Three Wise Men, page 28
‘Over here, love,’ invites Christy, who’s elbowed the official photographer out of the way.
Why is he calling a woman he’s never seen before ‘love’, Eimear wonders. Photographers seem to transmogrify into chirpy Cockneys once they start clicking, even if they’ve never been anywhere near the sound of Bow bells.
The bride, half in and half out of the car, spilling scrawnily from a white confection designed for a younger woman, smiles hesitantly up at him; she has a gentle hazel-eyed face, no beauty, but she looks like someone with a loving disposition.
‘Well done, Pearse,’ Eimear addresses him mentally. ‘This one will last the distance, she’s a much better choice for you than that skit of a Kate.’
Eimear watches her gather her mass of petticoats as she billows towards the porch. Brides are supposed to be good luck – or does she have to see a chimney sweep as well for the magic to work? And do chimney sweeps still exist or did Dick Van Dyke’s version hound them out of the profession? She’s pondering this as Christy flings his camera carelessly into the front seat – obviously it belongs to the newspaper.
‘There’s a café down the hill, I’ll grab us a couple of takeaway coffees while we wait for the closing titles.’
At least he doesn’t call her love.
Contemplating Pearse with his bride Gertrude clinging to his arm, shyly accepting the congratulations of their guests, Eimear turns maudlin – weddings have this effect on her. It’s all that faith and hope, she doesn’t think charity comes into it because the women are eyeing each other’s ensembles critically.
‘Back to Middle Abbey Street, then the world’s your lobster,’ grins Christy, slamming the car door.
Time to shake off her wedding miseries, resolves Eimear – the thought of all those best frocks and best intentions are unsettling her. ‘I know what I’d like to do,’ she tells him.
Grey eyes turn enquiringly towards her.
‘I’d like to cook that meal for you we had to adjourn last night. Drop me at Dunnes at the top of Grafton Street and make yourself scarce for a couple of hours, I’ll expect you at eight.’
There’s a lasagne cooking in the oven, a salad in the fridge, home-made (but not by Eimear) onion bread waiting to be sliced and red wine uncorked. The fornicating tape is playing, to ease her into the mood, as she polishes crystal glasses ready to reflect dozens of tiny candle flames.
She did think about rustling up something more adventurous but decided she didn’t want to be in the kitchen until two minutes to eight, slicing and peeling and puce in the face. Meal under control, Eimear changes the sheets, tidies the bedroom, pours a small glass of wine and runs a bath. She nips back to the bedroom to squirt some perfume on the pillows before immersing herself in scented suds. Her knees peeping pinkly from the froth catch her attention: they must be the least alluring part of the body after elbows.
‘You’re a desirable woman in the prime of her life, about to take a relationship on to the next stage from choice,’ she rallies herself.
Opening the wardrobe door, Eimear dithers over vampish or romantic. Her high-necked black jersey dress, which undulates over every curve and peters to a halt an indecent distance above the knee, or her floaty gold shift which swirls after her when she walks and makes her feel like a Merchant Ivory leading lady? Faint heart ne’er won fair lad; she wriggles into the black number – besides, she can wear a padded bra with the dress that fools you into thinking she has a bosom. She pins her hair to the back of her head to show off her diamante drop earrings, an anniversary present from Jack. She hesitates at the reflection in her full-length mirror. Perhaps she ought to abandon the earrings, too many memories. No, Christy’s going to exorcise Jack, the earrings are staying.
The doorbell rings as Eimear is placing salmon, wheaten bread and lemon slices on the table, after turning the fornicating tape to smoocherama part II.
‘You look sensational, Eimear,’ breathes Christy, no slouch himself in a midnight blue shirt and stone-coloured trousers.
Mental note to self, she thinks: don’t splash red wine on his legs.
As well as a tissue-wrapped bottle, he’s carrying lilies.
‘Some people are superstitious about having them in the house, they think they’re funeral flowers,’ he extends them awkwardly. ‘But my mother loves them and I thought you might too. You look like a lily yourself.’
He’s self-conscious, as though he’s been practising that speech in the car. Nice one, Eimear thinks, he mentions his mother and works in a compliment to her at the same time. This lad’s been around the block.
