Three Wise Men, page 24
‘Course you do, angel. That’s why you’re wearing the turquoise earrings that match your eyes – you always colour co-ordinate to go sit in a darkened cinema.’
Christy’s return checks their sparring match.
‘You’ve probably forgotten which is who,’ says Eimear, accepting her coffee gracefully. ‘This is Kate, Gloria’s the one that got away and I’m Eimear.’
‘I don’t need reminding.’
There are faint freckles on Christy’s nose and he’s wearing a navy linen shirt with a button-down collar that turns his eyes from silver to dark grey.
Snap out of it, McGlade, Kate admonishes herself, it’s Eimear he’s connecting with. She should do the decent and slope off while neither of them are looking. But she sits on and sips her wine.
‘You’re the librarian,’ he tells Eimear, ‘and you’re the solicitor,’ his gaze turns to Kate. ‘I have a good memory.’
‘Did your sister enjoy her twenty-first?’ Kate wonders.
‘Every last alcoholic minute of it; it made me feel my age though.’
‘Which is?’ Kate asks.
‘I’ll be thirty-two next birthday,’ he answers. ‘That must sound ancient to the pair of you.’
‘Antique,’ Kate assures him. ‘That’s why we’re only willing to go to the flicks with you, they turn the lights out. We’re terrified of being spotted in public beside you, it would do our swinging image untold harm.’
‘Ouch, you believe in telling it like it is, Kate. So what made you take pity on an old man like myself?’
‘Charity work,’ she explains. ‘We belong to a voluntary organisation called the Compassionate Sisters – we’re pledged to brighten the dull life of a thirty-something man on a weekly basis. We do it in pairs, to protect our virtue. You wouldn’t believe the advances these geriatrics make on a novice do-gooder.’ Kate looks downcast at the wickedness of the world.
‘Is this true?’ Christy appeals to Eimear.
‘On my honour,’ she replies gravely.
‘Which is a pearl beyond price,’ Kate tells Christy, who’s staring from one to the other as though they’re bats.
‘It’s not too late to escape, you can pretend you’re stepping over to pick up a programme and then run like the wind,’ Kate stage-whispers to him.
He regards her indulgently. I’m entertaining him, but it’s still Eimear he fancies, she thinks.
‘I’d say it’s showtime,’ he says. ‘At least another kind of showtime – shall we buy our tickets for Duck Soup?’
He sits between the girls during the film, which prevents them from discussing him sotto voce at the boring bits. It shows he knows women – of course he has at least one sister.
Kate leans across to him. ‘How many sisters do you have, Christy?’
‘Four,’ he replies. ‘Three younger, one older.’
Rats, he’ll be privy to inside information, she thinks. They’re not going to run rings around this one.
‘One’s probably about your age,’ adds Christy. ‘How old did you say you were?’
‘I didn’t,’ Kate explains. ‘Classified information – I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.’
‘Sssh, the film’s starting,’ scolds Eimear.
In the bar afterwards, Eimear volunteers to fetch the drinks.
‘That’s some girl,’ says Christy appreciatively.
Defeated, Kate decides to be magnanimous. ‘She’s a poet too, a woman of many talents is our Eimear.’
He gazes at her back with renewed interest, if that’s possible. ‘Would I have read any of her work?’
‘Not yet, she has her first collection coming out in a few months, but I’m sure if you speak nicely to her she’ll show you something in advance.’
‘I always speak nicely to lovely ladies, I make it a rule,’ he responds.
Just as well it’s Eimear he’s enamoured of, much more of this syrup and her teeth would rot. Eimear returns, balancing three glasses – the coffee’s fallen by the wayside, she’s decided Christy’s safely in her coils and her complexion’s passed muster. As she hands Kate her wine, she notices something different about her left hand. She checks the other one to be certain – yup, her wedding band has finally been removed. Eimear’s wearing a signet on her ring finger, as though too self-conscious to leave it bare.
‘How do the two of you fancy a day by the seaside on Saturday?’ asks Christy, waiting for his Guinness to settle.
‘Afraid I have something arranged for this Saturday but you’re free, aren’t you, Eimear?’ Kate kicks her under the table.
