Watermelon

by Marian Keyes

  “Oh shut up, Mum,” I told her. “I’ll leave a note for Helen explaining that I’ve borrowed it. And when I get my clothes from London she can borrow some of mine.”

  Silence from Mum.

  “Is that okay?” I asked her.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “And you look lovely,” she added grudgingly.

  Just before I left my bedroom to go downstairs, a glint from the dressing table caught my eye. It was my wedding ring. I had forgotten to put it back on after my shower. It lay there winking up at me, obviously eager to get out of the house for a bit. So I went over and picked it up. But I didn’t put it on. My marriage is over, I thought, and maybe I’ll start to believe it if I don’t wear my wedding ring anymore. I put the ring back down on the dressing table.

  Of course it was furious—it just couldn’t believe that I wasn’t going to wear it. And then it was upset. But I didn’t give in. I couldn’t afford any sentiment. I decided to leave before the recriminations started. “Sorry,” I said shortly, turning my back, switching off the light and walking from the room.

  Dad was watching golf on the television when I went in to him to borrow his car keys. I think I gave him a bit of a fright when I finally managed to wrench his attention away from the men in the plaid pants.

  “You’re very glamorous,” he said, looking startled. “Where are you off to?”

  “Into town to meet Laura,” I told him.

  “Well, don’t get the bloody car vandalized,” he said, alarmed.

  Dad came from a small town in the west of Ireland, and although he had lived in Dublin for thirty-three years, he still didn’t trust Dubliners. He thought that they were all petty criminals and thugs.

  And he seemed to think that the center of Dublin was like Beirut. Except that Beirut was far nicer.

  “I won’t get it vandalized, Dad,” I told him. “I’ll leave it in a parking lot.”

  But that didn’t calm him down either.

  “Well, make sure that you pick it up by midnight,” he said, getting very agitated. “Because all the parking lots close then. And if you don’t get it, I’ll have to walk to work in the morning.”

  I forbore from telling him, but only just, that he wouldn’t have to walk anywhere in the morning if I got the car impounded. That there was actually nothing stopping him from borrowing Mum’s car or using public transport.

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” I assured him. “Now give me the keys.”

  He reluctantly handed them over.

  “And don’t go changing the radio station. I don’t want to turn it on in the morning and be deafened by pop music.”

  “If I change it, I’ll change it back,” I sighed. “And if you adjust the seat forward make sure you move it back again.

  I don’t want to get in in the morning and think I’ve put on loads of weight in the night.”

  “Don’t worry, Dad,” I told him patiently as I picked up my coat and bag.

  “See you later.”

  It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than to borrow the car off Dad.

  As I closed the sitting room door behind me I heard him calling after me,

  “Where are you going without a skirt?” but I kept walking.

  It was awful leaving Kate. It was the first time that I had gone out without her and it was a real wrench. In fact, I nearly brought her with me but then I realized that she’d be spending enough time in noisy smoky pubs when she was older, so no call for her to start just yet.

  “You will check on her every fifteen minutes,” I said tearfully to Mum.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Every fifteen minutes,” I emphasized.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “You won’t forget?” I said anxiously.

  “No,” she said, starting to sound a bit annoyed.

  “But what if you’re watching something on TV and you get distracted?”

  I suggested.

  “I won’t forget!” she said, sounding definitely annoyed. “I know how to look after a child, you know. I have managed to rear five of my own.”

  “I know,” I told her, “it’s just that Kate is special.”

  “Claire!” said Mum in exasperation, “’will you just bloody well go!”

  “Fine, fine,” I said, quickly checking that the baby intercom was switched on, “I’m going,”

  “Have a nice time,” called Mum.

  “I’ll try,” I said, bottom lip trembling.

  The drive into town was nightmarish.

  Did you know that if you listen hard enough everything sounds like a baby crying? The wind in the trees, the rain on the roof of the car, the hum of the engine.

  I was convinced that I could hear Kate crying for me, al- ways faintly, nearly out of earshot. It was unbearable, and I very nearly turned the car around and went back home.

  If it wasn’t for Common Sense making a guest appearance in my head, that’s probably exactly what I would have done.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” said Common Sense.

  “You’re obviously not a mother yourself,” I retorted.

  “No,” admitted Common Sense, “I’m not. But you’ve got to realize that you can’t be with her every moment for the rest of her life. What about when you go back to work and she has to go to day care? Well, how are you going to cope then? Just think of this as good practice.”

  “You’re right,” I sighed, calming down for a moment. Then panic gripped me again. What if she died? What if she died that night?

  Just then, like an oasis in the desert, I spotted a pay phone. I swung the car over, much to the annoyance of the drivers behind me, beeping their horns and shouting things at me, the heartless bastards.

  “Mum,” I said tremulously.

  “Who’s this?” she asked.

  “It’s me,” I said, feeling as if I was going to burst into tears.

  “Claire?” she said, sounding outraged. “What the hell do you want?”

  “Has anything happened to Kate?” I asked breathlessly.