‘Lilies are my favourite flowers,’ she reassures him, inhaling their heady fragrance.
He troops after her into the kitchen while she hunts for her tall white china vase.
‘It’s on the top shelf, I can’t reach it.’ Eimear points to her dresser. ‘Would you mind?’
As he hands it down, he leans across and kisses her fleetingly on the mouth.
‘Hello, you,’ he whispers.
‘Hello back.’ Her heartbeat pounds in her eardrums.
‘I love your hair up,’ he touches her chignon.
(Steady, lad, it’s not that safely pinned.)
‘Keeps my hair out of the way while I’m cooking,’ she replies. ‘Can’t have you fishing blonde hairs out of the food.’
(Why did she say that? It’s spoiled the mood.)
‘I wouldn’t mind,’ says Christy. ‘So long as they’re yours and not cat hairs.’
(He has it bad; she hugs herself, this is going to be a cakewalk.)
‘Let me pour you a drink,’ Eimear offers. ‘I’m on the red wine, do you fancy that?’
‘Inspirational, where’s yours?’
‘By the side of the bath, I’ll find another glass.’
‘Drinking in the bath? You decadent woman, I can’t wait to find out what other louche habits you have.’
Eimear’s flummoxed. A photographer who says ‘louche’? Wait, he said ‘loose’ habits. Concentrate – he’s flirting, she must return the ball.
‘You’d be surprised,’ is the best she can drum up. ‘Come through to the sitting room,’ she adds, tap-tapping ahead of him in her spindly femme fatale heels. They say men love a woman in high heels because she looks like she’s on the brink of toppling over – a sort of knee-jerk caveman reaction to having her at your mercy. Of course women know this and wear them because they realise it’s a sure-fire way of having him at your mercy.
Eimear sits on a sofa and waits to see if he chooses a sofa to himself or shares hers. He eases himself into a comer of the one she’s perched on, near enough to be flattering, not so close as to crowd her. Ten out of ten so far, Christy, now comes the litmus test.
‘Did you find a parking space near the house? The street can get very crowded with cars at the weekend,’ she asks.
‘I called a cab. I want to enjoy a few drinks without having to look over my shoulder for the guards on my way home. The taxi driver gave me his number and promised to pick me up again, he’s on duty till 6 a.m.’
Bingo! He’s available to stay the night but he isn’t expecting it, this man deserves a refill.
‘Let me freshen your drink,’ smiles Eimear.
(Why did she come out with such an inane remark? It must be the excitement. Real people never offer to freshen drinks, it’s only something they do in Pinewood films. It sounds like you’re offering to squirt deodorant into the glass.)
‘Love the music,’ says Christy later, as she clears away the dinner plates. ‘I take it you don’t have a vast collection of tapes?’
‘Choose something different while I bring through the dessert,’ she suggests. She probably doesn’t need the fornicating tape any more anyway.
In the kitchen Eimear digs out her make-up purse, secreted in the saucepan cupboard, and checks on her appearance. Red wine goes straight to her nose. A dab of powder, another slick of lipstick, and she’s carrying a crème caramel into the dining room. Sensuous and tactile. Like she plans to be.
‘You’re spoiling me,’ he smiles, as Micky Dolenz warbles about thinking love was only true in fairytales.
He’s found her old Monkees record, he must’ve really been poking around in the press.
She looks seductively at Christy as she spoons out the crème caramel. That’s a mistake, a gloop of toffee-coloured gunge slips from the spoon and plops on the table. Tactfully he ignores it.
‘How did the Skerries photos turn out?’ she asks.
‘Just another wedding, we’ll run a pic in Monday’s paper. Can’t imagine the groom as Kate’s type.’
His eyes stray to her wedding picture on the mantelpiece. Hell, she meant to take it down. It’s in a square silver frame: Eimear’s looking straight into the camera thinking, ‘I wonder if the train on my dress is straight,’ and Jack is gazing worshipfully at her.