‘Ouch!’ she says.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’ Christy enquires.
She hesitates, glances at Kate and says, ‘Can I let you know?’
‘By all means,’ he agrees. ‘I’ll give you my mobile number. I’m out and about a lot so it’s a safer bet than the home or office lines.’
He produces a white card with Independent Newspapers printed on it and his name in smaller type at the bottom.
‘So it’s the Irish Independent you work for.’ Eimear strokes the card’s embossed surface. ‘It must be a fascinating job.’ She stares deep into his eyes and winds a skein of blonde hair around her finger.
Talk about feeling superfluous. Would they even notice if she stood up and left, wonders Kate.
‘People always imagine that it’s glamorous but it’s just a job really, it has boring days and exciting days like any other,’ says Christy, angled so far forward towards her it’s a wonder they don’t abandon all pretence at decorum and leap on each other then and there. Body language, the ultimate giveaway.
‘Although I did go up to Aras An Uachtarain yesterday to photograph the President,’ he adds.
‘I suppose that’s the advantage men have over Beautiful Boys,’ Kate comments to no one in particular.
Christy looks puzzled, Eimear furious.
‘They have jobs they can crow to you about, Beautiful Boys don’t,’ she elaborates.
‘I wasn’t boasting – I mean, I hope I didn’t come across as being flash,’ stutters Christy. ‘I’ve only just been taken on staff at the paper, I’m fairly junior in the department.’
‘Don’t worry, you weren’t swaggering,’ Kate tells him. ‘Boasting would be if you started listing all the supermodels you’d photographed. You know, “I had that Claudia Schiffer in the back of my lens.”’
Christy’s face swings from relieved to baffled again. ‘What was that about Beautiful Boys, Kate?’
Now it’s Eimear’s turn to kick her but Kate’s wearing ankle boots, she’s immune to prodding.
‘You see, Christy, it’s like this,’ Kate says expansively, swilling wine around in her glass, ‘the three of us – that’s Eimear, the missing Gloria and myself – had a scheme to find ourselves some Beautiful Boys because we decided we’re tired of men. We thought Beautiful Boys might tickle our fancy and tackle our fencing – or any other odd jobs that needed doing around the house.’
‘I’m a very passable odd-job man myself,’ remarks Christy.
‘I’ve no doubt you are. But you still don’t qualify as a Beautiful Boy – you have to shave every day, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes twice a day,’ he admits, running his fingers along his jawline.
‘That’ll be the black hair,’ Kate reminds him.
‘And were you being thoroughly modern by deciding to interview Beautiful Boys for your escort vacancy?’ he enquires.
‘Not at all,’ Kate rebukes him, ‘we’re following in the footsteps of Queen Maeve.’
‘The Cattle Raid of Cooley Queen Maeve, the one who lived thousands of years ago?’ Christy’s brow is furrowed.
‘Is there any other?’
There’s Queen Maeve of Binchy, high priestess of the Hibernian page-turner,’ suggests Eimear, who’s finally decided to leave Kate’s ankles alone.
‘So there is,’ agrees Kate. ‘But there’s no evidence that she pays the slightest bit of attention to Beautiful Boys. Whereas Queen Maeve of Connaught had a decided penchant for them. She called them her thigh-friends and bragged that she never had one but the shadow of his successor lay across him.’
‘What did she do when she was bored with them?’ asks Christy.
‘Sent them off on cattle raids, of course. Everyone thinks the raids were to harry Ulster and purloin our magnificent bulls, but obviously the real reason was to rid herself of inconvenient lovers who’d passed their sell-by date.
‘“Off you go to the wars now, Fiachra. Watch out for those nasty Ulstermen and their spears, especially that Cuchulainn character. Step forward, Conn, aren’t you a fine figure of a lad. Shall I explain to you what being my thigh-friend involves?”’
‘It’s a descriptive phrase,’ says Christy, ‘I doubt if they needed much coaching.’
‘So you see,’ concludes Kate, ‘we’re simply following Queen Maeve’s stirring example in our hunt for Beautiful Boys. A hunt, by the way, which you stymied, Christy Troy.’
