by Sophie White
Shelly hung up and went out to Sean, who smiled kindly and, without a word, brought her back to her empty room, Dan’s belongings gone. She collapsed on the bed and cried hopelessly. She felt ransacked by the events of the evening. She turned off the lights and, in the dark, scrolled through the likes and comments on her bump post. The squeals of ‘congrats’ and ‘suits you’ and ‘you look beautiful’ soothed her like a morphine drip until she eventually fell asleep.
15
‘So what are you? Some kind of pregnancy enthusiast?’ Ali was watching Tinder Sam giddily inputting her details to his app, iBump, as they strolled away from Grogan’s. It was after 11 p.m. and they’d been chatting for hours.
‘Yep, I trawl Mumsnet like most guys do Pornhub,’ Sam deadpanned. ‘What? Is it really so hard to believe that I’m excited about my baby? Right, what else do we need to put in here?’ He squinted at the app. ‘We have your due date, obviously … what are the chances, like?’ He smiled up at her.
‘Yeah …’ Ali wasn’t so sure about his delight in the fact that their hypothetical baby was due on 9/11 – if anything it seemed to spell disaster. ‘D’you not think that’s, like, a negative? Maybe we should just move it by one day. No one’ll realise.’
‘But it was a huge moment in history, Ali.’ Tinder Sam was apparently stunned that she wasn’t considering it some kind of serendipitous timing.
Was he some creepy type who admired terrorists for their, like, tenacity? Or argued in pubs about how the Third Reich’s infrastructure had been pretty solid if you just discounted all the genocide?
‘It was an unimaginable tragedy,’ he continued, ‘but the heroism of everyday people and the way the city pulled together and all those people calling their loved ones from the planes.’
‘Riiight.’ Ali flashed back to the Love Actually poster. Evidently he was a pathological emoter. He looked like he was blinking away tears.
‘Anyway, I’m not an enthusiast about random pregnancies … just this one!’ Then to Ali’s horror, he went in for a belly kiss.
She intercepted his bump assault, literally pushing his face away with her hand. Jesus, she was tempted to get pregnant just to get out of the awkwardness of this situation. ‘Eh, it’s very sensitive,’ she lied.
‘Are you getting stretching pains? Cramps? Has there been any discharge?’ Tinder Sam’s concern was sweet if a little gross. He seemed unaware that half of South William Street had just heard him question her about her discharge – a woman sitting outside the painfully hip cocktail place they were passing looked close to throwing up.
‘Shhh.’ Ali was giggling in spite of herself.
‘What? Discharge?’
Ali, laughing, cocked her head at the disgusted woman clutching her martini.
Tinder Sam rounded on the smoking pen of the bar and spoke directly to the woman. He was a good head taller than the glass that surrounded her and the twenty or so other cocktail swillers, vaping and scrolling on their phones. Ali didn’t reach the top of the partition and shrank even lower. Oh god, what was coming?
‘Are you shaming my girlfriend for her vaginal discharge?’
‘Oh Jesus,’ muttered Ali, trying not to laugh and praying there were no Insta-mavens among the group.
As one, the assembled vapers took on the look of studied avoidance adopted by all humans when confronted with erratic behaviour of any description.
‘Discharge is a perfectly normal function of a healthy vagina. We’ve just been conditioned by porn culture to expect vaginas to be groomed like some thoroughbred pet. Well, no more, I say. She is growing life inside her!’ He pointed at Ali, who waved helplessly and pulled him away.
‘OK, OK, you can drop the woke-man act,’ Ali scolded.
‘Their faces, though!’ Tinder Sam looked delighted with himself.
‘Yeah, yeah, you’re great. Vaginas everywhere are applauding you for defending their right to discharge.’
‘What does an applauding vagina sound like?’ he asked, completely straight-faced.
Ali started to laugh and then was struck by a thought both pleasing and unnerving. She was enjoying herself. Like, really enjoying herself. She was having as much fun as if she was out pissing about with Liv – her barometer for all people, not only dates. Before Ali could delve further into the murky territory of whether or not she even could, never mind should, enjoy herself with Tinder Sam, a person she was lying to on a scale even she found troubling, he grabbed her hand and pulled her close. That smell. It was intoxicating, intoxicating enough to make her forget about Love Actually and the fake foetus and his abundance of feelings regarding 9/11. Tinder Sam leaned in and brushed her lips with his and then buried his face in her neck, breathing deeply.