‘You look younger there.’ Christy nods at the photo. He realises this isn’t the most flattering remark in the world and adds hastily: ‘I don’t mean you look old now, just different. More mature.’
‘Marriage ages you.’ Eimear’s teeth are gritted. ‘Did you never fancy taking the plunge yourself?’
‘I did but she wouldn’t have me, she said we were too young. She’s married to a dentist in Clontarf now.’
‘And were you too young?’
He spreads his hands. ‘I was willing to risk it if she would. We were both twenty-six, not young and not old.’
Never trust a man without baggage, that’s what Eimear read in one of Kate’s magazines. Baggage can be inconvenient but it also shows you’re dealing with a man who isn’t afraid of loving and being loved – even if it means hurting and being hurt. She’s no use for one of those lads who make an art form out of being a thing of beauty and a boy forever, she wants a man with a few emotional scars.
She feels a rush of attraction for Christy as he sits there opposite her, hair as black as Jack’s but offset by silver eyes instead of brown. She toys with the idea of inviting him to adjourn to the sofa there and then, but reluctantly decides she needs time for her food to digest. Her stomach is still protruding, even though she only picked at the meal.
‘Are you excited about the cottage?’ he asks.
Her offer has been officially accepted.
‘Euphoric. I can’t wait to ship out of this place. Too many memories.’
Christy regards her for a long moment across the dining table, eyes glittering in a way that makes her shiver with anticipation. ‘Your husband needs his head examined. If you belonged to me I’d never let you out of my sight.’
Heady stuff, her heart starts thumping. Of course he could be a manic obsessive and mean it literally …
‘Shall we move into the other room?’ She sways her hips deliberately as she steps through the partition into the sitting room, perches on a sofa and waits for him to join her. He’s sitting so close she feels his breath on her face. Christy has an expression of intense concentration as he removes her glass, setting it carefully on the coffee table. He takes her face between his hands, the tips of his fingers tangling in her hair.
That was the best part, it always is, she thinks in the aftermath. Damp sheet, damp body, dry mouth. A street light filters through the unclosed curtains, bouncing off the laddered stockings on the floor – he removed them a little too enthusiastically.
‘I’m roasted, I need a glass of water.’ She attempts to disentangle herself from Christy’s embrace.
‘Stay where you are, gorgeous, I’ll go down to the kitchen for you.’ He bounces from the bed.
At least he doesn’t prance around in the nude like Jack, he pauses to pull his trousers on.
‘I brought the rest of the wine up as well,’ he waves the remains of their second bottle.
I hope you don’t imagine you’re here for the night, pal.
‘Mind reader,’ she smiles. ‘Shall we draw the curtains to keep the neighbour’s jealousy at bay?’
When the wine is finished, Eimear offers to phone for a taxi for him. His face falls.
‘I hoped we might spend the night together. I could bring you breakfast in bed or we could go out to a café for a fry-up.’
She’s horrified but pastes on another smile. ‘I can’t let you near me first thing in the morning, I look such a mess, I wouldn’t see your heels for dust.’
‘I seriously doubt that.’
He drops a kiss on her shoulder.
‘I’m sure you look just as amazing as you do now.’
He drops a kiss on her neck.
‘I am completely, totally, utterly smitten by you, Eimear.’
He drops a kiss on the ticklish patch of skin behind her ear.
He tugs at the sheet, clamped firmly across her chest by her arms; there’s a momentary tussle before she concedes. She’ll look ridiculous if she refuses to uncover her breasts to the man she’s just made love with. He starts nuzzling a nipple, she risks a downward glance to check how floppy her boobs are. Not too bad, of course the nipples are erect which helps, but they’ll pass muster.
As his hand trails downwards across her stomach, she realises he’s game for another session. She’ll have to put a stop to this. She captures his hand on the pretext of kissing it, lacing her fingers through fingers.
‘This is so difficult to do but I’m going to have to throw you out now.’ Eimear watches from under her eyelashes. ‘You’ve worn me out, I’m desperate for some sleep and that’s going to be impossible with you in my bed – there’s no way I’ll keep my hands off you.’
(Has she over-egged the pudding? No, Christy has a sweet tooth.)
