Again, Rachel, page 10
It wouldn’t be easy. I was out of practice. But if I wanted a life with love, I’d have to spend time with this person I didn’t know, I’d have to sit in silences that were sometimes far from comfortable, I’d have to accept all the ways he wasn’t Luke.
Suddenly I was okay with that.
It’ll never last. That’s what I’d thought at the start. I laughed at Quin’s impatience and couldn’t be arsed to be intimidated by his fast-changing moods. And that, without me knowing it, was the perfect attitude.
He was interesting. Intriguing. Frequently entertaining.
And sexy. Oh God, yes. There was an edge to him that sparked something in the flat battery that was my heart.
But there was plenty that was wrong with him. Even though there were one or two heartbroken women in his recent past, it was safe to say he wasn’t a charmer – not immediately anyway. His smiles were rare and he could be blunt to the point of offensive. His moods had a tendency to spike and then plunge, his energy was inquisitive, almost acquisitive, and he was too hungry for quick fixes.
This was the sort of thing that happened a lot: one Saturday, skimming the paper, he came across a rave review of a book. ‘Rach, listen to this!’ He read out a few sentences, then declared, ‘I’m buying it!’ Immediately he downloaded it to his Kindle and dived in, but about half an hour later, abandoned it, complaining that the reviewer ‘hadn’t a clue’.
‘You didn’t give it a chance,’ I’d said.
‘I did!’
‘Everything disappoints you.’
‘Not you.’
‘But I will. Just give me time.’
So I was going on dates with him, and enjoying myself, but I held off on anything physical. It was always going to be a massive deal to be intimate with a man who wasn’t Luke – and Quin more than most. He was acting smitten but he was really quite judgy about appearances. There was a good chance he’d conclude that my forty-something body was too slack or too cellulite-y. Too something, anyway.
‘Have I been friend-zoned?’ he demanded around the five-week mark. ‘Is there any point being patient?’
‘So you don’t want to hang out if there’s no chance of …?’
‘Nope.’ He was quite clear about it.
‘I’m …’ I tried to find the right word. Terrified, that was it.
It was nearly twenty years since I’d slept with anyone other than Luke. I had fancied Luke so very much, I only needed to smell him for my body to light up. But our sex life had been straightforward stuff. It had worked for both of us – but it left me at a disadvantage now.
Claire had asked me, ‘What precisely are you afraid of with Quin?’
‘That he’ll be too “technical”. That he’ll be barking instructions, like, “C’mon, Rachel, do the three-legged dog!” Or, “Side-straddle me!” As if we’re acrobats putting on a show. I’ve been out of the game too long and, from what I hear, it’s changed. I need tenderness, I need emotional connection as well as the physical side. And I want to take it slow.’
‘Well, tell him.’
What other choice did I have? ‘Okay.’
So I laid out my specific concerns, which he received so calmly that I told Claire, ‘It really would be no hardship to sleep with him.’
‘“It really would be no hardship”?’ she repeated. Then, molto-sarcastically, ‘I’m off to buy a hat for the big day! You’ve idealized Luke; you’re like an old woman with a shrine. It’s time you moved on. You’d swear you and Luke were perfect.’
‘We were.’
‘If you were, you’d still be together. Off you go – enjoy sleeping with Quin.’
And I actually did! Facts were facts – without the disinhibiting effects of half a bottle of wine, I was shy. However, our first time, it was … ‘Actually … sort of … fabulous,’ I told Claire. ‘He’s interested in what I like, but not in a feathery-strokery way. And he kept checking I was okay.’
‘This sounds wonderful. Any acrobatics?’
‘… Aaaaahhhh, nothing too complicated. But he did know the right … buttons to press. He, ah …’ I cleared my throat. ‘Knew his stuff. But not enough to worry me.’
‘Any Costello flashbacks?’
‘… No.’ It was nothing like being with Luke when, long before the end, we’d fallen into tried and tested routines. With Quin, I felt we were embarking on an adventure with countless thrilling possibilities.
‘I think it’s going to be …’ It took me a long time to locate the exact word. ‘… fun. He’s focused on what he wants. And he wants … me?’ We both fell around laughing. ‘I thought I’d never fancy a man again.’