‘Sorry about that, girls,’ he says. ‘If I’d known I was hindering a historical appreciation society drumming up warriors for another Cattle Raid of Cooley I’d have left you in peace at the disco. You just seemed to look as out-of-place as I felt.’
‘We were,’ Eimear butts in. ‘The Den of Iniquity was a cattle market, not a cattle raid. And we definitely won’t be going back there again.’
‘You were the one who suggested togging ourselves up in ra-ra skirts the next time we went,’ Kate protests.
‘Tell us about this cottage you’re renovating, Christy,’ invites Eimear, making more eye-contact than seems strictly necessary to Kate on the substitutes’ bench. ‘I’m looking for a place that needs fixing up myself.’
‘Don’t do it,’ he groans. ‘Take a spin out to the Bog of Allen, dig a hole, bury all your money in it and then drive away without a backward glance. You’ll still be putting your cash to better use.’
‘Expensive?’
‘Crippling. And time-consuming too. I used to have a social life until I took on this albatross.’
‘Still, it must be lovely to look at it as it progresses and think, “All my own work,”’ Eimear radiates encouragement.
‘Not quite all my own,’ he admits. ‘I can do the labouring jobs but I have to hire plumbers, plasterers and bricklayers for anything that requires skill rather than muscle. I did all the electrics myself, though – you must come out and see for yourself.’
‘I’d love to,’ she breathes.
Kate looks at her, waiting for it. Yes, sure enough, here it comes. Her head is thrown back, her arm sweeps up and her hair is scrunched into a hand-held bun, emphasising her cheekbones. Christy is lost in admiration.
‘I should really bring you on my house-hunting expeditions,’ adds Eimear. ‘Kate’s come out with me’ – she acknowledges her presence briefly, thanks for that nano-second. Mulligan – ‘but neither of us knows what to look out for. We can’t check for damp or dry-rot, we’re just looking at superficialities like fireplaces and coving and, fetching though they are, they’re simply the icing on the cake. You need to be sure your ceilings are going to stay up before you start worrying about ceiling roses.’
Kate can’t believe her ears, she’s parroting word for word the exact lecture she harangued Eimear with after being dragged to Booterstown to look at a heap of stones labelled ‘full of potential’ by an optically challenged estate agent. Eimear cooed over a rambling rose framing the doorway, while Kate attempted to point out that half the roof was missing.
‘It’s so reassuring to hear you say that,’ Christy tells Eimear. ‘You’ve no idea how many people turn sentimental when you mention cottages with exposed beams, but they don’t realise most of them need complete restructuring before they’re habitable. People buy these rundown places and then fall apart at the seams when they realise how much work is involved. They’d be better off with a flat in town.’
‘Like me,’ interrupts Kate. ‘I’m delighted with my tiny place at the top of the Green. It has no period features, unless you count a creaky lift, which I have to share with thirteen other flats, there isn’t even a balcony so I have no herbs in pots, and if I have a leak I call the porter. In other words, I eat there sometimes, I sleep there most times, I hang my clothes there all the time and I never give the flat a second thought. Whereas everyone else of my acquaintance, and sadly I can’t exclude present company, are turning into property bores. If you’re not visiting salvage shops for extra-wide skirting board, you’re congratulating each other on how much equity your house has accumulated in the past twenty minutes.’
‘Kate has socialist tendencies,’ explains Eimear. ‘They’re only leanings, she doesn’t follow through on them, she is a solicitor after all, and she owns this flat she’s busy castigating.’
‘I suppose you’re going to call me a champagne socialist because I keep bubbly in my fridge,’ Kate complains.
‘I thought you’d given up on that since Jack – I mean, since the last bottle was emptied in unfortunate circumstances,’ says Eimear.
Good old Mulligan, she knows when to pull the leash. Kate purses her lips.
‘Tomorrow’s a work day.’ Kate springs to her feet. ‘No, don’t stand up, Christy, I’m only a hop, skip and a jump away from home. See you again, you must have Eimear bring you to my decadent capitalist penthouse sometime.’
