Mismatched

by Elle Casey

  She smiles at me, genuinely pleased. “Aren’t you great — up and showered, make-up on, and all before six in the morning? You’ve great energy, so ye do. Well, I’ll see you in the kitchen in a bit.” And with that she trundles off.

  Closing the door, I lean back against it and almost weep with exhaustion. But then I remember what, or rather who, kept me out till all hours, and I smile.

  Micheál was amazing. Who needs sleep?

  I put the bathroom back in order and slip past the kitchen where Mrs. O'Grady is cooking sausages on the ancient stove. Sure enough, when I get up to our room, I find Ridlee face down on the bed, still fully dressed, and surprise, surprise, boots on.

  “Ridlee.” I try to shake her awake. Nothing.

  “Ridlee!” Still nothing.

  “Ridlee!”

  “God, there’s no need to yell,” she mumbles. “What’s all the fuss about?” She lifts her face a couple of millimeters out of the pillow. After a split second, she face-plants again. Silence. She has gone back to sleep.

  Fabulous. There is an alarm clock on the small table between our twin beds. It’s one of those really old fashioned ones with the bell on top. I reach for it and reset the time, then set it to go off in a minute. Carefully, I put it in the nest of hair that is my friend. Sitting back on my own bed, I wait.

  BRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIGGGGGGG !!!!!!!!!!

  “I’m up, I’m up!” Ridlee goes from prostrate to sitting in the blink of an eye. “What the fuck?”

  “Morning.” I smile sweetly.

  “Already?”

  “Well, more or less. Almost lunchtime, really. Mrs. O'Grady is just cooking our breakfast. It’s your favourite. Get dressed.”

  Ridlee juts out her bottom lip, remorsefully. “What time is it?”

  I nod in the direction of the alarm clock. “Almost ten. Mrs. O'Grady will stop serving breakfast soon.”

  “Who cares about breakfast!” exclaims Ridlee flopping back on her bed. “I feel like I’ve barely slept at all.”

  “Now, come on, Rid. That’s just the jet-lag talking. You love breakfast. Chop, chop. Big day today.”

  Ridlee seems to remember something and reluctantly gets to her feet. “Do I have time for a shower?”

  “A quick one,” I answer magnanimously. I have to try hard not to smile. If my sleep-deprived friend knew what time it really was, she’d kill me.

  Ridlee looks like death warmed up when she arrives at our table in a small sitting room just off the kitchen. She is wearing an enormous pair of sunglasses, and I almost feel guilty as she flops into the chair opposite me.

  “Come on, Rid, it can’t be that bad.”

  She pulls the glasses down her nose to reveal bloodshot eyes.

  “Oh,” is all I can say.

  “Thanks, Erin. So, I look as bad as I feel then, huh?”

  “You must have had a bad pint, Sweetie,” I say in an attempt to mollify her.

  “A bad pint, Erin? Just one? Why didn’t you stop me? You know how too much alcohol affects me… You were too busy with the bow-wow player to keep an eye on your friend.” She looks sulkily out the window, but I know that she’s half-joking. But the other half requires some TLC, and pronto.

  I, on the other hand, feel great, despite having had no sleep and a few drinks myself. The moon had been full and we talked on and on like old friends. It’s really been too long since I’ve had any kind of connection with anybody, let alone a member of the opposite sex.

  “So, did you get laid, or what?” asks my mind-reading friend, just as Mrs. O'Grady drops over our full Irish breakfasts.

  “Yes, freshly laid this morning. You can thank Mr. O’Henry for that,” says the old lady winking at Ridlee. The horror that registers on Ridlee’s face is priceless, but I have to save her — she’s not up to it this morning.

  “Yummy. I love fresh laid eggs.” I stress the ‘eggs’ bit for Ridlee.

  Her face relaxes again but then she spies the black pudding on her plate.

  “Everything alright, lovey?” asks Mrs. O'Grady, her voice full of concern. “You’re not sick, are ye?”

  “No, no. Not sick. Just not a huge fan of black pudding,” says my fragile friend, rather bravely.