‘And you fancy Quin?’
‘Oh my God, yes! I am weak for him.’
Claire clapped her hands together with happiness. ‘Life in the old dog yet. And I’m talking about you, not him!’
‘Now that I know how …’ I felt myself colour. ‘… lovely it is, it’s all I want to do.’
‘That rock-climbing he does? Has he … abs? And stuff?’
‘Yes. Abs! Arms! Some manscaping! But not too much. Definitely not enough to make me feel inadequate.’
‘He sounds perfect.’
14
‘Great news, Mum!’ Claire read from her iPad. ‘All five of your sisters have RSVP’d.’
‘They have?’ Mum looked pitifully happy. ‘Even Imelda?’
‘All of them. That’s what “all” means – all, you cretin! And their husbands. Everyone’s coming.’
Mum’s eyes were suspiciously shiny. ‘That’s just …’ Her mouth trembled. ‘… great news. So when I arrive at the hotel, I’m thinking that Margaret and Dad will lead me in. Should I wear a blindfold?’
‘No.’ Claire was brusque. ‘Health and safety. In other words, you’re bound to trip and fall. Not a chance worth taking.’
Mum’s iPad started bing-bonging. ‘Here’s Anna,’ she said. ‘Sweet Jesus, what do I press?’ She made some panicky jabs and, more by luck than judgement, Anna’s face appeared on the screen. ‘Hey, Mum, hey, Claire. Rachel! How was the funeral? Did you see Luke?’
‘Saw him, he saw me, but we didn’t speak.’
‘So, how did he … seem?’
‘Still hot,’ Claire called.
‘I didn’t mean … I was wondering if he was …’ She was fooling no one.
‘No leather trousers,’ Claire elaborated. ‘Just a suit.’
‘That’s too bad … Are you okay, Rachel? Call me if you need to talk. So how are the party plans going?’
Mum said, ‘Do you swear to me, Anna Walsh, on your bended knees, that you have eighty Lucerne Bio serums for the party bags?’
‘I swear to you. And loads of other stuff too. Your sisters will be so impressed, they’ll be sick.’
A disturbance at the door heralded the arrival of Helen, in a dark form-fitting tracksuit, her hair up in a high pony.
‘You look like an assassin!’ Mum was all admiration.
‘Fecken wish I was.’ Helen scanned the room and focused on me. ‘You, girl! Report on Luke Costello. How was his crotch?’
‘It was his mother’s funeral,’ Mum said, her tone sharp. ‘Have some respect.’
‘He was in a suit,’ Anna called from New York.
‘Suits can be tight,’ Helen said. ‘Remember their wedding? Sweet. Jesus. Remember the debate we had, wondering if he had the trousers specially tailored or if it was just down to … him?’ At my stricken face, she muttered, ‘Anyway, he’s an asshole.’
‘Stop talking about him,’ I said. ‘Like, please.’
If they didn’t knock it on the head, I’d have to leave. Since yesterday, I’d been awash with humiliation – both old and new. Every time my memory reran the little home-movie of the dismissive flick of his eyes in the church, fresh shame flooded in.
Underneath the shame was an appalling sadness.
But I’d be okay. So long as I didn’t take anything to sidestep the pain – and I wouldn’t – this awful discomfort would eventually disperse.
‘If I could have your attention,’ Mum called. ‘Claire, Helen, before I arrive at the hotel, you’re to have the guests all fired up. Make them practise yelling, “SURPRISE!” Do it a few times. My sisters, but especially Imelda and Philomena, won’t want to, and some of the cousins are right bitches too, but tell them there’ll be no goody bag for them if they don’t. Ah, here’s Margaret. What’s that you’re wearing?’
‘A shirt-dress. It’s new!’
A blue-and-black checked flannel button-through, the sleeves rolled back over a slubby grey T-shirt, it was very Margaret. With flat black leather knee boots and her choppy bob, she looked comfortable and stylish. It was a great look and it really suited her.
‘You’re … well turned out.’ Mum sounded surprised.
‘You look like a social worker,’ Helen said.
‘… who’s having an affair.’ That was Claire trying to be nice and it made Margaret laugh. Not that there was any chance of Margaret having an affair. Of all of us, her relationship was the most convincing. She and Garv were lovely to each other.
