Desolately, she trailed back to her horrid little hotel, wishing Trix had been able to fix up a dinner with someone semi-famous for this evening.
She hated having free time, her ability to process it had atrophied. Though it hadn’t been that way for ever – she’d always grafted hard and been ambitious, but once upon a time there had been something more. Before the constant looking over her shoulder at the hordes of younger, smarter, tougher, more ambitious girls swarming up behind her had distilled her life to a focused treadmill.
She had a few more flats and houses to look at this weekend – the time would pass fast enough. And tomorrow she was showcasing a couple of hairdressers, getting her colour done in one and having her hair cut in another. The trick was to have a few that were cravenly obligated to you, so that if one couldn’t squeeze you in for an emergency blow-dry, another could.
She’d made a bargain with herself. She’d give herself a year to make a rip-roaring success of this joke of a magazine, then surely the powers that be in Randolph Media would recognize her contribution and reward it. Maybe…
After three speedy post-work drinks, Ashling got up to leave, but Trix implored her to stay out.
‘C’mon, let’s get twisted and bond by trashing everyone we work with!’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can,’ Trix urged earnestly. ‘All you have to do is try.’
‘That’s not what I mean.’ But Trix had a point. While Ashling certainly had bitchy thoughts, she rarely gave vent to them because she had an edgy suspicion that what goes around comes around. No point trying to explain that to Trix, though, she’d laugh her head off. ‘I mean I’m going to see my friend Clodagh.’
‘Get her to come here.’
‘She can’t. She’s got two kids and her husband’s in Belfast.’
Only then would Trix relinquish her.
Ashling jostled through the Friday-night throng and hailed a taxi. Fifteen minutes later she arrived at Clodagh’s, for pizza, wine and a bitching session about Dylan.
‘I hate when he goes away to these bloody dinners and conferences,’ Clodagh exclaimed. ‘And he goes to far too many for my liking.’
This hung in the air until Ashling said anxiously, ‘You don’t think he’s… up to something?’
‘No!’ Clodagh chuckled. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just mean I envy his, his… freedom. I’m stuck here with the pair of them while he’s in some fancy hotel getting an uninterrupted night’s sleep and a bit of privacy. What wouldn’t I give…’ She trailed off wistfully.
Later on in bed, after she’d nervously locked doors and windows, Clodagh found herself thinking about what Ashling had said about Dylan being up to something. He wouldn’t, would he? Have an affair? Or the occasional anonymous, away-from-home shag? Fast, furious and faceless? No, she knew he wouldn’t. Apart from anything else, she’d kill him.
But in a strange little way, the thought of Dylan having sex with someone else turned her on. She thought about it some more, shuffling through a few familiar fantasies. Would they do it like she and Dylan did? Or would it be more inventive? Wilder? Faster? More passionate? As she visualized the porn-movie scenarios, her breathing quickened, and when she was ready she gave herself a couple of quick, intense orgasms. Then fell into a deeply contented sleep until she was woken by Molly needing to do a wee-wee.
12
Ashling spent all Saturday afternoon traipsing around the shops, looking for a smart, sexy suit for work. What she actually wanted, though she was only dimly aware of it, was to look like Lisa. Perhaps then she’d feel deserving of her new job and the anxiety that dogged her might lift. But no matter what she tried on, Lisa’s lacquered élan eluded her. As closing time loomed, she made a couple of desperation purchases and staggered home, exhausted and dissatisfied.
The boy wasn’t actually in her doorway, he was crouched beside it on his orange blanket. It was the first time Ashling had seen him awake. Some passers-by threw him a coin, some more threw him a look that was a mix of disgust and fear, but most people genuinely didn’t see him. They had airbrushed him out of their reality.
She had to pass within inches of him to get to her front-door and was uncomfortably unsure of what the correct etiquette was, but felt she should say something. After all, they were neighbours.
‘Um, hi,’ she grunted, her eyes sliding quickly over his.
‘Hiya,’ he grinned up at her. He was missing a front tooth.
As she hurtled away from him, he nodded at her glossy shopping bag. ‘Did you get anything nice?’
