Three Wise Men, page 23
‘There, there, Eimear,’ says Gloria. ‘It was just an expression. He was the perfect gentleman. Dammit.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t fancy any of us, he’s just putting in an evening the best way he can while he’s building up bonus points for heaven via his sister,’ Kate suggests, and all three look gloomy. The effects of the alcohol seem to be wearing off.
Christy has left them while this conversation is going on, claiming he needs to check on his sister; just as it occurs to his trio of admirers he’s sloped off because he’s bored to tears with elderly dollies when he could have his pick of nubile teenagers, he returns. As charming as ever, full of stories about the nightmare of doing up an old house and how his mother keeps dropping by with flasks of tea and banana sandwiches and then staying all day so he can’t get any work done. They’re so engrossed, collectively, they hardly realise the DJ is saying:
‘Good night, drive carefully and God bless. You groovy animals.’
That’s added after the God bless in case it sounds too square.
The lights come on when they’re least prepared for them and they’re pink-faced and blinking, with their lipstick sucked off from wine and giggling. Except for Eimear, who looks as dazzling as she did at 8.30 p.m. when they met up. Christy offers them a lift home but they say his sister is his priority and they’re known for their uncanny ability to track down taxis in this cab-challenged city, so off he goes. But not before arranging to meet the trio in a couple of days’ time at the film centre, where a Marx Brothers season is starting.
‘It’s a bit odd that, wanting to meet all three of us – he isn’t into some group sex kick, is he?’ Kate tests out her theory on the others.
‘Only time will tell,’ says Gloria, while Eimear smiles secretively.
‘It’s harder the older you get, this picking up fellows malarkey,’ Kate muses as they queue for their coats.
‘Was it ever easy?’ asks Gloria.
‘What are you smiling about, Mona Lisa?’ Kate confronts Eimear. ‘Do you have certain information you need to share with the group, about Christy-can-any-man-be-this-perfect-and-not-a-psychopath-Troy?’
‘No,’ she fiddles with her blonde bob, still smiling cryptically.
‘No talking till we reach the taxi queue, it’s lengthening by the micro-second,’ Gloria interrupts, shepherding both towards the door.
Kate glances at Eimear.
‘You’re at it again with that smiling,’ she says. ‘It’s down to Christy, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe,’ she concedes.
‘And?’ Kate’s inflexible. Jealous, too.
‘I just have a feeling about him,’ says Eimear.
‘What sort of feeling?’ asks Gloria, still chivvying them taxi-wards.
‘A feeling that we’ll all be seeing a lot more of Christy.’
‘Is that so,’ Kate responds, as the icy air roars around their ankles. ‘So one of us has managed to pull. The million-dollar question is, which one?’
‘I don’t think even Christy knows that yet,’ answers Eimear. ‘The field is wide open and may the best man win.’
‘I always wanted to be a best man but nobody ever asked me,’ complains Gloria.
‘Let’s put this child to bed,’ Kate tells Eimear, who nods in agreement.
‘It’s not the winning or losing that counts,’ Kate adds, as Gloria starts working out how many are ahead of them in the queue.
‘It isn’t?’ Eimear sounds surprised.
‘No, it’s the shagging.’
CHAPTER 28
‘That wasn’t a very profitable tally on the Beautiful Boys hunt,’ complains Kate, as they lounge in her flat dissecting their evening. Sunday papers are scattered around, coffee rings decorating their covers. She notices Eimear looking about and shuddering.
‘The Mr Sheen is on the shelf above the washing machine,’ Kate tells her, ‘feel free to polish while we chat.’
She ignores her and picks up the Sunday Independent, which has a photograph of Grace Kelly on the front of its Living section. Eimear looks a lot like Grace Kelly, if you can imagine her without the hat and gloves, thinks Kate, looking over her shoulder.
‘Maybe there aren’t any Beautiful Boys in Dublin,’ suggests Gloria. ‘Perhaps you have to go to Sicily or Corfu to find them.’
Kate can see Eimear checking her mug for stains before she drinks out of it – she catches her eye and takes a guilty swig.
‘We didn’t do too badly in the end,’ Eimear says, setting the mug down on Grace Kelly’s pearl choker.
‘You mean St Christopher?’ enquires Kate, ‘patron saint of little sisters and rescuer of bored damsels in nightclubs?’