‘How are you, Rachel?’ she asked. ‘How was Luke?’
‘We didn’t speak.’
‘Oh. Well. How did he … look?’
‘Do any of you care about my surprise party?’ Mum exploded. ‘Or do you just want to talk about Luke Costello’s tight trousers?’
‘I’ll take Luke Costello’s tight trousers for five hundred dollars,’ Claire said.
‘Ah now! Bitta respect for Dr Spork!’ Helen said.
‘Who? Oh, Quin.’ Mum snorted. She didn’t like him. ‘Cocksure of himself,’ was her sour assessment.
Confidence was usually seen as a positive. But Mum was from that generation of Irishwomen who prided themselves on raising children with rock-bottom self-esteem. Nothing galled them as much as an offspring with confidence. Quin might have got away with it if he’d put the effort into charming her – because he could be very charming when it suited him – but, contrary fecker that he was, he decided not to. (‘Why should I?’ He’d declared. ‘I shouldn’t have to apologize for who I am.’)
‘Is Spork coming to my party?’ Mum asked.
I laughed. ‘Mum! We’ve been together for nearly two years.’ As she well knew.
‘Two years? How’s he going to mark your anniversary? By flying you to …’ She cast about, trying to find a location adequately exotic. ‘… Bora Bora for the weekend?’
She had a point. Quin liked to visit countries that other people couldn’t pronounce, like Laos, or that the Department of Foreign Affairs advised you to avoid, such as Iraq. (It wouldn’t surprise me if Quin said, ‘Yeah, no, there’s a province in the north of Iraq, absolutely beautiful, looks like Switzerland. I know. Totally peaceful, the entire population are red-haired Rastafarians – some genetic throwback. We should go.’)
Last summer we’d gone on a walking holiday in Transylvania and I suspected his main reason for wanting to go was because of the name.
‘Not Bora Bora,’ I said. ‘But Barcelona.’
‘Oh!’ Margaret was enchanted. ‘Barcelona!’
‘Well!’ Mum sounded horribly smug. ‘I hate to piss in your punchbowl –’
‘Mum!’ A clamour of voices rose. ‘That’s disgusting!’
‘That’s disgusting? You all say far worse! Anyway, Rachel, I hate to piss in your punchbowl –’
‘You don’t,’ I said. ‘You love it.’
‘But you’ll be mugged on the Las Ramblas street. Everyone gets mugged there. Now can we please stop talking about Rachel’s men. The thing is’ – her voice wobbled – ‘I’ve never had anything nice, ever. I have five sisters and I was always overshadowed. I’ve spent my life wanting a surprise party. This is my one chance to be special, so commit to it!’ She turned to Margaret. ‘What’s the thing you say?’
‘Lean in.’
‘Yeah. Lean. Fucking. In!’
‘I’d lean in a lot better if I had some chocolate,’ Helen said, zipping towards the kitchen.
She looked … actually … a bit pale. I went cold. She wasn’t sick, was she? Like, seriously sick?
When we’d all been younger, Helen had seemed invulnerable – brave, judgemental, deliberately contrary. People – men in particular – were dazzled and maddened by her.
However, in the last eight years, she’d endured three spells of suicidal depression, each culminating in a stay in a psychiatric hospital. She’d been well now for a couple of years but since the first bout, I’d never not been worried about her.
Sometimes my fear was so small it barely registered, but it was always there, like a faint background whirring sound.
Today it wasn’t her mental health I was afraid for – but it had been such a shock when she’d first got sick that I’d got used to jumping to worst-case scenarios.
She’d drive you up the wall – only a fool would deny it – but at some point over the years I’d understood that she wasn’t doing it on purpose. She couldn’t help how she was. With her unmanageable impatience and robust opinions, life was often difficult for her. For every person she enchanted, there were about ten more who became instant enemies.
And the thing was, Helen would speak unpalatable truths when everyone else was too scared to open their mouths. The world needed more Helens.
I followed her as she opened the sweets press and a mini-avalanche of chocolate and biscuits tumbled out. ‘Mint Aero?’ she asked. ‘What is wrong with her?’
