by Sharon Owens
Richard suddenly lost both his composure and his sex drive. If they went into the bedroom, she might fall asleep afterwards and end up spending the night. Besides, the new fur throw on his platform bed had cost him a fortune and he didn't want it ruined, the way his white rug had been destroyed with red wine. Betsy could be very childish sometimes, tossing wine around with abandon. And he didn't like the way she kept saying how nice his apartment was. Betsy Bradley had parasitic tendencies and that was a fact. If she lost the house in the divorce, she might want to live with Richard. He turned her face towards his own.
‘Betsy, let's get this straight. We're not a couple. You do realize that?’
‘What do you mean, not a couple? We're lovers, aren't we? I know it isn't serious yet.’
‘Lovers, yes. But that's all. I'm not ready to settle down.’
‘You're forty-one, Richard. Get real! Unless you've discovered the secret of eternal life, I'd say you were cutting it a bit fine to be settling down at all.’
‘Forty-one is no age.’
‘You're old enough to be a grandfather.’
‘What are you talking about? I am not!’
‘You are too. Where I come from, if you're not a grandfather by your fortieth birthday, people assume you're a gay-boy.’
‘Don't talk rubbish. You're only as old as you feel, in this world.’
‘Oh, men! Such egos, you have!’
‘Look, Betsy, I'm just being honest with you.’
‘That's what Liam said the day he left me. He called me a tramp.’
‘Yeah?’ Richard was shocked, and secretly impressed, by Liam's rather direct approach with Betsy. He thought he might go out and buy Liam's first book.
‘He said I showed him up at dinner parties. He wanted me to tell poems over the roast beef, or something.’ She rearranged her skirt and wiped some lipstick off her face with the back of her hand. Richard felt sick. Poor old Betsy: talk about rough! She was beyond hope. He really shouldn't go slumming like this any more. What would happen if one of his friends spied them out together?
‘Recite poetry,’ he corrected. ‘You recite poetry. You don't tell poems.’
‘Shut your cakehole! You flog houses for a living so don't lecture me. Can you recite a poem? Can you? Go on, then, I'm waiting.’
A horrible silence descended. The affair, which had ticked over quite happily for several years, suddenly lay down and died on the glossy floorboards.
‘I never claimed to be Samuel Beckett.’ Richard sighed. You could take the woman out of the ghetto, he thought, but you couldn't take the ghetto out of the woman. He looked intently at his watch.
‘Forget it,’ she snapped. ‘I know when I've been humped and dumped. I know when I'm not wanted.’
‘Come on, Betsy. You know it was just ships passing in the night. You know the two of us were never going to have a white wedding.’
‘Yeah. But I thought you liked me a little bit more than this. I thought it was about more than just sex. Where did it go wrong, Rich? Don't you care about me at all? Talk to me, honey.’
‘Don't you have female friends for all that talking stuff?’
‘No. I'm quite lonely, to tell you the truth.’
‘Maybe you need to get out more? Get a job of some description?’
‘Maybe I will, Richard. Thanks for the advice,’ she said bitterly. So much for being a kept woman, she thought. Nowadays you had to be slim, attractive, on the pill, sexually experimental and independently wealthy for a decent man to want to sleep with you. And even then, it was nearly impossible to get your hooks into a bloke. She had done things with Liam in the past that made her feel quite sordid, and now it was all for nothing. He didn't want her. And Richard didn't want her.
‘We can still be friends?’ Richard persisted. He must remember to change his phone number, he told himself silently.
‘Yeah, right. I'll come and visit you, shall I? Every other Monday night, maybe? We can play Scrabble and Monopoly. Huh!’ Betsy Bradley wasn't as stupid as she looked. She stood up and retrieved her pink knickers from the floor. Burning with shame, she walked across the open-plan apartment, her high heels skidding on the smooth surface.