‘Fuck! You smell so good,’ he whispered in her ear, sending shivers (literally shivers, like in a Danielle Steel novel) down her spine. Ali allowed herself to sink into his kiss. It was all getting out of control, she thought vaguely as a not-altogether-unpleasant feeling of vertigo swooshed through her.
‘What’s the deal with sexing a pregnant person?’ he whispered.
Ali smiled, trying not to flinch at the P-word. ‘What does your app say?’
Tinder Sam took out the phone, his cute little brow furrowed as he scrolled. He surfaced and said with a solemn look on his face, ‘Pregnant women require regular vaginal servicing of a sexual nature.’
‘Fucking ewww,’ Ali squealed, batting him away.
‘I’m sorry, Ali, it’s the rules.’ He advanced on her. ‘To promote healthy discharge.’
‘No. More. Discharge,’ Ali shouted, startling several people in the vicinity and giving herself and Tinder Sam a fit of giggles that lasted all the way up to Stephen’s Green.
They got a taxi and without any debate headed towards Rathmines and Tinder Sam’s basement. Ali was hyper alert to the proximity of Sam – maybe it was time to drop the Tinder prefix? – and the anticipation and anxiety were mingling to produce a heady atmosphere in the back seat. Was he even aware of it? She stole a look. He was staring straight ahead, apparently lost in his own world. It was weird to think of herself as a character in someone else’s life. What did Sam know about her? She was Ali: she took pictures of her food, had wavy, dirty blonde hair and brown eyes? Lived with her friend Liv. Had, at least as far as he knew, a little blueberry-sized amalgam of their two bodies growing inside her. How could he be so fine with all that?
‘Are you going to stare at me all the way there?’ He was still looking dead ahead but a half-smile played around his lips.
‘Calm down, I’m not staring at you. You’ve just got stuff on your face,’ Ali retorted and turned to look out the window.
They were crossing the canal, the city lights reflected in the dark water. It was so nice to really take it all in, Ali thought. Usually she was hunched over her phone looking at someone else’s pic of the canal with the night sky above and enhanced by a filter. Her thought was interrupted by Sam taking her hand and, to her total shock and considerable alarm, she felt sudden tears gather. How long since she’d held someone’s hand like this? Or at all. She held the cool, dry hands of her father, which was indescribably hard to do for some reason, like holding something unbearably hot. It took a lot out of her to hold Miles’s hands, which is why she most often sat by him holding her phone instead.
I am lonely.
The thought disturbed Ali. So she soothed herself, turning her focus to thoughts of her growing following, and marvelled at how nice it was to hold Sam’s hand. It’d make for a great post, though asking for a hand-holding pic would be the fastest way to break the moment.
‘Come on … why’re you not staring at me anymore?’ Sam was faux whining. ‘Tell me I’m pretteee!’
Ali grinned. ‘That’s the last thing you need.’
They pulled up outside the battered Georgian house. It looked completely different now, bathed in the First Proper Date Filter. Tinder Filter had left Ali with a distinctly grotty impression which she was now
reframing as bohemian.
Once through the door, they attempted the kind of passionate, on-the-move fumble always shown on TV, which naturally ended in a painful collision with the hall table, and neither of them undressed in any significant way.
Ali looked at Sam’s black skinny jeans wedged halfway down his legs and laughed. ‘We’ll need to surgically remove those, I’d say, c’mon.’ She led the way, pulling off her jumper en route to the Love Actually shrine that doubled as Sam’s bedroom. Sam kicked off his trainers and shuffle-hopped after her, cupping his junk.
She flopped onto the bed to enjoy the spectacle of him trying to get free of the jeans – he is so cute, she thought. At last, he kicked them clear and raised his arms in triumph. ‘The boner is unleashed!’ he roared.
‘Well done, it’s a very nice boner.’ Ali grinned.
Sam pulled off his faded T-shirt and came towards her, gathering her into his arms and kissing her neck. He pulled off her top and her breath caught as he started licking her nipples through the lace of her bra. He’s just so good at this, she thought as he parted her legs and started to push into her. Ali moaned but suddenly Sam stopped.
