Three Wise Men, page 32
Brad laughs. ‘Bord Failte must be paying you guys to drum up business, right?’
‘Well done,’ she smiles back. ‘You’re picking up the language already. Another couple of weeks and you’ll be giving the specials of the day as Gaelige.’
‘Ass what?’ Brad looks faintly scandalised.
‘In Irish,’ Kate translates. ‘But you’re making such a good fist of the English with all those elongated Southern Comfort vowel sounds, perhaps we oughtn’t to lure you away from it.’
‘Brad,’ shouts a harassed barman, ‘any chance of a hand over here this side of Christmas?’
He smiles apologetically and strides off, every female eye in the room boring into his back.
‘That,’ sighs Kate, ‘is most definitely a Beautiful Boy,’
‘I’m hungry,’ complains Gloria, ‘he forgot to take our order.’
Kate brightens. ‘Excellent, that’ll give us another chance to monopolise him. I’ll offer to take him on a sightseeing trip on the pretext I want to talk about his work experience with us. If he’s circumnavigated the city already I’ll lure him up to the Hill of Tara, tell him it was the traditional seat of the Kellys.’
‘You could explain young contenders for the chieftainship used to challenge each other to single combat on top of the mount, get his blood all fired up,’ suggests Gloria.
‘Or I could tell him there’s a prophecy that Ireland will never be united until the day a Kelly from a far off land comes home to Erin and wins the love of a native-born maiden from the Clan McGlade,’ Kate elaborates.
‘Maiden,’ ponders Gloria. ‘They say Americans can be gullible but I don’t think they’re as soft as all that.’
‘Behave yourself, or I’ll tell Brad you’re always this huge,’ threatens Kate, and they subside, giggling.
The door opens and Eimear walks in with Christy. She’s en route to a party, in a crimson Chinese dress which accentuates every curve, hair piled high and secured with oriental pins. She doesn’t see the others until they’re squeezed on to seats at the corner of the bar; when she does catch sight of them she stiffens and seems inclined to bolt.
Gloria, too, is tense: after an initial sibilant ‘look’ she fiddles with her knife and fork, clattering them against the empty plate. Kate is expectant – should she go over to Eimear? Her heart pounds as she wonders what to do for the best. Christy seems to be the only one unaffected. He bends his head towards Eimear and then approaches their table.
‘Hiya, Kate, Gloria, how’s it going?’
‘Grand, Christy, and yourself?’ replies Kate.
‘Never better,’ he smiles awkwardly. ‘Can I buy either of you a drink?’
‘We’re all right at the moment but maybe you’d like to join us?’ invites Kate.
He looks over his shoulder but Eimear has her back unyieldingly presented towards all of them and is lighting a cigarette.
‘Why not, for a minute,’ he says. ‘I shouldn’t leave Eimear too long though, she tends to feel ignored. You know?’
‘Tell me about it,’ mutters Gloria.
‘Can’t you persuade her to talk to us, Christy?’ asks Kate.
He shrugs helplessly. ‘Eimear’s Eimear, she’s not easily persuaded to do anything she objects to.’
Kate takes pity on him sitting opposite, grey eyes bewildered by this strife among women. ‘Go back to her, give her our love. Tell her we’re here for her when she wants us. And, Christy, be kind to her.’
He smiles at her. ‘She’s easy to be kind to, she’s so beautiful.’
‘She is.’ Kate smiles back.
‘You need to be kind to yourself too,’ interjects Gloria. ‘Eimear will take all your solicitude and hunger for more, you’ll never satisfy that one.’
He looks uneasy as he returns to her. Eimear stands up immediately and walks to the door, leaving her drink untouched on the counter. He follows, catching up with her on the pavement. From Eimear’s expression, Gloria and Kate know there’s trouble in store.
‘How do you think Eimear’s looking?’ asks Kate.
‘Ravishing, naturally.’
‘But a little strained, perhaps. I thought I saw loneliness in her eyes for a moment before the shutters slammed down.’ Kate watches Gloria, hoping for signs of a thaw, but her face remains resolutely blank. ‘Poor Christy,’ continues Kate, ‘she won’t make him happy. And he certainly can’t make her happy.’