Richard resolved to call Sarah Jones as soon as Betsy was out of the door. Sarah, with her lovely lilting Fermanagh accent, was a classy sort of girl. She wouldn't be seen dead in a pink lace thong and red glittery shoes. Sarah wore a pinstripe suit and black zipped boots with pointy toes, and she carried a designer briefcase. Her hair was wonderfully, naturally dark. Richard decided his penchant for bottle-blondes was truly over. As Betsy shoved her knickers into her handbag and prepared to leave the building with a backside bare to the world, he promised himself he would never date a girl like her again.
‘Goodbye, Richard,’ she said, putting on her coat and hat. ‘Don't bother to call me.’
‘Okay.’ He tried his best to look sorry, winking sadly at her.
Betsy paused at the door, sniffing softly. Richard thought she was trying to make him feel pity for her. He walked in the opposite direction, over to the French windows, and opened them wide. He stood on the balcony, breathing in the cold, fresh air. With her hand on the doorknob, she turned back to look at him for the last time.
‘Goodbye,’ she said again.
‘I'm sorry, Betsy,’ he replied. ‘There was nothing special between us. I'm only being honest with you. Would you prefer it, if I told you lies?’
‘Yes, actually,’ she said. ‘I would.’
Back in Marlborough Avenue, Betsy let herself in through the heavy front door and sat down on the bottom stair. There was a kind of peace, she realized, that came over a person when their whole life just upped and fell apart. Trying to hang her dreams of fame and fortune onto Liam Bradley's writing career had been very tiring these last ten years. She had put so much effort into massaging his fragile ego that she had lost sight of her own personality. And the ungrateful brute had dumped her like a half-eaten cheeseburger anyway. Richard Allen's rejection was merely the last straw. Now she was free. Her life was a clean sheet, a blank page. She must pull herself together and keep moving forward. And she decided that her bottle-blonde-and-breast-implant persona had been a complete failure too. Somehow, men saw her as less than human, these days. She was just a sexual target for them. The fake boobs weren't bringing her much happiness anyway. She must book the operation to have them taken out before Liam stopped the joint account at the bank. Sighing, she pulled herself up to a standing position, and went to look at herself in the hall mirror. Her eye make-up had gathered in dark smudges on her eyelids. Her face was dull and vacant-looking.
‘Come on, girl,’ she told her reflection. ‘You can do better than this.’
13. Liam's Choice
Sunday, 19 December
The days had flown by since Liam had left Betsy. He and Perry Shaw sat in the coffee lounge of the Europa Hotel, half hidden behind three potted palms and a grand piano. The meeting was not going well. Liam was feeling trapped and very agitated. He was weak with the want of sleep. Perry was just feeling weary. He'd flown over from London that morning and he was tired and he had a twinge of pain in his back from the cramped airline seat. The two men poured tea, and buttered scones, delaying the moment of conflict. Eventually, Perry coughed gently, and began.
‘Now, Liam, why make this difficult on yourself? I've told you, more than once, that we're almost ready to sign the contract. Several contracts, to be precise. And you've written the book the way we agreed, haven't you? The first draft anyway?’
‘Yes, I have. It's far too short as it stands. It'll have to be lengthened. But it just doesn't feel right.’
‘I appreciate that, and I did try it your way but no one wants the new, improved Slinger. Not even for a smaller advance. So we're both agreed?’
‘I know it's a good deal, Perry, and I'm very grateful. God knows I need the money.’
‘But?’
‘You see, I never thought I'd say these words but I c
are about my work. I care about the influence it might have on the average reader. I don't want impressionable young lads to think that Slinger's behaviour is normal, admirable, or even acceptable.’
‘Liam, you've got to stop thinking this is a big morality issue. You're having a mid-life crisis, that's all.’
‘What do you mean, mid-life crisis? I'm only forty.’ Liam took off his sunglasses, polished them with a paper napkin and put them on again.
‘Right, okay. Ignore that last comment. I'm not saying you're middle-aged, simply getting to that stage in your life where it's natural to reflect, and question your values and beliefs. That's normal when you turn forty. You're tired and emotional too, Liam. You've been working very hard.’
‘I want to be proud of this book, Perry. Even though I still don't like the title.’
‘Now, don't even go there, Liam. The publishers love the title. That used to be the catchphrase of Basil Brush, you know?’