‘Maybe you should keep it down,’ he whispered.
‘Eh, I’m not even being that loud.’ Ali was testy. ‘Besides I was just trying to be encouraging for you,’ she added.
Sam laughed. ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Then his grin disappeared and he turned serious again. ‘Look, it’s not the neighbours or anything – it’s … eh …’ He cocked his head down towards her stomach.
‘Oh for god’s sake, sex is fine with a baby in you, have you literally never watched a movie? The guy always says this and it’s fiiine. C’mon, do the thing you were doing.’ She leaned up to nuzzle his ear.
He began to move into her once more then paused again.
‘I know the geography is all fine, I know the baby isn’t being tortured by some creepy game of whack-a-mole with my dick, but they can hear in there and research says development starts very early.’
‘Sam! Please shut up.’ Ali wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. ‘Okay we can google it after, let’s just be quiet, if we can.’ He kissed her back.
As Sam got tea on – she wished she could suggest some wine – Ali looked at the pictures on his living-room shelves and texted Liv.
Gonna stay with Tinder Sam, see you tomoro X.
The pics were of little Sam pretty much at all times surrounded by women of various ages but all united by a familial thread of similarity. Liv replied in textbook Liv-fashion.
O-kaaay. Seems weird. Bye.
Sam appeared bearing mugs and with chocolate digestives under his arm.
‘Is this your harem of bitches then or what?’ Ali indicated the pictures.
‘Ha. Yuck. No. I have a lot of sisters. And aunts.’
‘And mothers?’
Sam placed the tea on a low table made – student-cliché style – from some bricks and a pallet.
‘Ah no, Mum died when I was small.’
‘Oh fuck. I’m sorry for bringing it up. Shite.’
Sam laughed. ‘No, don’t be, I love talking about her. I was seven when she died so I remember her, but I think talking about her really helps that. We talk about her all the time – my sisters, my aunts. My dad, before you ask,’ he added with a smirk, ‘was never really around. I think I was two when he left. He actually lives in Dublin but we don’t see each other. Or, well, we do in that really awkward Dublin way. It’s not a good town to not see people. I saw him once in the queue for a gig but I’m not even sure he recognised me. But anyway, yeah, Mum – that’s her in the middle one holding me – she was brilliant. She was a nurse, loved singing, was always bawling me out of it for shit I’d do! Fucking scary when she wanted to be. She actually got a clot in her brain and that was that – she was in work but she died within minutes and they couldn’t save her, the fucking irony!’
Ali sat down across from Sam. ‘I am so sorry that happened to you.’
‘Yeah …’ Sam gazed at the biscuits sadly before coyly venturing, ‘How sorry?’
Ali’s eyes narrowed.
‘Like, would you say you’re give-Sam-a-blow-job sorry for me? Or just dry-hump sorry?’
‘Chancer.’ Ali laughed. ‘And might I add: creep. Dead-mother-card-playing sicko.’
Sam naturally looked thrilled with himself. Then added solemnly, ‘It’s what she would’ve wanted.’
Ali threw a sofa pillow at him in response. ‘What are we watching so?’
Sam chucked the remote over to her. ‘It’s such a weird one, isn’t it? The what-they-would’ve-wanted thing. Like, surely what they would’ve wanted would be not to be dead. And if that was out of the question, as it appears to be given our current biological limitations, then what they certainly wouldn’t have wanted would be people carrying out meaningless traditions, like burials and funerals, in their name. I swear I heard someone say, “Get the antipasti platter – it’s what she would’ve wanted” before my mum’s funeral, and I was like, “Joan, you just want the antipasti platter. If you’ve got some kind of cured meat agenda here just be upfront about it and stop using my dead mother to procure your precious cold meats.”’
Ali laughed and felt an unfamiliar urge to share something of her own experience. ‘Yeah! I suppose I know what you mean. My dad’s not well – he lives in a home – and whenever I go to visit him the nurses are always on about, “Oh, he’s having a great day today,” and I just want to say, “Really, Sheila? This is what you consider having a good day?” Like, how far do your standards have to plummet before you believe that lying in an adult nappy on an inflatable mattress to prevent bed-sores constitutes a good day?’ Ali laughed nervously. ‘Sorry, I never talk about this stuff. I never feel like people will understand. And sometimes it is just kind of funny, in a completely hopeless way.’