‘My head hurts,’ says Eimear, ‘I drank too much last night, I’ve filled my poor body with toxins. Of course I mean Christy, who else would I be talking about?’
‘He could turn out to be a pig in a poke,’ remarks Kate.
‘We’re not buying him, just going to the pictures with him. Now never mind about Christy Troy, what about the fellow in the leather jacket and designer stubble you danced with, the one who said at the end of the set, “Don’t fall for me, babe, I’m trouble.” Was he for real?’
‘No, he lived in Cloud-Cuckoo-Land.’ Kate sniggers as she remembers her self-styled heartbreaker. ‘Oh, don’t make me laugh, Eimear, it feels as though my head might fall off my neck and bounce on the floor when I do that.’
‘If we’d any sense we’d have a hair of the dog, that’d cure us,’ says Eimear.
‘Could you face alcohol?’ Kate is amazed.
‘Absolutely not, but I’d kill for a cigarette,’ she replies. ‘I’m going to have to run out for a packet.’
‘Will power, Mulligan,’ she admonishes. ‘Gloria, quick, think of something to distract Eimear.’
‘There’s a lot to be said for drinking water,’ she responds.
‘Don’t be so sanctimonious,’ Kate objects. ‘If you weren’t pregnant you’d be as hungover as the two of us.’
‘No, for a hangover, I mean. Your body is dehydrated, it’s crying out for oceans of water, not’ – and she looks pointedly at Eimear – ‘nicotine.’
‘Gloria,’ Eimear says, ‘explain to me again how come you’re finally pregnant but you and Mick aren’t dancing on air. How come, in fact, that you seem to be going your separate ways, since he’s applied for a job in Omagh and you say you have no intention of leaving Dublin.’
‘Kate …’ Gloria looks imploring.
Eimear purses her lips suspiciously. ‘You two are in cahoots; what am I not being told?’
‘It’s up to Gloria to fill you in,’ shrugs Kate.
‘Gloria?’ Eimear’s eyes swivel back towards her.
Gloria turns scarlet, then white, then scarlet again. ‘It’s not Mick’s baby,’ she mumbles.
Eimear’s astonishment is so pronounced it resembles caricature. She turns to Kate for confirmation, registers her nod and regards Gloria again.
‘Whose is it, Glo? You haven’t met anyone else, how could you just magic up a father for your baby?’
Gloria throws Kate a beseeching look.
‘She doesn’t know who the father is, she had donor sperm,’ says Kate.
Eimear’s eyes are like saucers – flying saucers – she couldn’t radiate any more astonishment if a little green alien appeared and said, ‘Take me to your leader.’
‘I didn’t know you could use donor sperm in Ireland, I thought that sort of freewheeling behaviour only went on in America or England,’ Eimear finally manages to speak.
Gloria is still so resolutely silent, but looking completely dismayed, that Kate feels dishonour-bound to supply all the answers.
‘No, we do it here too,’ she lies glibly, ‘but the hospital doesn’t like to advertise it or the hell-and-damnation pickets would be out in force.’
‘So Gloria doesn’t have a notion who her baby’s father is.’ Eimear studies Gloria with the same detachment she’d examine a specimen in a glass case.
‘Not a baldy,’ Kate agrees cheerfully. ‘It’ll be quite exciting, won’t it, Gloria, wondering what he’ll look like and who he takes after if he turns out to have brown eyes.’
Gloria’s green eyes flash daggers but she’s mute.
‘I can’t get over it,’ says Eimear. ‘Our Glo carrying a mystery man’s baby. How does it feel, dote?’
Gloria shifts in her seat. ‘I’m not sure yet, it’s taking some adjusting.’
‘Of course it must be. Didn’t Mick do the business then?’
‘No, he refused to provide the necessary sperm so I was given a donation,’ says Gloria. ‘For which I’m extremely grateful, but I don’t know anything about the father – nor do I want to. He’s not the father at all as far as I’m concerned.’
‘He’s just a sperm bank in the sky,’ suggests Kate.
Malevolent doesn’t begin to describe the look Gloria flings in her direction.
‘Mick must be raging,’ remarks Eimear. ‘He must feel cuckolded.’
