‘That’s bullshit. I’m not playing games with you Oisín. You should be glad I’m not playing. It’s too early in the morning for that stuff. You’re annoying me.’
That expression didn’t seem to suit her. Bullshit was a word that other girls used, Dublin girls. He imagined her saying that in a group of students, all with the same peroxide hair, the same skinny jeans and boots. He would pass the group and think she was just another Dublin girl. Is that what she seemed like to everyone else? Another girl. Is that what she was? Was this all a mistake, this assumption he had made, that Helen was somehow better than any other girl?
Outside the little world of Helen-with-Oisín and Oisín-with-Helen, they didn’t really know each other at all. The version of his childhood that he had given to Helen was true, but it was not the same as the equally true versions that his family had, that the lads had. The events he told her about – that time he fell off his bike, that girl he had kissed when he was eleven – the events that seemed significant when he was with Helen, meant nothing when she wasn’t there.
Other events took on a different meaning in her presence. The way he had lost his virginity at thirteen, at the back of a nightclub to an older girl he had met that night, who had an older boyfriend who might beat him up, seemed sordid and pathetic when he was describing it to Helen, like something he needed to be rescued from. With the lads it was a funny story, a heroic story, even. He, the youngest, was the first to do it. The guy, the boyfriend, worked in the pharmacy, and sometimes he went in and bought johnnies off him. The lads would wait outside and watch.
He was only Oisín-with-Helen when he was with Helen. They did not go to parties together or know each other’s friends. What, for example, would Helen think of the lads? What would she think of Petra? And what would he think of her friends? Who were her friends?
There was Cassandra, an old school mate who was with her the night of the gig. She was in some of his classes. Once Helen had said: ‘I wish I was tall like Cassandra. Isn’t Cassandra beautiful? Sometimes I don’t even hear what she’s saying when she speaks, I just look at her face moving. She’s addictive to look at, like a kaleidoscope. Her face keeps changing as she speaks, even her eye colour changes.’ He had nodded, but actually he didn’t find that girl attractive at all. There was no mystery about her body, no sense of anything sacred, anything to be discovered. There would be no point in sleeping with her, nothing would be revealed, nothing conquered. It wasn’t even like a normal unattractive girl, like Sharon, where he couldn’t picture her boobs, where curiosity spurred him on, where there was at least a sense of revelation, achievement. With that Cassandra girl you knew exactly what her breasts were like, she practically told you. The way she talked in his ‘Genre and Gender’ class about the female body, as though it were over-priced merchandise, as though she knew the value of her own pussy and tits and they were only for fools. He could imagine her laughing at a man’s erection, laughing and saying, ‘What? For these lumps of fat?’ holding her perfect breasts roughly, one in each hand, like two pieces from a box full of hundreds of the same fruit.
She reminded Oisín of one of their neighbours at home, a fat woman who had eight children. She would leave them all in the house and pop in to Oisín’s mam with biscuits or a stale cake. She had been beautiful in her youth and now she put no value on beauty any more. She had let herself go, she had surrendered any notions of her body as sacred. She belched and scratched and made jokes about her weight and about how long it had been since her husband had given her a good time. That sort of thing made Oisín’s mother uncomfortable. His mother didn’t talk like that. Her body was always strapped in, covered. She had had an operation in Dublin last year which she never explained and they don’t talk about, but Oisín saw her bra once by accident. He thought it was his laundry that was in the machine, but it was hers. One cup was padded all the way through.
His mother gave the impression of having nothing under her clothes, of having more clothes and cotton wool and clean bandages and face creams. His mother was not one of those women who forgot to flush the toilet.
That was something he didn’t like; girls who forgot to flush the toilet, or girls who let you hear them piss. He had told Helen that he didn’t like to hear her piss and now she flushed the toilet loudly at the same time, the same way that he did. He didn’t think he’d be able to piss with her in the flat unless he was running the tap or flushing the toilet at the same time.
He had been angry with Helen last week. She hadn’t wanted to make love all day and afterwards he knew why. He went into the toilet and the bowl was streaked with shocking red, a little disc of heavy blood settled at the bottom. He had planned on leaving the blood there, marching her back to his flat, standing beside the toilet bowl pointing and saying: ‘What’s this? What’s this Helen?’ forcing her to feel the shame that she should have felt for herself. He couldn’t bear to leave the flat without flushing it though. He was cold with her for a few days after that. She thought it was because they weren’t having sex and made numerous blow-job offers, which he accepted without gratitude. He wanted her to ask him what was wrong so that he could tell her and watch her face cringe. How could she have forgotten something so obvious? She wouldn’t let him touch her when she had her period, not even her bum, but she could forget to flush all that bright blood down the toilet?
He was glad this sense of peace was restored between them now. They were walking side by side without speaking. Sometimes these were the best times. Her heels clicked, her ankles wobbled, her little bum moved under her swinging skirt. He loved her.