‘He’s a big boy,’ shrugs Gloria.
‘Speaking of big boys …’ Her eyes stray towards Bradley P. Kelly. ‘What do you think the P stands for, Glo?’
‘Patrick, of course.’
‘Let’s ask him,’ suggests Kate. ‘I’ll have a coffee and you try a pud.’
When he returns with Gloria’s Mississippi Mud Pie (especially chosen to please Brad), she poses the pertinent question.
‘Gloria here thinks your P is for Patrick but I think you look like a Peter myself. Which of us is right?’
‘Neither, I’m afraid, ma’am,’ he beams. ‘It’s Ptak.’
‘What sort of name is that?’ enquires Gloria.
‘It’s Polish, ma’am, my grandfather was called Lech Ptak. You don’t pronounce the P.’ His grin illuminates the room.
After he’s gone, Kate tells Gloria in a mock-portentous voice, ‘He will be mine, oh yes, he will be mine.’
Gloria chokes on her spoon. ‘I can see you’ve got the bit between your teeth, McGlade, there’s no hope for the poor lad – he’s irretrievably lost.’
‘Besides which,’ Kate continues in her normal voice, ‘there’s something I desperately need to find out about him.’
‘Which is?’
‘Will he still call me ma’am in bed?’
CHAPTER 38
‘It’s built in such a way that at the summer and winter solstice, the light illuminates the central burial chamber. The Egyptians weren’t the only ones with a knowledge of mathematics and astronomy and all that malarkey,’ explains Kate.
They’re standing at Newgrange in the Boyne Valley: Neolithic treasure, feather in Ireland’s tourism cap, impressive beyond words and a source of limited interest to the ravishing young Kelly blade.
‘That Slane Castle place where they hold rock concerts is near here, right?’ he asks. ‘I hear the Verve played a cool gig there the other summer.’
‘They did,’ confirms Kate. ‘It clashed with the Bee Gees so I didn’t go.’
‘You went to the Bee Gees instead of the Verve?’ His look is as sceptical as his tone.
‘No,’ she admits. ‘I didn’t go to either. But I have to follow your countryman’s dubious advice and confess I cannot tell a lie. Given a straight choice, I’d have preferred to see the Bee Gees. You see, one of the joys of turning thirty, Brad, is that you no longer have to pretend to be trendy. You can hold your head up and admit you have Bermuda shorts in your wardrobe and country and western music in your CD rack.’
This torrid affair with a Beautiful Boy is proving harder work than Kate bargained for. Gratifying though it is to find herself in bed with a young man who demonstrates his ardour as often and as satisfyingly as though he’d swallowed an entire bottle of Viagra, there is a down side. A down slide, in fact.
Everything’s fine and dandy when they’re in bed, but with the best will in the world they can’t spend all day every day under the duvet. For starters she has to go to work; good God, Kate yelps, horror-struck, she actually enjoys work.
‘Gee Katie,’ he rests an arm on her shoulders and she near-buckles under the weight.
‘Kate.’ She removes the offending limb.
‘Sure thing. You know it’s been three weeks already.’
As long as that? she wonders.
‘Is that all?’ she asks. ‘It seems like only yesterday that I coiled my lasso at you like a rootin’ tootin’ cowgal.’
‘I’ve told my mother about you,’ he confides.
Kate stiffens. ‘Brad, how old is your mother?’
‘Forty-three, Katie. Why do you ask?’
Relief courses through her – ten years older, that’s a decent gap. ‘No reason – what did you tell her?’
‘Just that I’d met a wunnerful Irish lady who’s really kind to me.’
‘You could be describing your landlady,’ objects Kate.
‘You are a sort of landlady, I spend so much time at your apartment,’ he squeezes her waist. ‘Except I don’t pay any rent – I remunerate you in a different way.’
He picks Kate up and whirls her around – he’s so physical, like a playful grizzly bear.
‘Down boy,’ she gasps, when she regains her feet. ‘Let’s get you over to Slane if you’d prefer to see it – you can drive, use up some of that excess energy of yours.’