She froze, halfway between him and her door, desperate to escape. ‘Ah, not really. Just a couple of things for work, you know.’
She wanted to cut her tongue out – how would he know?
‘What’s that they say?’ He squinted his eyes in thought. ‘Don’t dress for the job you have, dress for the job you want. Is that right?’
Ashling was too mired in embarrassment to focus. ‘Would you…?’ She shrugged her rucksack off her shoulder, her progress to her purse impeded by the large, glossy bag strewn across her. ‘Would you like…?’
She gave him a pound, which he accepted with a gracious inclination of his head. Flushed with shame at the disparity between what she’d given him and what she’d just spent on a shirt and a handbag she didn’t even need, she thumped angrily up the stairs. I work hard for my money, she fumed. Extremely hard, she amended, thinking of the week she’d just had. And I haven’t bought anything in ages. And it’s all on credit anyway. And it’s not my fault he’s an alcoholic or a heroin addict. Although, in fairness, she hadn’t smelt alcohol from him and he hadn’t seemed out of it on anything.
Safe in her flat, with the door slammed protectively behind her, she exhaled. There but for the grace of God go I, she thought. I could have ended up on the streets. And then she scolded herself for such melodrama. Things had never been that bad.
She flung her bags on the table and her shoes on the floor, wrecked after her day. And now she was expected to put on her party clothes and go out with Joy. She’d love not to. Being a thirty-something was like experiencing adolescence in reverse. Her body was changing and often she was struck by strange, sometimes shameful urges. Like wanting to stay in on her own on a Saturday night, with only a video and a tub of Ben and Jerry’s for company.
‘But you’ll never meet a man if you don’t go out,’ Joy regularly complained.
‘I do go out. Anyway, I’ve got Ben and Jerry. They’re the only men I need.’
But tonight she had to go out. For the first issue of Colleen, she and Joy were going to a salsa club to report on the chances of meeting men there. She’d never had to do anything of the sort for Woman s Place and there were times, like right now, when she dearly missed her old job. Not just because she’d never had to give up a Saturday night for her old job. But because she could have done her stuff in Woman’s Place in her sleep while her duties in Colleen still weren’t entirely clear. She feared she could be told to do anything and her stomach was twisted into a knot as she waited to be told to do something that she wasn’t able to. Ashling liked certainty and the only thing certain about working at Colleen was that she hadn’t a clue what was coming next.
Nerve-wracking!
Exciting, she corrected. And glamorous. And it was a great laugh working with so many new people – in her old job there had only been three other full-time staff. But then again, they’d all been sweethearts. No awkward types like Lisa or Jack Devine. But none as good fun as Trix or Kelvin either, she reminded herself firmly. Now was not the time to go all nostalgic and pathetic.
She stuck a bag of popcorn in the microwave, then flung herself on the couch, watched Blind Date and prayed for Joy not to come. She’d been up till six in the morning playing with Half-man-half-badger, perhaps she’d be too unwell to go out.
No chance.
Though she was more fragile than usual.
‘I’d like a cup of tea,’ she said, when she arrived. ??
?Plenty of sugar.’
‘That bad?’
‘I’ve the shakes. Worth it, though. I’m mad about Half-man-half-badger, Ashling. But he was supposed to ring me today and – oh no, this milk tastes sour. Fuck! I bet I’m pregnant. In nine months’ time I’ll give birth to a half-baby-half-badger.’
‘No,’ Ashling said, looking into her cup in which little white flecks were floating. ‘I just think the milk is sour.’
Joy flung open the fridge and examined the four cartons of milk within, all of them past their use-by date. ‘What are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘Playing Russian Roulette with the milk? Running a yoghurt factory? And have you eaten?’
Ashling indicated the almost-empty bowl of popcorn.
‘You’re funny,’ Joy said. ‘In some ways you’re so organized, but in others…’
‘You can’t be good at everything. I’m well balanced.’
‘You should take better care of yourself.’
‘That’s like the dog calling the cat’s arse hairy!’
‘But you’ll get scurvy.’