As she walks along Dame Street, not even noticing when she passes her office, Kate scolds herself. Why does she even bother trying to compete with Eimear? Kate launches into a mental lecture: she’s had revenge enough on Eimear with Jack, be grateful she’s been given a verbal warning and leave well enough alone. Besides, there’s a time-bomb ticking away in this circle of friends and Kate doesn’t want to be pricked into detonating it.
The time-bomb in Gloria’s stomach.
CHAPTER 30
‘You’re in a right pickle and no mistake, aren’t you, little Glo.’ Kate looks at her kindly.
‘Don’t pretend you’re reading that book because you haven’t turned a page for fifteen minutes,’ she adds.
Gloria is holding the Complete Thomas Hardy in her inert hands – now there’s a man who didn’t expect much from relationships. They’re supposed to be keeping each other company in Ranelagh while Kate has an electrician install recessed lighting (she’s had a rush of blood to the head and started home improvements). The plan was to loll about doing their usual Saturday chores but that doesn’t suit Kate, to Gloria’s intense irritation – Kate always has to be niggling.
‘Mick rang me,’ Kate volunteers. ‘He was pumping me to find out whether you were on your hands and knees yet, ready for the inevitable crawl back to him. I was so dumbstruck I must have made him suspect there was something afoot. He started quizzing me; I took the Fifth Amendment but don’t imagine it will stay a secret forever, you know what this town is like – never mind the valley of the squinting windows, this is the dark pool of wagging tongues. You ought to throw yourself on Eimear’s mercy and confess all before Mick discovers it from someone else. Now that he’s asking questions he’s like a terrier. It’s a matter of when, not if, he finds out.’
Gloria is aghast. ‘Eimear couldn’t cope with it, it would be too much on top of losing Jack and that desperate business with you. Besides, confessions have repercussions.’
‘Eimear’s as tough as old boots,’ objects Kate. ‘Anyway, she has a certain big brawny distraction.’
‘I’d forgotten all about your date with the nightclub pickup – how did it go?’
‘Gloria,’ Kate reproves her. ‘You’re using Christy Troy as a way of distracting yourself from the subject of donor sperm belonging to donors who ought to know better than to go around donating them.’
Gloria tries to drum up a sense of indignation but it’s an uphill struggle.
‘You’re a fine one to be lecturing me on morality,’ she says weakly. ‘At least I didn’t go to bed with Jack O’Brien.’
‘I’d think more of you if you had. Mine was honest-to-God passion of torrid proportions, what’s your excuse for acting like someone with half a brain?’
‘Tell me about Christy,’ insists Gloria.
Kate shrugs. ‘He and Eimear are seeing each other, he’s obviously smitten, as most men are by her, and she’s trailing him around derelict cottages the length and breadth of the county. Which is very convenient since her car has given up the ghost and you’d manage precious little house-hunting if you were relying on our bus service.’
Gloria pushes her hair away from her face – it seems too heavy now that she’s pregnant, she’ll have to overcome her baby-induced sloth and make an appointment for a haircut – and speculates: ‘Are they doing it, do you think?’ ‘It?’ she enquires mockingly.
‘You know: it.’
‘That would be a breach of confidence,’ Kate responds.
‘Kate!’ squeals Gloria. ‘You’re holding back on me. Tell me everything you know at once or I’ll, I’ll’ – she casts around for a suitable threat – ‘I’ll name the baby after you.’
Kate looks horrified, she’s always detested her name.
‘Eimear wants to jump into bed with him in theory, she’s just not sure if she’s able to go through with it in practice. Not even to practise,’ she explains.
‘Why not?’ Gloria’s puzzled. Also distracted by her stomach, which is making digestive noises. ‘Steady, boy,’ she whispers under her breath. She just knows this baby is a little Jack. No, not a little Jack, a little James, he’ll be modelled on her father, not the man who fathered him.
Kate paces before the living-room window, trailing her hands along the radiator. She has nun’s hands, as slender and translucent as Sally Bowles’ in Cabaret.
‘Eimear’s lost her confidence,’ she says finally. ‘I’m afraid I took it from her with Jack. She was always so unruffled, so composed in her beauty, but now she questions it. She looks in mirrors – when did you last see Eimear glance in a mirror? She complains about her nose and frets over her hair and worries about the size of her thighs.’