‘You’ve been reading Chaucer again, haven’t you,’ interrupts Kate. ‘Men haven’t been cuckolded since women gave up wearing wimples.’
‘How is Mick taking it, anyway?’ Eimear presses.
‘He’s moving 112 miles away from me, that must give you some indication of his feelings on the subject,’ responds Gloria.
Unexpectedly, Eimear bursts out laughing. She’s doubled over and choking with mirth, incapable of speech. When she finally wipes away the tears, she gasps, between chuckles: ‘You dark horse, Gloria McDermott, you sly dog, you crafty puss …’
‘That’s enough animal imagery,’ Gloria interrupts. ‘I need afternoon naps these days since the morning sickness keeps me awake half the night. I think I’ll head home, see you guys later in the week.’
‘Aren’t you coming to Duck Soup with Christy?’
‘No, you and Kate go without me, I was only sharking with you two to show willing last night. I’m not all that gone on men at the moment.’
‘Join the club,’ says Eimear. ‘We’re only seeing Christy so we can punish him for the misdemeanours of his gender.’
‘Speak for yourself, Mulligan, I want to shag him.’
‘How will that punish him?’ enquires Eimear.
‘He’ll be gutted when I stop.’
Kate and Eimear stand at the window and watch Gloria climb into her Corsa, parked on a double yellow line that matches it exactly, but minus a ticket since it’s a Sunday. They wave enthusiastically but she doesn’t look up.
‘How come you knew about this immaculate conception and I didn’t?’ demands Eimear.
Kate debates how much of the truth to tell her. ‘Mick rang me,’ she says, having stalled for time by drinking some cold coffee.
‘Why?’
‘He trusts me. I need more coffee and I’m out of beans, will we wander down to Bewley’s?’
‘Use instant. Why did he ring you?’
‘My brain cells won’t work without a double espresso. Are you coming or not?’
Eimear is stern. ‘Kate McGlade, sit down on this footstool thing of yours immediately and tell me everything – repeat, everything – you know about Gloria’s baby.’
Kate holds her hands up in surrender. ‘OK, ma’am, I’ll cough, only ple-ee-ee-ase let me inject some caffeine into my jaded veins first. We’ll go to Bewley’s, my treat, and I’ll reveal all over a jam doughnut.’
‘An iced one,’ Eimear stipulates, lifting her denim jacket and flicking her blonde hair over the collar.
‘I bet Grace Kelly never wore a denim jacket,’ says Kate, pulling on an oversized black sweatshirt with Notre Dame emblazoned on the front. The university, not the church with gargoyles, she’s always telling the people who pause to read her chest.
‘Has Grace Kelly anything at all to do with Gloria’s baby?’ Eimear asks.
‘Nothing,’ admits Kate, glad she can answer at least one of her questions honestly. Though it’s downhill from here on in, she expects.
As they cut through the Green to Grafton Street, each lost in their thoughts, Kate mulls over how much of the real story she can tell Eimear. This is Gloria’s mess, she doesn’t know why she’s suddenly the contract cleaner. Then again, Gloria did stand by her when she lost her head over Jack. But, complains the Greek chorus in her brain, Eimear’s sure to find out eventually that you lied to her yet again. You’re only just off the hook over Jack, it’s a miracle she forgave you – cover up for Gloria and you’re likely to be dangling again, without any prospect of a reprieve.
‘We should’ve brought some bread for the ducks,’ Eimear interrupts the wrestling match in Kate’s conscience.
‘The bread-bin’s empty.’
‘Is there never any food in your flat, Kate?’
She reflects. ‘There’s a tin of tuna in the press and a French stick in the freezer. I think I have a jar of olives somewhere too.’
‘Enough to feed the five thousand,’ Eimear congratulates her. ‘And there was me thinking your cupboard was bare.’
‘I live slap-bang in the centre of Dublin, if I want food it’s just a few steps away at any time of the day or night.’ Kate defensively rubs at a toothpaste smear on her sleeve.
‘A fridge is just a few steps away too. It wouldn’t hurt you to feed it with salads and fish or meat occasionally, the sad little box must think it’s forgotten,’ Eimear points out.
‘Don’t you worry about my fridge, it gets plenty of wine and beer to look after. I bought it a lemon the other day, it should count itself lucky. Imagine if it belonged to a horrible man who shoved it full of sausages and black pudding, or to a family who had it packed to the gunnels with microwave chips and chicken nuggets.’