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
‘Me?’ She paused in her rummaging. ‘Grand. Apart from the appalling selection of confectionery in this house.’
‘Have you got cancer? Is that your big secret?’
‘What? No! Jesus. No. Nothing like that. Ah, for the love of Christ …’ She waved a packet of biscuits at me. ‘Mint Jaffa Cakes? She needs help.’
My phone rang.
‘Who is it?’ Helen asked.
‘Unknown number.’
‘G’wan!’ she teased. ‘Live a little!’
‘Okay. Hello?’
‘Is that Rachel?’ a male voice bellowed. ‘It’s Patch here. Patch Dooley.’
Who? Oh right, Dennis’s younger brother.
‘You were looking for me, I believe?’ he yelled against a background of chugging noises. ‘Juliet says you want me to come in about Dennis?’
‘Thanks for calling back,’ I said. ‘You’re aware that your brother Dennis is in a treatment centre for alcoholism?’
‘I’m “aware”, right enough.’ He sounded amused. ‘How does Wednesday morning suit you? I’ll be in your area, visiting a man in Baltinglass about some bagels.’
‘Bagels?’
‘Bagels. Dogs! For hunting rabbits.’
Oh, beagles. ‘Great. But we need to talk things through beforehand. Patch, how close are you and your brother?’
‘Best buddies. But I’ve to go now.’ Farm machinery – by the sounds of things – was revving away. ‘I’m fond of me leg, I don’t want to lose it.’
‘I’ll call you on Monday to talk –’
‘Do that! G’luck!’ He hung up.
Back in the sitting room, Mum was quizzing Margaret about what she planned to wear to the party.
‘I’ll see what I have in the wardrobe.’
Mum, an inveterate spender, was appalled. ‘But you have to buy something new!’
‘I don’t.’
Mum threw her a wounded look, then turned her attention to me. ‘If you show up in jeans, you can go straight home again!’
Claire and I exchanged a smirk. For weeks, Mum had been pestering me to ‘make an effort’ to wear ‘something glam’. And it was all coming together.
Two weeks ago, a dress from the Vampire’s Wife had arrived. Quin had been very pleased – it was everything he liked – expensive and beautiful, with cult appeal.
But with its high neck, long sleeves and muted ivy colour, it would probably be the wrong sort of glam for Mum, who appreciated bright sheaths of polyester satin, festooned with blingy appliqués.
The only thing she might approve of was that it was short. I’d also bought a teetering pair of black platform sandals. When I’d done a dress rehearsal for Claire, she’d tried to persuade me to go bare-legged – I swear her hand literally twitched for her beloved fake tan – but I wasn’t having it. ‘I need the safety of tights.’
‘But sexy ones,’ she’d pleaded. ‘None of your sixty denier shizz, gimme a sheeny fifteen.’
‘What if they ladder? Claire, I can’t, that night will be stressful enough. I’ll maybe go to twenty.’
‘Any chance you’d do hold-ups instead of tights?’
‘No. Me and sexy underwear are done.’
It wasn’t entirely true. But the last time I’d tried, at a restaurant with Quin, my knickers became so savagely uncomfortable that, after the starter, I’d had to go to the ladies, take them off and hide them in my handbag. I still wasn’t sure what had gone wrong – they’d felt okay when I’d left the house but perhaps I’d been sitting on them incorrectly? Or eaten too much bread?
‘Get your father,’ Mum ordered me.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Just get him, for the love of God!’
‘I’m here.’ Dad, who had clearly been primed to expect the summons, was at the door. He came in and sat down and we all stared at him. What was this about?
‘Right.’ Mum flicked a look at Dad. ‘At the party. We’ve. Decided. There’s to be.’
Both of them took a deep breath and delivered the fatal line, ‘An open bar.’
‘All night?’ Margaret was scandalized. ‘With your relations? You might as well file for bankruptcy right now.’
‘And we’re having champagne on arrival. Not prosecco.’
‘That’s right,’ Dad echoed. ‘Champagne on arrival. Not prosecco.’
‘But –’
‘Nnnh!’ Mum held up a hand to silence Margaret – who promptly turned to Dad and said, ‘The cost will –’
‘Nnnh!’ Mum declared. ‘Dad says we can afford it.’