‘I take vitamins. I’m fine. Where’s Ted?’
Ashling had barely seen Ted all week. Not only did they work in opposite directions now, so that he no longer gave her a backer to work, but since the owl triumph he’d been sampling his way through the girls who’d expressed interest in him. Though he’d annoyed the shite out of her when he’d been a constant fixture in her flat whining about not having a girlfriend, Ashling missed him and resented his new-found independence.
‘You’ll see Ted later. We’re invited to a party. Architecture students. One of them does a bit of stand-up so some of the comedians should be there. And where there are comedians, Half-man-half-badger is usually to be found!’
‘I’m not so sure about the party,’ Ashling said cautiously. ‘Especially if it’s students.’
‘We’ll see,’ Joy said easily – too easily. Ashling flicked her a nervous glance. ‘I can’t believe I’m putting make-up on again. It seems only like minutes since I took it off,’ Joy said, curving on lipstick without the aid of a mirror, then turning her lips inwards, blotting them against each other with a panache that Ashling envied. ‘Don’t forget the camera.’
As they hit the streets, Ashling looked for the homeless boy, but he and his orange blanket were nowhere to be seen.
*
‘Single women and homosexuals.’ Joy summed up the fifty-strong crowd in one hawk-eyed sweep. ‘A dead loss but as we’re here we might as well get drunk. How much expenses have we?’
‘Expenses?’
Joy shook her head and sighed.
There was an hour’s class before the club began. The instructor, who introduced himself as ‘Alberto, from Cuba,’ was a fairly nondescript-looking man. Until he started to dance. Sinuous and lithe, graceful and sure, he was suddenly beautiful. Strutting, pointing, swivelling on the ball of his foot, he demonstrated the steps they’d be attempting.
‘The state of your man,’ Joy complained crossly.
‘Ssshhh!’
Ashling loved to dance. Despite her lack of waist she had a great sense of rhythm, so when the joyous, sunshiny trumpet music started again and Alberto instructed, ‘Everyone, join me,’ she needed no second bidding.
The steps were basic enough. It was the panache with which you did them that mattered, Ashling realized, mesmerized by Alberto’s lubricated hips.
Most of the class were lumpish and clumsy – Joy in particular from lack of sleep and a hangover – and Alberto seemed genuinely distressed by how atrocious everyone was. Ashling, however, picked up the moves smoothly.
‘Wasn’t this a fantastic idea?’ she declared to Joy, her eyes shining.
‘Feck off.’
‘Smile for the camera! And look as if you’re dancing.’
Joy did a couple of club-footed steps while Ashling snapped, then Joy took over the camera.
‘Try and photo some men for the article,’ Ashling hissed at her.
After the class, the club began properly. Experienced salsa and merengue dancers began to flood in, the women in short, flared skirts and high T-bar shoes, the faces of the men impassive as casually, expertly they twirled and manoeuvred women to the loud upbeat rhythms.
‘I can’t believe this is Ireland,’ Ashling said to Joy. ‘Irish men! Dancing! And not just the twelve-pints-of-Guinness shuffle, either.’
‘Real men don’t dance,’ Joy was keen to leave.
‘These ones do.’
Salsa was very much a contact sport. Ashling homed in on one couple. They danced right up close, as if their bodies had been velcroed together. Below the waist their limbs were a blur, but above the waist they barely moved. Groin to groin, chest to chest, his left hand held her right one above their heads, the soft skin of their inner arms joined along the full length. His right hand was firmly on the small of her back. All the while their feet perfectly performed the complicated steps, the man gazed into the woman’s eyes. Their heads remained still.
Ashling had never seen anything so erotic in all her life. A bud of yearning yawned open within her and it felt like pain. Stirred by a nameless need, she watched the dancers, her mouth bitter-sweet with longing. But for what? The hard, sweet heat of a man’s body?
Perhaps…
Jolting her from her introspection, a man asked Ashling to dance. He was short and going bald.
‘I’ve only had one lesson,’ she offered, hoping to get out of it.