Be careful what you wish for, it might come true. Another of Gloria’s old crone sayings. Here she is with a Beautiful Boy and she’s as glum as they come. He’s so ardent, he’s so enthusiastic, he’s so energetic, he’s so wearing. He’s so young.
‘Brad,’ she says later to her Virginian (she was a state out) back in St Stephen’s Green, ‘I think I’ll head over to Gloria’s tonight, see how she’s managing.’
‘Cool, I’ll come too.’
‘No, it’ll be too boring for you. It’ll be all girl talk, you wouldn’t like it.’
‘I would,’ he radiates confidence. ‘I love girl talk, my sisters say I’m better at it than them.’
‘This is different,’ explains Kate. ‘Gloria’s heavily pregnant, she’ll need some tender loving care.’
‘I can do that. I give great back rubs. I’ll have her spine singing in no time.’
‘Brad!’ Kate’s tone is sharper than she intends it to be. ‘Don’t they need you at the wine bar tonight?’
He looks shifty. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Katie, I quit my job.’
‘Why?’
‘Because –’ he bounds across the room and lands on top of her with the finesse of a puppy – ‘I want to spend more time with you.’
‘Oh, Brad, this simply won’t do,’ she sighs, and allows herself to be swept off to bed.
Gloria’s face is puffier than ever, she’s resting her ankles on a footstool.
‘So let me get this straight,’ she says. ‘He’s sensational in bed, you can’t walk down the street with him but you’re the envy of every woman, he absolutely adores you and he’s even told his mother about you. Maybe I’m being dense here but IS there a problem? You’re worse than Eimear was after jiggery pokery with Christy.’
‘He’s suffocating me,’ moans Kate.
‘Doesn’t take his weight on his elbows?’ she enquires mischievously.
Kate lobs a cushion at her.
‘He wants to go everywhere with me, he meets me after work, he tries to take me to lunch, he runs baths for me, he carries my shopping, I can’t even go to the hairdressers without him peeking in at me through the plate-glass window.’
‘And the real problem is?’ Gloria pushes her dark hair away from her hot face as Kate writhes.
‘I feel like his mother!’
‘So dump him.’
‘I’m willing to dump him, I’m wanting to dump him, I’m waiting to dump him,’ moans Kate.
‘Just do it.’
‘I will.’
‘When?’
‘Soon.’
‘Tonight.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Yes.’
‘All right.’
‘How are you anyway?’ Kate tears her attention away from her over-active love life and contemplates the bump. ‘You sure you’re not ready to pop, Glo? You look more than nearly eight months to me.’
‘I do, don’t I, but the doctor says another five weeks to go. Shame he won’t be a Libran, like us; he’ll be Gemini, but that’s nearly as good.’
‘He could have a split personality – Gemini isn’t the twins for nothing. But, speaking of stars’ – Kate hunts around in her bag – ‘you should hear our prognosis for the week ahead: “Prepare yourself for great news. This is the best of times. Mars gives you the drive and flair to develop your creative brilliance. The focus is on interesting experiences.”’
‘Spectacular,’ Gloria nods. ‘Mind you, I don’t feel particularly creative right now, I feel lethargic to the point of sloth. That’s one of the seven deadly sins, isn’t it? I haven’t the energy to commit any of the others. Well, maybe gluttony, but that’s definitely it.’
‘But you are being creative, angel,’ Kate tells her. ‘You’re creating in the best way known to woman, you’re producing another human being.’
‘Yuk,’ she squirms. ‘You’ve been reading those wimmin’s books.’
‘How much longer do you have left at school?’ asks Kate before Gloria starts ranting about her books – it’s true, she does have a pile of them by the bed but they’re mainly there instead of a bedside locker, she rests her clock on them.
‘I finish next Friday, it can’t come a day too soon,’ she yawns and stretches. ‘I wanted to stay on as long as possible to give me extra time after the baby comes but I can’t last any more than eight months – it takes all my energy just to totter out of bed in the morning and come downstairs. I break out in a sweat if I walk any further than the bottom of the street – it’s lashing off me now and I’m not even standing.’
‘I’ll fix you a nice cold drink,’ Kate tells her. ‘A gin and tonic without the gin.’