Sam smiled. He looked understanding but there was no sign of the dreaded head tilt. ‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘He was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s when I was younger and now, well, it’s probably easier to just go through what’s right with him. He’s breathing – that’s pretty much it,’ Ali finished flatly.
Sam went over and gathered Ali in his arms. Pressed against Sam’s soft T-shirt, she allowed herself a few silent tears.
‘Fuck you, Sheila, you stupid bitch!’ announced Sam. Ali laughed in his arms but he didn’t let go all at once. ‘What’ll we watch?’ he asked.
‘Ehm …’ Ali sat up, smoothing her hair and surreptitiously wiping her face. ‘I like really hideous true-crime shows.’
‘OK, perfect, we’re watching Frenemies: Loyalty Turned Lethal. You’ll love it.’
Ali was impressed that Sam didn’t even need to check Netflix for this totally spot-on suggestion. He was full of intriguing surprises.
16
‘Don’t worry, the dust has settled and none of my eyes and ears have mentioned anything.’ Amy was trying to get the perfect candid of Shelly contemplating a cup of coffee, ‘Shelly Blend’ by Coffee Culture, but Shelly hadn’t stopped fretting for the two weeks since the Dan meltdown in Ballinahagh House. She was convinced at any moment that Deborah Winters, the social diarist at Notions.ie, would twig some hint of the story on the wind and do a devastating exposé.
‘The hotel definitely rounded up everyone who was there, right?’ Shelly clutched her cup of vile instant coffee and struggled to look anything other than how she felt, which was queasy and anxious, amid the plush perfection of her living room. She sat in the centre of a sprawling cream-velvet couch artfully strewn with throw pillows of various shades of beige and silver.
The throw pillows were hilariously impractical; several were made of some type of high-end chainmail, while others were satin and difficult to sit on without sliding off. The tall windows, flanked by beige satin curtains, looked out on the garden, where Georgie was being read to by Marni. Lately, in an unfortunate case of toddler mispronunciation (or so Shelly hoped), Georgie was ca
lling Marni ‘Mammy’. We must make sure the next au pair’s name doesn’t bear any resemblance to ‘mammy’, ‘mum’ or ‘mummy’, thought Shelly. Then, noticing Amy hadn’t answered her question about the hotel, she added impatiently, ‘Well?’
Amy aimed the camera. ‘What? No! No one knows. Do your laughing-to-yourself-looking-down-and-slightly-to-the-right thing.’ She snapped about thirty versions of that pose. Shelly knew she was not making it easy for Amy today – she’d have some amount of work to do in post on Shelly’s under-eye bags alone.
‘That’s not what I asked,’ Shelly said in an imploring voice. ‘I said did the hotel definitely get hold of everyone who was there? To explain the importance of discretion?’
‘OK, let’s try holding the cup with both hands and looking up to the left and laughing at something funny someone over here has said.’ Amy waved in the direction of a corner of the room empty but for a large built-in TV cabinet. ‘Yep, we tracked down everyone.’
Shelly obliged with the fake-laughing but still felt troubled. ‘Even that Kelly girl? I saw her with her phone out.’
‘Yep.’ Amy was adamant, though Shelly detected a little uneasiness. However, Amy was already on to directing the next shot. ‘OK, last pose, cup the coffee and close your eyes like you’re really savouring it.’
Shelly obeyed and immediately wrinkled her nose. ‘Ugh, it’s foul.’
‘Caption-wise, I think we’ll go with something more along the lines of “that moment in the morning when I can enjoy some quiet contemplation and feel huge gratitude for being given the opportunity to design this incredible blend #ShellybyCoffeeCulture”.’ Amy smirked.
‘Oh god, seriously, I’m gonna be sick. Again.’ Shelly sprang from the couch and barely made it to the end table. Cutting her losses, she aimed for a vase of fake flowers. With Georgie she’d been sick for the first twelve weeks. Nine weeks down, three to go. At least none got on the carpet. Marni could clean up the flowers. That’s what you get for being Georgie’s new ‘mammy’, Shelly thought darkly.