  “Claire! Stop this! Kate is absolutely fine.”

  “Really?” I asked, hardly daring to believe it.

  “Really,” she said in a nicer voice. “Look, this does get easier, you know.

  The first time is the worst. Now go and enjoy yourself and I promise that I’ll call you if anything happens.”

  “Thanks, Mum,” I said, feeling a lot better.

  I got back into the car and drove into town and parked the car (yes, in a parking lot) and went down to the pub to meet Laura. She was already there when I arrived, and it was wonderful to see her. I hadn’t seen her in months.

  I told her she looked lovely, because she did. She told me that I looked lovely. Although I’m not sure whether I did or not.

  She said that she looked like an old hag.

  I said that I looked like a dog.

  I said that she didn’t look like an old hag. She said that I didn’t look like a dog.

  Pleasantries over, I went to get us some drinks.

  There were several million people in the pub. Or at least that was how it felt. But Laura and I were lucky enough to get seats.

  I suppose I must be getting old. There was a time when I would have cheerfully stood, pint in hand, in the midst of all these people, being swept along like seaweed in the tide. Not minding that the person I was supposed to be talking to was now several yards away and that most of my wine was spilled on my wrist.

  Laura wanted to know all about Kate. And I was only too happy to tell her.

  When I was younger I’d promised myself that I would never turn into a baby-bore. You know, the kind of people who go on and on about their baby and how she smiled at them for the first time today and how beautiful she is and all that, while all around them people are twitching and going into spasms of boredom. And I was a bit alarmed to find that that’s exactly what I was doing. But I couldn’t help it. It
was different when it was your own baby. The only thing I can say in my defense is that when you have one yourself you’ll know what I mean.

  Maybe Laura was bored out of her skull, but she did a very decent impression of being interested in Kate.

  “I’m dying to see her,” she said. Gamely, I thought.

  “Why don’t you come out this weekend?” I said. “We’ll spend an afternoon together and you can play with her.”

  And then Laura wanted to know what giving birth was like. So we discussed that in gory detail for a while. Laura started to look a bit sweaty and faint.

  And then, of course, we moved onto the main item on the agenda. The real business of the evening. The main feature. The star act.

  James.

  James Webster, the Incredible Disappearing Husband.

  Laura had all the details already.

  From a variety of sources—my mother, Judy and a lot of other friends.

  So she didn’t really need to know what had happened. She was more interested in how I was now and what I was planning to do.

  “I don’t know, Laura,” I told her. “I don’t know whether I’ll go back to London or whether I’ll stay here. I don’t know what to do about my apartment. I don’t really know what to do about anything.”

  “You’ll really have to talk to James,” she told me.

  “Oh, don’t I know it,” I said. Slightly bitterly, I must admit.

  So we discussed my responsibilities for a while. And we hazarded guesses as to what my future was going to be like.

  Then I got a bit distressed talking about that, so I changed the subject and asked Laura who she was currently having sex with. It was much more entertaining talking about that, let me tell you, especially as it turned out that the lucky recipient of Laura’s current sexual favors was a nineteen-year-old art student.

  “Nineteen!” I shrieked, at a decibel level that caused glasses to shatter in the hands of several startled drinkers in a pub about half a mile away.

  “Nineteen! Are you serious?”

  “Yes.” She laughed. “But it’s a disaster really. He never has a penny so all we can afford to do is have sex.”

  “But couldn’t you pay for the two of you to go out?” I asked.

  “I could, I suppose,” she said. “But I’d be too ashamed to bring him anywhere.”

  “Is he always covered in paint?” I asked.

  “He is,” she said. “But it’s not just that. He seems to have only one sweater. And no socks. And the less said about his jocks, the better.”

  “Ugh,” I said. “That sounds awful.”

  “Ah no, it’s not really,” Laura assured me. “He’s crazy about me. He thinks I’m gorgeous. And my ego could do with it.”

  “So do you really just have sex?” I asked, intrigued. “I mean, don’t you talk and that?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Honestly, we have nothing in common. He’s from a different generation. He comes over. We have sex and a bit of a laugh. He tells me I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever met—I’m probably the only woman he’s ever met—and he leaves in the morning—usu-ally taking a pair of my socks with him—asks me for his bus fare and off he goes. It’s great!”

  Gosh, I thought, looking at Laura with frank admiration. “You’re such a nineties woman,” I told her. “You’re so cool.”

  “Not really,” she said. “I’m just keeping the wolf from the door. Any port in a storm, that kind of thing.”

  “So is he your boyfriend?” I asked. “I mean, would you walk down Grafton Street holding his hand?”

  “Lord no!” she said, looking horrified. “What if I met someone I knew?

  No, no, the little angel is purely a temporary measure. Keeping the bed warm until Mr. Right gets here. Although I can’t think what’s taking him so long.”

  Although I was very happy to see Laura, I was very aware that this was actually my first social outing as a single woman in over five years.