  “Nonsense. It’ll put hairs on your chest. That’s probably why you’re sick all the time — ye don’t eat properly. Now, eat up. Good girl.” No sign of the concern now. She’s all matron-like, li’l ol’ lady badass. And with that she bustles off to the kitchen, throwing a glance over her shoulder to make sure that Ridlee is eating.

  “Did that woman just tell me to ‘eat up’? Who does she think she is, my mother?” Ridlee jerks her head toward the kitchen, and then winces in pain at the effort.

  “I have eyes in the back of my head, missy. No-one’ll say that you weren’t well fed when ye stayed at Mrs. O'Grady’s.”

  Reluctantly, Ridlee picks up her fork and takes a tiny forkful of scrambled eggs. I’m waiting for the gag reflex to kick in but somehow she manages to keep the food down and actually has more. “So?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to play innocent with me. Give me deets or I give you death.” She points her fork at me.

  “It’s private.”

  Ridlee actually guffaws and bits of toast fly my way. “Erin, spill. Now.”

  It’s weird, but for the first time maybe ever, I feel like keeping the specifics of my night with Micheál to myself. When I do get laid, which is hardly ever lately, I share every detail with Ridlee but this time it just doesn’t feel right.

  “Did you go back to his place?”

  “Eh, not quite.”

  “Not quite?”

  “He took me on a little boat trip.”

  “And?”

  “To a very cute little island not far from here where you can find the most interesting ancient stones…”

  “Erin!”

  “And, we did it! There. I said it.” Thank God there are no other guests in the dining room.

  Ridlee smiles her Cheshire Cat grin and waves her fork at me. “Slut.” She stabs a bit of sausage and pops it in her mouth, obviously enjoying herself. She sees herself as my sex agony aunt or something, ‘cause she gets laid more. “So, you say you did it, eh? Did what?” The grilling has just begun.

  “We made love.” Shit. I didn’t mean to say that. My hand flies to my mouth. Ridlee stops chewing.

  “You did what?”

  “We shagged,” I say trying to regain lost ground.

  “Do you like this guy?”

  “He’s alright,” I say all nonchalant.

  “No, Erin, listen to me. Do you like this guy?”

  “God, Rid, I just met him.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Of course not! Silly…”

  “Did you kiss on the lips? Did you go downtown?” she points her knife at me accusingly.

  “Well, we don’t have a downtown as such here in Doolin, but you could try Lisdoonvarna. What is it you’re after?” It’s Mrs. O'Grady back again, teapot in hand.

  “A solicitor’s office,” I tell her, grateful to be saved from a Ridlee interrogation.

  “Mmm, let me see.” She holds her finger to her pursed lips.

  We wait. Ridlee lowers her knife and the clatter as it meets her plate breaks the old lady’s reverie.

  “What’s that dear?” She looks at me inquisitively.

  “You were just about to tell us where to find a solicitor.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Never mind,” interrupts Ridlee, keen to avoid another reverie, “that matchmaker guy, Mr. O’Henry from Lisdoonvarna, gave me the name of someone over there.” She pulls a bit of paper out of her jeans pocket and peers at it. “Cat-Hall O Money.”

  “Exactly!” says Mrs. O'Grady, sharp as a tack again. “But it’s pronounced, Ka-hal O’Mooney, like the moon.”

  “Huh,” says Ridlee still staring at the piece of paper. “Come on, Erin, we’d better shake a leg. They might close f
or lunch.”

  “Oh, they’ll not be open, “ says Mrs. O'Grady. Before leaving she glances up at the clock above the door to the kitchen.

  Ridlee follows her gaze. I wince, ready for the torrent of abuse. It’s six thirty-five.

  “Erin.”

  “You said that you wanted to get up early,” I say weakly. “You know, make the most of the day.”

  “Well, if you girls are going to Lisdoonvarna, maybe you could give me a lift to Mass in your baby-chino. I like the young priest that says Mass over in the church there.”

  “Not a problem, Mrs. O. See you outside in fifteen minutes.”

  And with that I dart past Ridlee and up the stairs for a real shower before we leave.

  The entire time I’m in there, the only thing I can think of is Michaél: his body, his eyes, the way he touched me, made me feel. By the time I’m done, I’m ready to go take a moon bath all over again. Getting dressed is torture. Ridlee is waiting outside for me, standing next to the Bambino, and she doesn’t look happy. Mrs. O’Grady follows me out in her Sunday best.