‘Wasn't he a hand-puppet?’
‘A hand-puppet, yes. But he was an institution, Liam. A star. That's what he was.’
‘My novel has a hand-puppet's catchphrase for a title.’
‘It's hilarious, I'm telling you. And because it's a gas explosion, it's not even Slinger's fault the whole street is wrecked at the end. Now, doesn't that make you happy?’
‘I suppose so. But he's such a loser.’
‘No, he isn't. He's a hero! The publishers loved the first few chapters, Liam. They just loved it. And there's interest from two major TV companies. That means we're going to get our second series!’
‘But Slinger ends up alone again.’
‘Yes, but not by choice. The landlady's husband is blinded in the explosion, so she stays with him out of a sense of duty, and Slinger's heart is broken for ever. So he's not a loser. He's heartbroken. And the nod to Jane Eyre is great.’
‘What?’
‘Her great love was blinded too. Never mind.’
‘I still think the husband should have croaked it.’
‘No, he had to survive. I mean, the pub is blown to bits so your woman has enough to worry about.’
‘But Slinger's childless and alone, Perry. He should have fathered a child, at least.’
‘He's solving crimes. He's cleaning up the streets.’
‘Oh, who cares? I'm fed up with Slinger Magee and he's my creation. I'm just not happy with the whole thing.’ Liam ran his fingers through his hair and winced at the thought of all the interviews he would have to endure. Would he have the energy to tell all those lies? To attend all those launches?
Perry yawned, and rubbed his eyes. ‘Right, Liam. Listen to me. I'll give it to you straight. I'm tired and I need to sort out this year's accounts. Are you going to sell the book the way the publisher wants it? Or are you not? Because I can't afford to waste several weeks negotiating deals for a book that won't be delivered. I need a positive answer in the next five minutes, Liam. If you can't give me one, our working relationship is hereby terminated.’
‘Are you threatening me, Perry? I thought we were friends.’
‘We are friends, Liam. I'm telling you the truth. Nobody will buy the book if Slinger goes soft and gets married. Or anything soppy like that.’
‘Well, then maybe we should forget about it?’
‘Suit yourself. Where's that waiter? I need a drink.’
‘Perry, are you all right? You don't look too hot.’
‘I'm okay.’
‘Really?’
‘No. I'm not okay. My son called me today. He won't be home for Christmas. They're moving to another base and he can't tell me where, and I can't communicate with him for the next three weeks.’
‘Jesus, Perry. Why didn't you say?’
‘Because I don't want to talk about it, or even think about the danger he's in until he's back home again.’
‘Yeah, right, I can see where you're coming from. Is he okay, Perry? Is he coping all right out there?’
‘I don't know. He wouldn't tell me if he wasn't coping. What could I do about it? He knows I'd only worry myself sick. My wife is having trouble sleeping. She's up half the night, wandering the house, blaming herself for letting him join the army when he was seventeen. It was what he wanted but we should have tried harder to talk him out of it.’
‘Oh, rough luck. I'm sorry, mate.’
‘I thought he would be home by now. I just want to drive out there and pick him up in the car, the way I used to collect him from primary school.’
‘Perry, I had no idea you were feeling this way.’
‘You're lucky you have no children, Liam. I'll tell you that. There's no pain on earth like the pain of not being able to save your own child from danger. So you see, Liam, your book deal means nothing to me at this moment. I'm only here to advise you on your career.’
‘Of course. I understand totally. Why did you fly over here today? You could have phoned.’
‘I wanted to keep busy. If I take time off work and just sit about the house, I'll go mad.’ Perry went to the Gents to splash some cold water on his face, ordering a drink on the way. Liam sat alone by the palm trees and knew what he had to do. Compared to poor Perry, his own troubles were slight.
‘I'll keep the book the way you want,’ he said, when his agent came back to the table.
‘It doesn't matter to me, Liam. My percentage would have made me a lot more comfortable in my retirement. But I'll survive without you. I have twenty other authors, you know?’ The gin and tonics arrived and they both looked out of the window while the waiter tidied up the table and gave them fresh coasters.