  And it was my first social outing without my wedding ring. I felt very vulnerable and naked without it. It was only when I wasn’t wearing it that I realized how secure I felt when I was wearing it. You know, it makes a statement, it says something like “I’m not desperate for a man, because I already have one. No, really, I do. Just look at my wedding ring.”

  Laura had split up with her boyfriend, Frank, about a year or so before.

  So, in spite of Laura’s teenaged lover, we were, to all intents and purposes, two single women sipping wine in a crowded downtown pub on a Thursday night in March.

  I wondered if men could smell desperation from us.

  I wondered if there was desperation to be smelled.

  Was I giving Laura my undivided attention? Or was one part of my attention scanning the crowd for attractive men? Was I keeping tabs on how many men had given me admiring glances since I arrived?

  None, actually, just for the record.

  Not, of course, that I was counting or anything.

  I laughed at something Laura told me. But I couldn’t be sure that I was really laughing. Maybe I just wanted to show the men in the pub that I was perfectly happy and well-adjusted and not feeling like a quarter of a person without a man.

  My God, but I was really starting to feel depressed. I felt as if I was wearing a neon sign over my head that said “Recently Dumped” in flashing pink and purple lights, and then “Worthless Without a Man” in orange and red lights.

  All my confidence in myself had gone.

  Laura noticed that I had started to droop like a dying plant and made routine inquiries. I tearfully tried to tell her how I was feeling.

  “Don’t worry,” she told me kindly. “When Frank left me for the twenty-year-old I felt so ashamed. Like it was all my fault that he had run off. And I felt that I was worth less than nothing without him. But that passes.”

  “Does it?” I asked her, my eyes brimming with tears.

  “Honestly, it does,” she promised me.

  “I feel like such a reject,” I tried to explain to her.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “And you feel like everyone else knows it.”

  “Exactly,” I said, feeling thankful that I wasn’t the only person who’d ever felt like this.

  “All right,” I said, drying my eyes. “Time for more drinks.”

  I fought my way through the happy crowds of people and finally got to the bar. I stood there, being jostled and having elbows stuck in my face and drinks spilled down my back as I tried to attract the bartender’s attention. Just as I was coming to the conclusion that I would have to lift up my dress and show him my boobs before he would notice me, someone put his hands on my waist and squeezed.

  This was all I needed! Someone taking advantage of a single woman of a certain age!

  Outraged, I turned around as quickly as I could in the confined space, ready to apprehend someone for sexual harassment.

  And came face-to-face, as it were, with someone’s chest.

  It was the beautiful Adam.

  Adam, who might or might not be Helen’s boyfriend.

  The jury was still out.

  “Hello.” He smiled charmingly. “I saw you from the other side of the bar. Do you need a hand?”

  “Oh hello,” I said, maintaining my composure but feeling delighted to meet him. What a stroke of luck that Laura chose this pub, I thought. “Am I damn glad to see you?” I said. “I haven’t even placed my order yet. The bartender hates me.”

  He laughed.

  And I laughed. I had completely forgotten that we were supposed to be feeling awkward with each other after the little scene in my bedroom where he practically suggested that we make babies.

  Adam said, “I’ll order the drinks for you.”

  I gave him the money and told him to get two glasses of red wine and whatever he was having. I took pride in remembering where I came from—I too was once a penniless student. I remembered watchi
ng people practically lighting their cigarettes with fivers and wishing enviously that they would buy me a pint of Carlsberg, just one pint.

  Adam squashed into the bar. My check was practically resting on his chest. I could faintly smell him. Soap. He smelled so fresh and clean.

  I wryly told myself to get a grip on myself. I was starting to behave like Blanche Du Bois. Or the mad old alcoholic from Sunset Boulevard, whatever her name is. Or any of the myriad old hags featured in any story about Beverly Hills, face-lifted to within an inch of their lives, consumed with lust for much younger men. Sad and pathetic. And I didn’t want to be like that.

  Naturally, in no time at all Adam had got the drinks. Bartenders treat guys like him with respect. They have no time at all for women like me.

  Especially ones whose husbands have run off on them.

  Like every other man in the universe, the bartender obviously knew I was a loser.

  Adam handed me the two glasses of wine and then he said, “Here’s your change.”

  “Oh, I’ve no free hands,” I said, indicating the two glasses of wine.

  “No problem,” he said, and slid his hand into a pocket on the side of the dress I was wearing. Just for a second his hand rested on my hipbone. I could feel the heat of it through the fabric of the dress.

  I held my breath.

  I think he did too. Then he let go of the money and it jangled into my pocket.

  What did you expect me to do? Slap him for taking liberties? I mean, the boy had to give me my change and I had no free hands. He did exactly the right thing.

  Although I did think that people that attractive should carry permits.

  They should have to take some kind of exam to prove that they can be trusted to behave responsibly out on the streets looking so gorgeous. And it wasn’t just that he was so handsome. Which he undeniably was. But he was so big and manly.

  He made me feel like such a feminine little woman.

  It was the large nightgown syndrome all over again.