  “Hey, Rid. You okay to ride in the back?”

  “Noooo way José, I’m driving!”

  “Oh, come on, you’re not really up to driving in your state, are you? Be honest.” I can see that I’ve touched a nerve. She has the shakes.

  “Fine, whatever.”

  It’s really quite impressive how Ridlee folds herself into the small space in the back of the Fiat, that wouldn’t even house one of her suitcases.

  “I told ye all that yoga would come in useful one day,” I say beaming at her in the rearview mirror.

  “Just drive.”

  Mrs. O'Grady sits in the passenger seat, her handbag nestled in her lap. “I used to have a car just like this. Probably before you were born though. Is it a classic? Is that what they call them old bangers that they do up, like in that show on the telly, Pimp my Ride?”

  “It’s a rental car,” says Ridlee from the back. “We don’t own it. We have to give it back.”

  “Yes, dear. I know that.”

  I glance at Ridlee in the rearview mirror. She’s not happy to be up this early, and now she’s kind of yelling at Mrs. O'Grady. I try to catch her eye but she’s not having it.

  Mrs. O'Grady witters on about the lives of each person whose houses we pass between Doolin and our destination, telling us about their ancestors and their children until we eventually arrive at the church in Lisdoonvarna. I get out of the car and run round to open the door for her and help her out.

  “Thank you, Dear.” She gathers up her belongings and before closing the door she leans in to Ridlee and says, “Cheer up, Lovey. It may never happen.” And with that she slams the door and heads off toward the front door of the church.

  “It already has,” mutters Ridlee darkly, her arms locked across her chest. I turn around in the driver’s seat and give her my most sincere look. “I’m sorry for getting you up so early, Rid.”

  “And?” She stares stonily out the window of the Bambino at the other old people coming to mass at this ungodly hour.

  “Aanndd, for not being a good friend.”

  “Humph.”

  I wait, hoping she’ll let me off the hook here. I should have known better, though.

  “For not being a good friend in what way, Erin?” she asks.

  “For staying out all night…?” I venture, unsure of the exact nature of my crime but certain that it’s serious. It takes a lot to rattle Ridlee.

  She turns and looks at me at last. “I don’t give a damn if you stay out all night, Erin, once you tell me what’s going on and you’re careful.”

  I have to smile. She’s so sweet. But Ridlee’s not finished, and she’s not smiling.

  “I want you to meet guys and get laid, Erin. In fact, I wish you’d do it more. But last night you completely forgot that I even existed once you met that guy. I made myself scarce for a bit, not imagining you’d leave the mainland. I had to walk home alone. Part of the way, anyway. I came thousands of miles to help you get your bar. Don’t forget that, okay?”

  “Jaysus, Rid, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realise. I guess I got a bit carried away. I kinda liked him.”

  “Duh. But you know we’re leaving in a couple of days and we need to focus on the bar business, so don’t go getting all gooey about some guy, okay?”

  “Okay. VBFF again?” I ask, hopefully.

  “Of course!” she laughs.

  I crawl into the back seat and tickle her till she’s begging me to stop. It’s still early so we have time to explore the surrounding countryside. We head off in the car, Radio Clare blaring, singing at the top of our voices and generally scaring the sheep. We arrive back at 8:30 in the morning and park the car just outside the offices of Cathal O’Mooney and ring the bell. Lots of rustling and fumbling ensues on the other side of the frosted glass but eventually the door opens.

  “Micheál!” My head swims. How? What? I take a step back and look at the number on the door again.

  “Erin!”

  “What are you doin here?” we ask each other, simultaneously.

  “Wonderful,” mutters Ridlee.

  I glance at the name on the brass plaque and back at Micheál. “Eh, I’m looking for Cathal O’Mooney.”

  Micheál just stares blankly at me.

  “The solicitor,” I bumble on. “We, that is, Ridlee here, needs legal advice.”

  Ridlee smiles and blows a bubble with the chewing gum she’s just popped in her mouth — a sure sign she’s feeling better.

  “On a Sunday?” Micheál raises one eyebrow doubtfully.