‘I surrender,’ he laughs. ‘I’ll ring that taxi number now. On one condition – you come over to my place tomorrow and stay the night.’
‘No problem,’ Eimear smiles into his eyes. She can always back out of it by phone.
By the front door, he loiters to kiss her, tongue massaging tongue.
‘See you tomorrow, gorgeous.’ He cups her face. ‘You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’
‘See you tomorrow, Christy,’ she agrees, returning his kisses.
No chance.
CHAPTER 34
Gloria and Kate are mystified.
‘It just wasn’t right,’ Eimear explains lamely.
‘Did he rush through it and forget about what you’d like?’ asks Kate.
‘No, he was very considerate.’
‘Was he wearing boxers with cartoon characters on them?’ presses Gloria.
‘No, a respectable pair of white Calvins.’
‘Was there too much tongue?’ says Kate.
‘No.’
‘Spittle?’
‘No.’
‘Did his teeth clash against yours when you snogged?’
‘No, he kissed me very sweetly,’ she protests. ‘He even remembered to turn his head to one side and didn’t stick his nose in my eye.’
‘Did he fall asleep straight afterwards?’ asks Gloria.
‘No, he pulled me close and stroked my hair.’
‘Did he make strange noises when he was coming?’ Kate wonders.
‘Not particularly, a bit of heavy breathing but nothing out of the ordinary.’
‘Did he leave his socks on?’ from Gloria.
‘No, he stripped to the skin.’
‘Did he have a peculiar willy?’ asks Kate.
‘Peculiar?’
‘Covered in moles or bent at an awkward angle,’ she expands.
‘Not that I noticed but I didn’t take a torch to it.’
Kate and Gloria regard one another.
‘Mulligan,’ concludes Kate, ‘you’re mental.’
‘I know,’ she agrees miserably. ‘I’ve met the perfect man and he does nothing for me. He kisses me – zilch. He caresses me – zilch. He jiggles up and down on top of me – zilch. I must be frigid.’
‘You just don’t fancy the man, it’s not a crime,’ says Gloria. ‘Chemistry’s a funny business.’
‘I fancy him in theory. He’s lovely to look at, exactly my type. But all I could think about as he lay on top of me was: “This is a mistake and I can’t wait for it to be over.” He thinks we’re meeting tonight for a repeat performance.’
‘You’d better cancel,’ advises Kate. ‘No point in doubling your torment.’
‘Unless you want to offer it up for the suffering souls in Purgatory,’ interjects Gloria helpfully.
‘I don’t think the suffering souls in Purgatory would thank her for it,’ says Kate. ‘It’s not exactly the sort of sacrifice they benefit from.’
Kate studies Eimear. ‘Have you ever felt this way before?’
‘Which way?’
‘Indifferent while another human being is straddling you, thinking he’s carrying you along on a wave of passion,’ Kate expands.
‘Frequently.’ Eimear hangs her head in shame. ‘But,’ she lifts her head again, ‘last night I decided I don’t have to do it any more. If the sex isn’t right with someone, I’m not going along with it. In the past I’ve been too embarrassed to call a halt.’
‘Well said, Eimear,’ agrees Gloria. ‘I can’t pretend there was much surfing in the sea of love these past few years with Mick but I just went with the flow – mainly because I was so surprised when he climbed on top of me it seemed ungracious to expect excitement too.’
‘You girls have been selling yourselves short,’ sighs Kate. ‘I can see I’ll have to do something about this – open a geisha school.’
‘Geishas are trained to please men,’ objects Eimear. ‘We need training on pleasing ourselves.’
‘You’ve made a grand start,’ says Kate. ‘Now pick up the phone and tell Christy you don’t want to see him any more.’
She does as she’s ordered, except she only finds herself cancelling tonight’s date – she can’t bring herself to end the romance over the phone. He deserves a face-to-face explanation.
‘Coward,’ says Kate.
‘I’d prefer to do it in person, it’s more humane. After all, we’ve had sex, it puts everything on a different footing.’
‘Eimear’s right,’ Gloria backs her up. ‘Since when did we start treating decent men indecently.’
