Three Wise Men, page 30
He pushes the glass to one side, eyes bulging. Her instinct was right – he is a toad; if a fly drifted past she’d swear his tongue would flick out.
‘There’s never been a whisper of this before,’ he gasps. ‘Jack O’Brien trades on his reputation as a literary Casanova.’
‘It’s all a sham. Of course I’m relying on you to keep this strictly entre nous. I’m only telling you because you seem so genuine, so committed to the arts, so interested in my book. I want you to understand where my poetry springs from, the salient influences.’
‘Oh yes, your book, Men Are something,’ he says.
‘Mna,’ Eimear corrects him. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to mention it somewhere in your wonderfully authoritative and entertaining column?’
(Is she going over the top here? No, he seems to inhabit an irony-free zone.)
‘I hate to ask but I know Jack is using all his literary contacts to block publicity about my little collection. He’s probably approached you already but I’ve always heard how incorruptible you are.’
(Now she has overstepped the mark, there’s a quizzical expression on his face.)
But he’s still thinking about Jack’s predilections.
‘Naturally I’ll give you a mention, a photogenic lady like yourself could write a laundry list and still get her face in the paper. You are sure, aren’t you, about your husband’s sexual preferences?’
Eimear is too preoccupied with fuming to answer.
Belatedly, he realises he might have offended her and adds: ‘Not that your wonderful book is a laundry list, far from it, it’s a page-turner, I have a copy by my bed.’
‘You told me you hadn’t read it yet.’
‘I meant read as in savoured and appreciated; naturally I’ve dipped into it and I must say it’s spellbinding.’
‘Which is your favourite poem?’
That’s flummoxed him: the unsavoury grin reappears, gums shining wetly, and he fumbles for an answer. She watches him squirm for a while before putting him out of his misery.
‘People generally like the one about cystitis, where I compare the sting of urine to elastic bands being snapped against the girl’s genitalia,’ she explains.
‘Such a graphic analogy,’ he ad-libs, wincing only slightly. ‘When did you first realise your husband might have these leanings?’
The waiter arrives with his chicken and her fish.
Manus waits while he fusses around, offering black pepper from a grinder the size of the Leaning Tower of Pisa – but without the incline – and attempting to refill their glasses.
‘I can manage that, thank you.’ Manus brushes him away.
I’m sure you can, thinks Eimear. Keeping a glass brimming is a labour of love for you.
‘But there’s adultery and adultery,’ he insists, when the coast is clear.
‘There is and there isn’t,’ she prevaricates.
She can see he’s itching to scribble on his napkin but is afraid she’ll stop talking. She also notices he’s stopped drinking.
‘Manus,’ Eimear brings her face so close to his that the features swim, ‘you do realise I’m telling you this as a friend, not as a journalist. I know we’ve only just met but there’s something solid and reliable about you, you have the power to make a woman feel, well, safe. I sense an innate chivalry in you.’
Then with one hand she gathers her hair into a loose bun, exposing her neck and shoulders, concentrating on looking vulnerable, and leans her chin on the other hand.
He kidnaps the hand she’s resting on, presses his lips to it, then turns it over and tickles the palm. Yuk! Eimear heaves her stomach back into position and focuses on maintaining her defenceless aura. (What colour is a defenceless aura, she wonders idly. Probably something pastel, maybe lavender. But back to business.)
‘If Jack knew I’d been talking about him in such an intimate way I don’t know what he’d do to me – he’s capable of anything,’ she shudders. ‘But it’s such a relief to confide in someone as understanding, as supportive, as intuitive as yourself.’
He strokes the hand he’s held pinioned since the kiss. Not noticing that his sleeve is dipped in the tomato sauce coating his chicken.
‘Your wife is such a fortunate woman,’ Eimear murmurs. ‘I believe Christy bumps into her from time to time.’
It’s a shot in the dark because he isn’t wearing a ring but it has the desired effect. He drops her hand with unseemly haste, grabs his glass and swallows deeply.