The shrill ringing seemed inappropriate. It was so unexpected, so unfitting, that he didn’t recognize it as his own.
‘Are you not going to answer your phone?’
‘Oh, didn’t realize it was mine! Ha!’
It was a foreign number. Blood rushed to his ears. He felt the reality of what he had done, giving Helen the book with Petra in it and what that might mean. It was Petra calling. Of course it was. He pressed the ‘silence’ button, ‘Missed it.’
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘What’s wrong?’ He wanted to keep walking but she put out a hand to stop him, ‘Oisín what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, baby.’
‘You’re upset. I’ve upset you. Has the phone call upset you? Who is it? Is it your mum?’
‘Why do you have to go on about my mam? Jesus, leave my mam out of it.’
‘Out of what?’
‘What’s your problem? We were having a nice morning, baby, why do you have to do this?’
She turned and kept walking. He walked beside her. When they reached college he realized that his face was sore from screwing up his brow so much. Their neighbours at home, a nice old couple, used to mind him sometimes while his mam cleaned the house. They called him a worry wart because he frowned so much as a child. His mother didn’t like the familiar tone the neighbours took.
‘Kay. Well, thanks for walking me.’
The panic was still pumping through his ears. He clung to Helen’s waist. The warm, comforting rush of all those sex hormones filled his pelvis.
‘Hey. I love you. You know that?’
‘Why do you say that in a Hollywood accent?’
He grabbed her and thrust his tongue down her throat, squeezing her bum, concentrating on the feeling of her breasts squashed to his chest, her lips, trying to savour the closeness of her body and measure the value of it – did he want this? How much? He kissed her for so long that he thought he felt her pulling away from him. He imagined her opening her eyes as he kissed her, looking at her watch. He stopped and smiled, kissed her nose.
‘I’m just grumpy. I’m a grump. My neighbours at home used to call me a worry wart because I frowned so much!’
His phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Could she hear it? He flicked the tangled ringlets back off each shoulder, took her face in his hands and looked at her with all the love he could muster. Her eyes were very blue today. It w
as the necklace she wore: aquamarine, it brought out the colour. ‘We cool?’ She nodded. He kissed her again, ‘God you look so hot, baby. See you later.’ He squeezed her bum ceremoniously, a half-joke. She walked towards the Arts Block.
‘I’m finished at three. Meet you in mine?’
‘Yep. You’re a hotty, you know that?’
He was doing it again, that thing Helen called his ‘Hollywood accent’: a slight lisping of the Ts, ‘hoddy’ instead of ‘hotty’. He couldn’t help it sometimes. When he was younger he wanted to be Marlon Brando. He had practised his voice in front of the mirror and incorporated it into his own speech. He had hoped that the accent would seamlessly merge with his own and he wouldn’t be able to help speaking like that. Then he would remind people inexplicably of Marlon Brando, they would say, ‘Gee, you remind me of someone … Marlon Brando! Dunno what it is about you …’ That’s what had happened, the accent had become part of him, it manifested itself particularly when he was self-conscious or flirting. No one ever said he was like Marlon Brando though.
Helen turned, grinned and rolled her eyes, spun around on one heel and walked slowly away. He watched her little bum wiggle under the skirt.
He waited until he was out of Front Arch before looking at his phone. Three missed calls. That must be Petra. He was on his way to a call shop when it rang again. She didn’t say anything. For about a minute all he could hear were her ugly sobs. He was afraid to say her name in case it was someone else, in case, impossibly, it was Helen.
‘Em. Are you okay?’
‘Ushin? It’s Petra.’
‘Petra. Are you okay?’
‘Oh I am very glad that you answered Ushin. I am very disappointed. I …’ She began to cry again. It was a deep, messy, coughing cry. He imagined snot.
‘What’s the matter Petra? I’m sorry I haven’t had time to reply to your letter – ’
‘You have been very busy at the Uni, I know. I anderstand. I … ’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘The flights. They are more expensive. I have not enough money. The prices go up when you wait too long … I have not saved enough you know? I have been warking only two days per week at the ice-cream café …’
Here was Oisín’s escape. The little dilemma was cleaning itself up nicely now, at least for the moment. She couldn’t come. No problem. No excuses for Helen. He could explain that photo somehow, undo the mad act he had committed that morning, give himself more time with Helen. He thought of Helen kissing him this morning on the forehead like a mother and suddenly that gesture that so irritated him at the time took on a sacred quality. Who else would kiss him like that, as though she knew him and loved him anyway? He loved her. He would retrieve her, it would be okay. The image of her walking away, the lovely little round bum, was still fresh. It was all his, that perfect curve under the skirt, beneath her panties. He felt an urgent need to feel her skin again. With Petra still heaving on the phone, he glanced back down Dame Street to College Green at the huge clock above Front Arch. Four hours and forty-five minutes. Then he’d be making love to Helen again.