But he assured her he wouldn’t do anything too complicated – and then they were off! It was like driving a car, Ashling decided. One minute you’re static, the next you’re moving smoothly, all because of what you’re doing with your feet. Forward and back, they stepped and swayed, he twirled her away from him, she returned smoothly and without missing a beat recommenced the dance, forward and back, dipping and flowing. It gave her some inkling of what it must be like to be able to do it well.
‘Well done,’ he told her at the end.
‘Can we go?’ Joy said tersely, when Ashling returned to her seat. ‘What a waste of time this was. Not a man in sight. Just one dance with a short-arse slaphead to show for our trouble.’
‘Oh go on, please, just for five minutes,’ Joy begged. ‘I don’t know where I stand with Half-man-half-badger and he’s bound to be there. Please.’
‘Five minutes, I mean it, Joy, that’s all I’m staying.’
The party – like most student parties in Dublin – was held in Rathmines, in a four-storey, red-brick Georgian house that had been converted into thirteen tiny oddly shaped flats. It had the obligatory high ceilings, original features, peeling paint and overpowering smell of damp.
The first person Ashling saw when she walked in was the enthusiastic bloke who’d given her the note saying ‘Bellez-moi’.
‘Shite,’ she exhaled.
‘What?’ Joy hissed, terrified that Ashling had spotted Half-man-half-badger snogging someone else.
‘Nothing.’
‘There he is!’ Joy noticed. Leaning against a wall – a risky business in these gerry-converted flats – was her quarry. She slipped her moorings and was gone. Suddenly alone, Ashling gave Bellez-moi a cheesy, sweaty-apologetic grin. To her great alarm, instead of repelling him, it sent him hurtling towards her.
‘You never called me,’ he declared.
‘Mmmm.’ She tried another smile, while inching away.
‘Why not?’
She opened her mouth to launch into a long list of lies. I lost the piece of paper, I’m deaf and dumb, there was a typhoon in Stephen’s Street and the phone lines were down…
Unexpectedly, she had it. ‘I can’t speak French,’ she said triumphantly. How about that for a watertight excuse?
He smiled the wistful smile of one who knows when he’s not wanted.
‘I’m sure you’re very nice and everything,’ she added hastily, keen not to cause any hurt. ‘But I didn’t know you and –’
‘Well you’re never likely
to if you don’t ring me,’ he pointed out, pleasantly.
‘Yes, but…’ Then she hit on something. ‘Isn’t it more traditional for the man to ask for the woman’s number, and for him to phone her?’
‘I was trying to be liberated, but right you are then, can I have your number?’
He has freckles, she thought, wondering how to get out of this. She didn’t want to give her number to an enthusiastic man with freckles. But he had his pen out and his eyes were keen and warm. She swallowed away the rage of being put in such a spot. Pushed it down, buried it. ‘Six, seven, seven, four, three, two –’
She wavered over the final digit. Should she say ‘Two’ when it was actually ‘Three’? The moment took for ever.
‘Three,’ she said, in a sigh.
‘And your name?’ His smile flashed bright in the darkened room.
‘Ashling.’
What was his name? Something silly. Cupid, or something.
‘… Valentine,’ he said. ‘Marcus Valentine. I’ll call you.’
This was one instance, Ashling thought angrily, when ‘I’ll call you’ meant just that. Why did the awful ones always ring and the good-looking ones never?
Through the crowds she spotted Joy conversing energetically with Half-man-half-badger. Good, now she could go home. ‘See ya,’ she said to Marcus.
She was too old for this studenty-type shite. On the way out she tripped over Ted, talking to a gamine redhead. He was smiling a smile Ashling didn’t recognize: no longer a panting, please-love-me rictus, but something more contained. Even his body language had altered. Instead of bending forward, he tilted away slightly, so the girl had to lean towards him.
‘Howya.’ Ashling greeted him with a punch to his upper arm.
‘Ashling!’ Excitedly he tried to trip her up.
Greetings having been exchanged, he turned to the little red-head. ‘Suzie, this is my friend, Ashling.’
Suzie gave a suspicious nod.
‘Have you a drink?’ Ted asked Ashling.