By now they’re at Bewley’s and Eimear nabs a table while Kate queues.
‘Deferment officially over,’ pronounces Eimear, as Kate gulps the black coffee. ‘Spit it out.’
Kate points to her doughnut quizzically but Eimear doesn’t even pretend to find that amusing. So she takes a deep breath and starts talking.
‘Mick rang me from Omagh the day of Gloria’s egg extraction and asked me to drive her home. He realised she’d have to get the eggs taken out but what he wasn’t banking on was donor sperm,’ she explains.
‘What a creep, letting Gloria go through the treatment and then leaving her in the lurch at the pivotal stage.’
‘It wasn’t the kindest action but he obviously decided they weren’t ready for parenthood. He argued it would be more irresponsible to charge on and have a baby in a creaky relationship.’
‘I don’t understand where it all went wrong for them,’ Eimear laments. ‘They were devoted to each other. Does nobody stay in love forever any more?’
‘Our parents seem to be meandering along amicably enough.’
‘That’s because they make do. They’ve turned it into a virtue. They aren’t necessarily happy, they’ve just stopped asking themselves if they are.’
‘Maybe we pose the question too often.’ Kate turns her doughnut around and around, trying to decide which side the jam is likeliest to squirt out from. ‘Maybe the secret of happiness is to stop wondering if you are and just get on with being. If that makes sense.’
‘It doesn’t,’ answers Eimear, picking icing off her bun.
‘Look, Mulligan,’ she tries again, ‘Gloria and Mick have been together since she was sixteen. That’s getting on for seventeen years now. You’re not the same at thirty-three as you are at sixteen, it stands to reason. Do you honestly think Romeo would’ve felt the same way about Juliet ten years down the line? He’d have been declaiming soliloquies about her warts and bad breath.’
‘Suppose so,’ says Kate. ‘But I still wish …’
‘Save it for Mrs Gilmartin. In the meantime, Glo’s having a baby on her own, and it’s a conscious choice because she can’t expect Mick to take on the child. So she’s going to need our support.’
‘So much for that high-minded “I want the family package and baby makes three” lecture she gave me.’
‘She did want the family package but sometimes you can only play the cards you’re dealt,’ Kate reminds Eimear. ‘Another doughnut, Mulligan? We’ll have you eating like a real woman yet.’
‘I’ll get the doughnuts in,’ she laughs. ‘And I already eat like a real woman.’
‘True, but only on alternate days.’
She watches Eimear glide through the crowds to the cake counter – heads turn as she passes but she doesn’t notice. Eimear hasn’t a notion that Jack is the father of Gloria’s baby – sweet Jesus, let it stay that way.
CHAPTER 29
Christy leaps to his feet as they approach the corner table he’s saved in the café area of the Irish Film Centre. ‘Good Grief, a gentleman,’ Kate whispers to Eimear. And one who’s taller than her too, double brownie points all round.
‘Only two of us, I’m afraid. You’ve been stood up by Gloria,’ Kate tells him.
‘I’m the luckiest man alive, meeting two glamorous women, it would be gluttony to expect three of you,’ he assures them.
Irishmen, thinks Kate, honey just drips from their tongues.
‘Nothing wrong with a bit of healthy greed.’ She accepts the chair he holds for her.
Christy’s effort to attract the bar-girl’s attention is futile.
‘I’m useless at impressing women,’ he grins, and walks to the counter to place his order.
‘Coffee?’ Kate asks Eimear, surprised, when they’re alone.
‘Nobody’s stopping you drinking wine, I just happen to like the coffee in here,’ she shrugs. ‘Anyway I’ve been bevying too much lately, it’s playing havoc with my skin.’
‘Your complexion, oh Helen of Troy, is as lovely as it was on the day Paris first sighted it,’ Kate teases. ‘As well you know.’
Eimear smiles back. ‘Why do any of us need men when we’ve friends to keep our ego levels topped up?’
‘It’s a mystery, Mulligan,’ agrees Kate. ‘Let’s walk away right now before Christy comes back with the drinks.’
‘We will not.’ Eimear’s voice rises in alarm. ‘I like Groucho Marx, I want to see the film.’