‘Perry, please. Tell them I'll have a completed draft ready by Christmas. A couple of scenes need a boost, near the end.’
‘Liam, honestly, I don't mind. Do it your own way and find another agent.’
‘Please, I mean it, Perry. If you can't sell my book with a romantic ending, nobody can. If you think Slinger Magee should end up comatose on the floor of a back-street bar, then so be it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘No going back?’
‘No.’
‘Promise me?’
‘Yes. Promise. I won't change my mind.’
‘Cheers, then, Limo. I mean Liam. Here's to Boom, Boom.’
‘Cheers, Perry.’
14. Flu
Monday, 20 December
Lily woke up at seven, gasping for a drink of water. Her head was pounding, her throat was on fire and she had heavy dull pains in both legs. Even her eyes felt hot and uncomfortable. At first, she thought she had a severe hangover but then she realized that she hadn't drunk much alcohol in months. There was only one possible explanation for how she was feeling, she thought with a sinking sensation. She had caught the dreaded flu. There was an epidemic of it in Belfast, they said on the news.
‘Jack,’ she whispered. ‘Are you awake?’ And she erupted into a fit of ticklish coughing that made her eyes run, and a hateful hot flush spread over her pretty, pale face.
‘Yes, I'm awake,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘But I'm going to go back to sleep for half an hour and so should you. Then we'll wake up again and hopefully this flu we've got will be only a bad dream.’
‘Oh, no. You too? I feel awful, like my blood has been siphoned off and replaced with hot water. Are you dizzy? I'm dizzy. Oh, for heaven's sake! This week, of all weeks! There's a party every night from now till January the sixth.’
‘Except Christmas night.’
‘Yes, three points for observation, Jack. I was planning to sleep all through that day.’
‘I hope it's only a three-day thing, and not the dreaded three-week job I've heard about. Harry Frew's been out of action for a month, he told me on the phone yesterday. He's almost lost the use of his legs, he said, he's been in bed that long.’
‘Don't even joke about it. The first party is tonight.’ Lily groaned. ‘Well, this is a judgement on me for thinking I could change the world. I might have known every
thing would collapse in chaos.’ She coughed again and reached for a tissue to blow her nose. ‘It's too late to cancel. We'll just have to keep going, on our hands and knees if need be. I might be found dead of pneumonia behind that bar but I'm not giving up.’
‘Calm down, pet. I'll fetch you a hot lemon drink. We'll use the power of mind over matter. I read about it in the newspaper: people who think positively usually get better a lot sooner than complainers do.’ He gingerly sat on the edge of the bed and placed his feet onto the carpet. Immediately his vision began to deteriorate. ‘Woah! Black spots, I have, dancing in front of my eyes. Aw, Lily, this is a bad flu all right.’
‘Don't move, pet. I'll get up. Black spots in front of my eyes is about the one symptom I haven't got. You lie down and have another hour's rest. I'll see if any of the girls are awake. Maybe they can make a start on the party preparations? That's what they're here for, after all.’
‘You're right. I'd almost forgotten they were supposed to be working here.’ He flopped back onto the pillows and groaned as his headache deepened. Lily padded downstairs in her cosy robe and slippers, and was amazed to see the four girls sitting up in bed watching breakfast TV and munching thick slices of toast and jam. The heady aroma of freshly ground coffee filled the room even though the window was open to let in fresh air. The room was surprisingly tidy despite housing four young women. Lily sensed Trudy's hand, in the neat stacks of possessions in every corner and in the freshly folded pile of clean laundry on the sofa.
‘Mrs B! Good morning! You look a bit ropy. Are you sick?' Daisy asked from the top bunk.
‘Oh, girls, don't come near me. You might catch something. I feel terrible.’
‘Is it flu?’ said Daisy. ‘There's a bad flu going round the Art College.’
‘Yes, I'm afraid it might be flu. Jack has it too.’
‘You wore yourself out with the decorating,’ said Bridget wisely. ‘Painting walls is a lot more physically draining than it looks.’
‘How would you know?’ muttered Daisy. ‘All you did was dust the bottles.’