‘Better still, send Brad over, he can show us how to make the ultimate mint juleps,’ Gloria chuckles. ‘I looked them up in my cookery book with a cocktails section. You need a bottle of wine, lemonade, soda water, some Pernod, a dollop of crème de menthe and cucumber to garnish. Serve chilled on a warm day.’
‘The best we can manage is warm on a chilly day. Sounds like a lot more julep than mint in that recipe, you’re not fantasising about being able to drink again, perchance, Glo?’
‘I am,’ she confesses. ‘I’ve been stockpiling bottles of wine for the great day. As daydreams go, they’re even more satisfying than my Tom Cruise one. Which hasn’t recurred, before you ask.’
‘Probably just as well,’ Kate tells her. ‘Nicole Kidman’s not an easy woman to follow. You know it might be all in the mind, this fancying a drink. A magnum of champagne might not be your priority when labour’s over. It could be like a Lough Derg pilgrimage – you fast until midnight on the last day, pound home and line up all the goodies you’re raring to eat, then find your eyes are too big for your stomach.’
‘Spoilsport, would you let me alone with my fantasies,’ exclaims Gloria. ‘If the thought of diving headfirst into a crate of Chardonnay keeps me going until next month, where’s the harm?’
‘Just so you’re warned. Did you see that article about Eimear in the Sunday paper?’
‘No, what did it say?’
‘It was an “at home with …”. Her cottage looks idyllic. She was photographed arranged wantonly over various items of furniture – the bed, the sofa, the kitchen table. Obviously she was doing it to plug her book but writers must feel like prostitutes.’
‘I think you’re being a little hard on writers,’ says Gloria. ‘Besides, they’re not all doing it to make pots of money, some might enjoy seeing their photographs in the paper.’
‘More fool them. I like to be able to shut the front door on the world, not invite it into my downstairs lavatory. Not that I have one.’
‘Any mention of that business with Jack and his homosexual leanings in the article?’
‘Alleged homosexual leanings,’ Kate specifies. ‘Retracted allegations of homosexual leanings. I hear the paper crawled on its hands and knees over barbed wire and paid him a juicy out-of-court settlement. Apparently a journalist lost his job over the story, too.’
‘So Eimear did Jack a favour,’ says Gloria. ‘That must be niggling her no end.’
‘As you reap, so shall you sow.’ Kate shrugs. ‘You know what we’re doing here, don’t you?’
‘Gossiping, of course,’ says Gloria, rustling the inevitable packet of winegums. ‘They say your hair falls out after you have a baby but I think my teeth are going to be the first to parachute out.’
‘No, we’re engaged in one of the fifteen great longings of Homo sapiens.’
‘Thought there was just one and that was sex,’ munches Gloria.
‘Only according to Freud. There’s a group of American psychologists who claim they’ve outlined the fifteen fundamental desires that underpin all human activity and one of these is the urge to communicate.’
‘Doesn’t that mean intense discussions about the meaning of life and whether God’s a man, woman or hermaphrodite?’
‘No. Apparently we’re the most communicative species on earth and most of our talk is trivial. But that’s all right because it’s forging relationships. Other animals bond by grooming each other, we do it by gossiping. And where we win hands down over the other species is because our bonding technique is more effective: you can only groom one at a time but you can gossip with a roomful of people. Brilliant, isn’t it. No wonder we’re the dominant species.’
‘We’re not,’ objects Gloria. ‘Don’t they say when the bomb drops there’ll be nothing left on the planet but cockroaches?’
‘True, but in the meantime they’re not building Taj Mahals and sending rockets to the moon.’
‘What are the other major human desires?’ she asks, mouth stuffed with sweets.
‘Eating winegums, that counts as the food imperative, family groups, sex of course, social order, power – nothing as important as gossip. I read it in the same newspaper that had Eimear’s “at home with”. You look tired, Glo, aren’t you sleeping?’
‘I can’t get comfortable. The bump’s a brute, he starts kicking as soon as I settle down at night. I try dozens of alternatives but none of them satisfy him so I end up having to prop myself against the headboard with pillows, but then I develop a crick in my neck. They didn’t mention any of this at the IVF clinic’
‘Would it have made any difference?’