  Shit, is it Sunday? I laugh, embarrassed, but deftly turn the tables on him. “What are you doing here?” Aha. Checkmate!

  “I live here. Well, in the flat above the office.”

  “Micheál, who is it?” A female voice comes from the balcony above our heads, and a beautiful blonde leans over.

  “It’s alright, Siobhán, theses girls were just lookin’ for the solicitors.”

  “On a Sunday?”

  I step out onto the road to get a better view of the goddess. “Sorry to disturb you. We didn’t realise that it was Sunday,” I explain, helpfully. “We just arrived and we’ve come from the States, so we got the day wrong.” See, everybody. I am not intimidated by this vision living with the guy I shagged last night.

  “Huh, I knew there was a time difference but I didn’t realise that it extended to days,” Siobhán says all innocent, turning back to go inside.

  Micheál smiles, obviously amused at our antics.

  “Our mistake. Sorry to have bothered you! We’ll come back tomorrow,” interjects Ridlee. Steering me by the elbow she leads me to the Fiat. “Fuck him.”

  “Yeah, fuck him, “ I echo.

  Why are there tears in my eyes? I liked him, that’s why. I still like him. Oh well, that’s that then. It seems pretty clear that he has a girlfriend and I don’t do cheaters.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  RIDLEE

  AFTER DROPPING OFF MRS. O'GRADY at church and pausing to barf in the bushes just outside the main door of the attorney’s office, I’m thinking that an entire Sunday spent resting in a dark room with ice over my eyeballs would be the best way to handle my life right now. Unfortunately, Erin has other ideas.

  “Come on, now, we have just another day or two to show you round the motherland. No more of this wallowing in pitiful misery.” She nudges my leg.

  “Leave me alone to die in peace.” I moan for effect.

  “Come on, Ridleeeee, I’m bored.”

  Apparently my efforts are wasted. She can be very stubborn when she wants to be. I sigh and move the pillow off my forehead so I can show her how awful I look. I catch a glimpse of a butt-ugly print of a cow framed on the wall behind Erin’s head and visions of Donal pop into my mind.

  “Fine. I have an idea.”

  She bounces down onto the side of her bed and claps her hands like a child. “Oh, goody. What are we going to
do?”

  “We’re going to a petting zoo.”

  Her hands drop into her lap and she frowns. “You’re taking the piss.”

  “No, I’m not. I’m serious.” I sit up and look around the room. Did Donal even give me his phone number? Where is his farm? Did he tell me and I just forgot? “I met this guy last night. This farmer guy. He said we could come out and get a tour.” Maybe he said that. My memory’s a little dim, but I’m pretty sure he said he has some cute animals. I could use some peaceful animal petting right now. I hear it’s like magic, the way it calms a person. Hopefully it works on people stomachs, too.

  “That’s the best you could come up with?”

  “Hey, I don’t hear you offering anything better.” I get up out of bed and pull on my jeans, wondering how awful my face looks. Bags under my eyes are a given after a night like I had. My earlier attempt at doing makeup was not my best effort by far. The whole vomiting thing and then splashing water over my face with a nearby garden hose probably didn’t help.

  “Cliffs,” Erin says. “Let’s take a walk on the lovely cliffs. The fresh air’ll do you good.”

  For some reason the idea doesn’t sound nearly as exciting as it did before. Maybe Donal's mood about the whole place ruined it for me. Why was he so negative about it? Did he tell me? My memory is too fuzzy to put anything together whole. Bits and pieces are floating around disconnected in my fuzzy brain. “Nah. I want to pet an animal. A fuzzy one.”

  She sighs loudly. “Fine. It’s your vacation. If you want to go feel-up a cow who am I to stop you?”

  I push her sideways, making her fall over on the bed, as I move over to the small desk that holds our toiletries. “Hush your mouth, perv. No one’s feeling-up any animals.”

  “You know what they say about men and sheep…”

  I look at her in the mirror. “No, I don’t.” I grab a cotton pad and search the desktop for my remover bottle.

  “Sheep shagging. It happens more often than you’d think.”

  My mouth drops open in horror, and I freeze my searching motions. “What? Please tell me you don’t mean what it sounds like you mean.”