The meal passes with Manus trying to elicit specific details about Jack which she’s unable to furnish because she doesn’t have any. He thrusts, Eimear parries, and before long she’s on her way home with nothing more unpleasant than a clumsily groped bottom as she jumps into a taxi.
Next morning she rushes to buy the Independent on her way into work. She flicks through it quickly but can see no. mention of Jack. She tries it again more thoroughly during coffee-break, but still nothing to be quarried. Strange, she’d have bet her shirt on Manus being a man for whom the word ‘confidence’ was always shortened to con. Then she remembers – it was nearly midnight before she headed for the hills, probably too late for him to start spinning his tale.
She checks again the following day and there’s the story, on page five, along with Eimear’s woolly goddess publicity shot and a photo of Jack in full flow at a poetry reading. She speed reads the text: her book is mentioned, except there’s a misprint and it’s billed as Nna (now there’s an endorsement); Eimear is described as ‘the radiant, estranged wife of prize-winning poet Jack O’Brien’ and later ‘the blonde poetess’. God almighty, how many times does she have to tell that man she’s a poet?
She returns to the start and reads through properly. The piece is honeycombed with suggestive language. The gist of it is that Manus claims a source (that’s Eimear!) close to the poet (not Eimear!) reveals the couple’s marriage has irretrievably broken down because his wife feels she can no longer turn a blind eye to his outside interests. For Jack O’Brien, it divulges, who toured American campuses two years ago with an acclaimed series of lectures on Oscar Wilde, has taken to emulating the master in more ways than one. His broken-hearted wife, meanwhile, is consoling herself with her own collection of literature, Nna, which unsurprisingly displays a certain animosity towards the male sex. It’s all a bit nudge-nudge, wink-wink, but there’s enough for any self-respecting mathematician to put two and two together and reach seven.
Her answerphone is bristling with messages when she arrives home from the library.
First Jack: ‘Have you been speaking to the press? I’ll wring your fecking neck if you have and you can kiss goodbye to a share of my pension.’
Then Manus (how did he get her number?): ‘Your husband’s solicitors have been on to us, they’re threatening to sue for libel. The editor’s breathing down my neck, can you call?’
Another message from Jack: ‘And Mna’s a pile of shite, by the way.’
Manus again: ‘The editor’s turning nasty, my job’s on the line, I really need you to ring me back. O’Brien is definitely suing.’
Next Christy: ‘I told you Manus Comiskey wasn’t to be trusted, you’ll find you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. I can’t make Friday night, I’m working.’
And finally Kate: ‘Way to go, Mulligan. I know you hate me, and I don’t blame you, but I have to say “bullseye”. I thought you’d hit him where it hurts when you hammered Black Jack for cash, but this latest scam is sheer bloody genius. You’ve turned bad news into good news, you devious cow, you’re a star.’
Eimear rewinds the tape so she can listen to Kate’s voice again. She’s not softening, but maybe Kate didn’t know about Jack and Gloria. She misses her. Then she thinks of Gloria having Jack’s baby, the one she wanted, and the shutters fall. Eimear erases the message.
CHAPTER 36
Kate is reading aloud to Gloria, who’s swollen up like a balloon since she hit the six months mark. She’s like a bowl of Angel Delight, thinks Kate: blubbery-shuddery cheeks, bottom (she’ll need her London derriere man’s number after the birth) and belly.
Gloria isn’t impressed by what Kate’s reading from the newspaper advertisement: ‘What every woman’s hips, thighs and buttocks have been waiting for.’
‘Is this to do with liposuction?’ asks Gloria, serially chewing winegums.
‘Save me a yellow one.’
‘You don’t need winegums, Kate, you can drink your own,’ she complains, extracting a couple of sweets and aiming them at her.
‘No, it doesn’t mention liposuction, it’s a little battery-operated gizmo called Cellesse that wages war on your cellulite.’
‘Cellulite is the least of my worries.’ Gloria’s mouth is crammed full of jelly and E numbers. ‘What do you do with the gizmo?’ Gloria turns the bag upside down to flush out the last sweet clinging stickily inside.
‘You massage yourself. There’s a picture of a woman’s lower regions, with a strategic towel, and they’ve stamped “Cellesse here” all over the danger zone.’
