telling me I wasn’t to do it. Anyway, I don’t want to patch up a clapped-out marriage; I want to rent a flat, turn over a new leaf and start seeing you. I’m mad about you, Molly.’
Alarm propelled Molly towards brutal honesty. ‘You’re mad, full stop. And why on earth would you imagine that with diverse conflicts and famines and megalomaniac dictators to contend with, whoever’s handling the divine end of things has time to zap your memory banks to hamper you from learning a couple of bars of mush?’
Barry pushed the drinks to one side and lurched through the air towards Molly, his face inches from hers and closing fast. ‘I’m wild about you. I think about you all the time when I’m conscious and dream about you when I’m not.’
Dismay was overtaken by full-scale panic. She cast around desperately for an alibi as to why she was unavailable to entertain his advances. ‘I don’t fancy you’ seemed too brutal – although she wasn’t ruling it out as a last resort.
‘Barry, be honest, have I ever done anything to encourage you? I thought we were supposed to be mates. This isn’t how friends behave. Besides, you know I’m seeing Fionn. I never truly got over him; I think this time it’s for keeps.’ She gulped her gin, hoping he wouldn’t notice the fingers on both her hands were crossed.
Barry slumped. ‘You don’t fancy me, do you? I’m middle-aged and stodgy, just as Kay said. No woman in her right mind would take me on.’
Molly noticed a couple of feature writers casting curious glances in their direction and one of the copytakers was eavesdropping openly. She hustled Barry into his coat and outdoors. She must have been deranged imagining they could have a private conversation in the office drinking den. She marched him into Supermac’s and ordered them both cheeseburgers and chips; he’d feel better on a full stomach. And if he didn’t she sure as heck would.
They ate in companionable silence. For a man whose hopes had been blighted a few minutes earlier Barry regained his appetite with suspicious alacrity. When the meal was finished he remarked, ‘I never thought we’d be all that compatible anyhow after the sex appeal had burned itself out.’
Molly choked on her strawberry milkshake, recovered and considered leaving him to his own devices – he could make a banjax of his life for all she cared – but decided to be magnanimous. Obviously he was pining for her; the comment about having nothing in common after the jiggery pokery lost its edge could be attributed to pique. Besides, did she really want Barry believing they were kindred spirits? She didn’t even care for his allegations of sexual compatibility.
Molly resumed slurping. ‘Listen carefully, Barry, I have an artful plan.’
‘Don’t you mean a cunning plan?’
‘No, this is too devious to be relegated to mere cunning. Here’s how you lure Kay back: make her jealous.’
‘She’s already jealous. Of you. Fancy some ice cream, Molloy?’
‘No. And don’t attempt to move until after I’ve outlined my artful plan. Picture it: your place, Saturday night, eight o’clock. Kay’s driven into a jealous frenzy of spring-cleaning overload while you ponce around putting the finishing touches to your Night Fever attire, ready for a session with your new love.’
‘Which is you?’ Barry looked hopeful.
‘Which is not me.’ Molly looked adamant.
‘Who then?’
‘Helen.’
Barry was crestfallen. ‘I’m nervous of her; she’s too forbidding. How do you propose persuading her to become my new girlfriend?’
‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ said Molly. ‘I suppose we could always throw ourselves on her good nature.’
Barry was visibly intimidated.
Molly decided to play it reassuring. ‘Leave the Helen end of this triangle to me. I’ll have her primed to drape herself all over you somewhere v. public. You’ll be making out like teenagers, and as soon as Kay realises you’re a desirable object she’ll stake her prior claim. Cue reconciliation, cue a long hot summer of love. Now, Barry, go home, be cheerful, don’t let Kay imagine you’re devastated by the impending split, and my bet is she won’t like this transformation that has you resigned and no longer pleading with her to change her mind. She’ll start worrying this was your idea instead of hers and before you know it she’ll be beckoning you from the bedroom door in a diaphanous négligé.’
‘A what?’
‘A see-through nightie. Now let’s go home, my brain is tired and I need to rest it before tackling the problem of the elixir of youth.’
Back at the apartment Molly decided the best way to lure Helen on board was to cut a deal with her. If Helen play-acted smitten with Barry, she’d give her a Get Out of Jail Free card. That meant she could call in a favour any time; they’d operated this system since college.
She phoned Helen with the proposition.
‘Molly, you’re meddling.’ Helen sounded less than enthusiastic.
‘Someone has to, man’s as precarious as three-legged stool with only two legs. If I don’t take a hand he’ll forfeit his home, his family and his grasp on reality.’
‘Reality’s overrated,’ said Helen. She made no effort to curb her bitterness.
‘The alternative’s not a viable option,’ insisted Molly, disturbed by Helen’s grim assessment. ‘Fantasy isn’t for grown-ups, not long term.’
‘But adulthood’s overrated too,’ said Helen.
Molly held the receiver away from her ear and looked at it. Who’d confiscated Helen’s toys? ‘You need a holiday, Helen. How about calling over to me tomorrow evening after work? I’ll collect a stack of brochures in my lunchbreak and we can pore over superlatives. I’ll even rustle us up a couple of mojitos to capture that sensation of lolling in a hammock with the crickets chirping. We can also negotiate on the Barry front, a get out of jail free card has to be worth a little discomfort lending him a hand in his hour of need.’
‘I’ll expect you to lay down strict ground rules with him if I agree to this, Molly.’ Helen realised she was eyeball to eyeball with her best chance of talking candidly about Patrick. ‘I’m not saying yes yet, mind you, but I’ll consider it. And scoop up a couple of brochures on Ecuador while you’re in the travel agent’s.’
‘Consider it done.’
Molly was all but chortling as she replaced the handset. ‘I can be beamed back to the mother planet any day now. My work among earthlings is done. And I’ve had enough of this inter-species dating.’