Gloria studies the advertisement. ‘She wouldn’t recognise cellulite if it knocked on her door and introduced itself as her long-lost cousin. And the day’s a long way off before that one has to massage herself, men are probably whimpering to do it for her.’
She hauls herself to her feet with difficulty and peers into Kate’s fridge.
‘Still empty,’ she sighs. ‘Have you nothing to eat? I’m permanently hungry these days.’
‘It’s not empty,’ protests Kate, ‘there’s a bottle of vodka and a carton of cranberry juice in there. Possibly even some cheese.’
‘The cheese crawled out when I opened the door,’ says Gloria. ‘And the vodka and juice may be convenient for your cranberry coolers, you crypto-hipster, but they’re not much good to me.’
‘Have a cream cracker,’ offers Kate, having ransacked the press but failed to turn up anything more substantial.
Gloria bites in, complains it’s soft and chomps on. Crumbs spill down the front of her sweatshirt with ‘Let me out!’ emblazoned across the front.
‘Been back to the IVF clinic?’
‘Nope, finished with all that. Once you’re pregnant it’s a case of here’s your hat and where’s your hurry. They shunt you sideways into the hospital’s pre-natal unit.’
‘Do you feel strange going to appointments on your own?’
‘It’s no big deal, there’s loads of single mothers there, even a lesbian couple who syringed the conception with the help of a contribution from an accommodating neighbour, so they told me – when Ireland embraced the permissive society there were no half-measures.’
Gloria pauses, looking thoughtful, fingering the tartan bow in her ponytail. ‘Sometimes I think it might be nice to have Mick there. At my last appointment I watched a man and woman do a crossword puzzle together while they waited for the doctor and it seemed so … companionable.
‘But mainly Mick never crosses my mind. I’ve bought him out, he’s emptied the house of his belongings – some of mine too while he was at it – and apart from the odd letter that needs readdressing, I don’t think about him. He claimed he’d get a flat in Omagh but so far there’s no shifting him from the Mammy’s, sure why would he want to move out when he’s living off the fat of the land. She even butters his toast in the morning.’
‘So you don’t miss him?’ asks Kate. ‘There isn’t a gaping Mick-sized hole in your life?’
‘Only a yawning Mick-sized dip in my mattress – I’ll have to buy another. Amazing how we turn into our parents – my father always maintained there was no substitute for a sound night’s sleep. You don’t miss Pearse, why would I be lonesome for Mick?’
‘Pearse and I were only together for four years, it’s hardly in the same league as you pair of teenage turtle doves.’
‘Look at how well we’re managing without Eimear,’ Gloria points out. ‘If we can get by without her we can handle anything.’
Gloria has convinced herself that Eimear can be erased from their lives as easily as you’d press a delete button on a computer. Kate is amazed at how conveniently she’s blocked out the fact she used Eimear’s husband to father her child, it’s as though she simply went to a sperm bank and selected sample number 271. Her baby has taken Eimear’s place in the troika – they’re still a trio as far as she’s concerned.
Of course Gloria’s cocooned herself in fantasy bubble-wrap but it’s not up to Kate to burst it. Gloria will have enough reality poking through when the infant arrives. For starters, the child’s father is not going to be so easy to shake off as she imagines.
‘Jack still pestering you?’ The enquiry is posed casually.
Gloria regards her friend suspiciously. ‘Why, what have you heard?’
‘Nothing. Really and truly, oh little red dragon.’
‘He still leaves the odd plaintive message on my answerphone, asking after the bump, but I ignore them. Granted, I’d have no bump if it weren’t for his donation but he was never interested in me. It was an act of random generosity. Once I turned into a carrier for offspring sharing his incomparable gene pool, however, I became instantly beguiling to him.’
‘It would be worse if he didn’t give a fiddler’s,’ Kate suggests, wondering why she’s bothering to defend Jack. ‘It shows the man has a spark of humanity.’
‘So let him take himself off to the foreign missions if he wants to turn do-gooder, there’s no scope for him here in Ranelagh.’
‘It’s obviously his midlife crisis,’ explains Kate. ‘Image magazine says men often turn broody in their late thirties, it’s fear of forty syndrome.’
‘You and your syndromes. What can I eat now?’
‘I can’t keep up with you, Glo, are you sure it isn’t a tape worm instead of a baby you have in there?’
‘I’d be skinnier if it was a tape worm.’ She looks complacently at her stomach.
‘We can’t have you dying of malnourishment, I’ll dial a takeaway,’ Kate offers.
‘No, run me home, I can rummage for something there – pregnancy is making me incredibly territorial. I hate to be too long away from the nest.’
‘Shall I come in with you?’ Kate helps untangle Gloria from the seatbelt.
‘You might as well if you’ve nothing planned – no hot dates then?’
‘Not even a lukewarm one – whatever I had, I’ve lost it.’
‘Nonsense,’ laughs Gloria, her stomach shaking alarmingly. ‘You just haven’t decided if you want a Beautiful Boy or a wrinkly old man.’
‘Is there no halfway house?’
‘You mean like a wrinkly boy or a beautiful old man?’
‘Not quite,’ giggles Kate, as they stroll up the path.
Gloria half-stoops to pull at some weeds edging out her marigolds as she passes them but thinks better of it. Bending is something she’s had to abandon. A familiar figure emerges from a car parked at the top of the street.
‘Hello, Gloria, Kate,’ he says.
‘Hello, woman-beater,’ Kate responds.
He looks pained; meanwhile Gloria fumbles for her keys and turns the lock.
‘Inside, quick,’ she hisses, pushing Kate ahead of her.
‘Gloria,’ says Jack pleasantly, ‘either you invite me in or I conduct our business via a megaphone from the pavement. It’s entirely up to you.’
She turns helplessly to Kate.
‘You have to live here,’ Kate reminds her. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
‘No, don’t,’ Gloria clutches her arm. ‘I’ll let him in on condition you stay.’
‘What are you afraid of?’ Jack seems mystified. ‘I don’t bite – I may have the odd nibble but I promise you no one’s ever complained.’
Kate’s lips curl as she looks at him, lolling there with his foot on the step and his brown eyes mocking them. In her mind’s eye she sees him watching her, just as confidently, the day she found him in her bed with one of his students.
‘I’m not afraid of anything but I don’t see why Kate should be forced out just because you want to come in.’ Gloria faces him defiantly.
‘What is this strange obsession you have with Omagh girls?’ Kate says conversationally, as he follows them indoors.
His eyes ignite but he doesn’t respond. Instead he concentrates his attention on Gloria, charm oozing from every pore. ‘Continuing to blossom, I see.’ He smiles devastatingly.
Despite everything, Kate’s heartbeat speeds up, but Gloria appears unaffected. ‘State your business,’ she snaps.
‘It’s not so much business as pleasure.’ He tries another disarming smile but this, too, falls on stony ground. ‘I thought you might be finding it difficult to manage on your own by this stage and I wanted to offer you the services of a cleaning lady. Just to help out with the heavy work until the baby comes. She works in the college, I can recommend her unreservedly, and it would be my pleasure to pay her wages. Say twice a week for a couple of hours, would that be acceptable?’
His grin sets new standards in smugness. Still, Kate has to concede it’s a generous offer – Gloria does need help. She can offer moral support till the cows come home but Kate’s not so handy with a vacuum cleaner. Gloria’s anger is palpable.
‘You can shove your cleaning lady, you can shove your self-satisfied face, and most of all you can shove your money. I never want to see you again. Jack O’Brien, in fact never’s too soon.’
Jack’s expression registers his astonishment at her venom.
‘I think you’d better leave now,’ suggests Kate, leading the way. He follows docilely but hesitates by the front door.
‘She could be seeing me every day of her life in the baby’s face,’ he says, before walking out.
Gloria is shaking when she returns, not from anger but from fear. The adrenaline is dwindling and her face is pinched, green eyes borderline tearful.
‘You need a brandy, pet,’ Kate tells her.