Why then, even as he was thinking what a relief it was that Petra wouldn’t be coming, what a lucky escape it was, did he say it? Maybe it was the noisy crying. It was like an attack, the harsh ‘huh huh huh’, the hysterics invading this soft morning. He wanted it to stop. He saw no other way back to conversation and off the phone. Maybe it was because he wanted to be a nice guy.
‘How much more is the ticket?’
‘One hundred euro and four, you know, I have not the money saved … I miss you so much, hüny.’
There it was again, that inappropriate word, ‘honey’, pronounced like something heavy and smothering. God, he wanted to hang up.
‘Text me your bank details. I’ll put it through.’
fourteen
I am meeting Brian for coffee this afternoon. I don’t even play that game where I pretend to try to persuade myself otherwise. What else will I do with my afternoon?
When I see him sitting on a plush black sofa waiting for me all I feel is shock: the small shock of recognition. This is the kind of quiet hotel café where people conduct short business meetings and I feel out of place.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi, Cassandra.’ He kisses me on the cheek like an associate, ‘I was here early. I ordered a drink. Would you like one?’
‘Yeah. Okay.’ Then I remember what a bad idea that might be, ‘Just a coffee actually.’
‘Which? A drink or a coffee or both? You can have both.’
‘A coffee.’
‘You’re sure you’re not going to change your mind about that? I don’t mind either way but it’s just if you keep changing your mind I don’t know what to order –’
‘Yeah. A coffee.’
‘You really haven’t changed have you? First you want a drink and now you want a coffee. I just don’t want to order one thing and then have to cancel when you change your mind.’
‘A coffee is fine.’
He orders me a double espresso in a large cup with a jug of hot water and a jug of cold milk on the side. I had forgotten about that. That is what I always ordered when we went out, my quirk, a little feature of my protectively fashioned self.
At first, before I began to build my circle of brunch friends, I was looked at by them. It wasn’t the men, they weren’t that interested. It was the women. Older women – other models or artists at opening nights and launches – would whisper, ‘That’s her. You think she’s really over eighteen? Do you think she’s pretty?’
They were divided on whether I was the fool being taken advantage of, or I was using him to get ahead – as though that was the kind of world we lived in, as though I’d be with him if I could have helped myself, as though art or modelling were the kind of worlds I wanted that badly to get ahead in. Those were women I would have liked to be friends with. I was very lonely then. I would have liked to rest my head on those women’s shoulders and cry and tell them: ‘No, I’m a child. I don’t even like coffee.’
One night we were at the theatre. Brian knew the set designer and a lot of the actors. There was a lock-in at the theatre bar. I had seen her in the audience: a tiny little woman with black hair and a black dress and ankles a man could snap with his fingers. I kept my eye on her, and afterwards she moved like a fairy between all the actors. She knew them all and seemed hungry for acknowledgment. She was smoking through a cigarette holder. The way she turned her delicate wrists filled me with nostalgia. I shadowed her all night like a girl with a crush. I wanted her to see me, to like my dress, to look at me and say, ‘I understand just how you feel,’ to call me ‘baby’ and tell me I was beautiful. When at last she looked at me, her gaze skimmed my narrow frame. She turned to the woman beside her. ‘Jesus, do kids these days really think that’s sexy? Anorexic chic? I would have thought Brian Durcan had more taste …’ I cried in the toilet. It was as though my mother’s ghost had walked in through the walls and hit me in the mouth, or worse, she hadn’t bothered to hit me, she had looked at me and spat in my face and gone back to bed.
Brian is looking at my lips. He has put on weight. His arms have softened. His eyes are bloodshot. I could never tell whether he was good-looking or not. It was all about the pheromones and the role-play with us. It was all about what I could be for him, how young I could feel.
He licks his own lips before he speaks, ‘So what’s been going on with you?’
Suddenly I am the one being looked at. Suddenly he is utterly exempt from any scrutiny. What’s been going on with me? What have I been doing? How do I account for the last two years? How do I account for ending up back here with him, with a knife still twisting my heart and my bowels, slashing at my knees?
‘College. I’ve been in college. Doing some modelling for money … My grandad died last week.’
I realize suddenly how true that is. I had hardly acknowledged it. The rhythm of my life hasn’t even stuttered. It’s the first time I’ve said it
. I haven’t even mentioned it to Helen. I didn’t even say it to that counsellor with the manicured nails.
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘No it’s fine actually. He got sick a long time ago, just after you and I broke up. He was in hospital for nearly two years. On machines. He couldn’t speak or eat or recognize us or anything.
‘I’m surprised at how easily I’m taking it, actually. Maybe I never really loved him after all! Ha!’
I have no idea why I’m laughing. It’s not at all funny. I can’t stop. The laugh isn’t mine. It’s the sort of laugh other women have, older, phonier women. He laughs too, but at me. He knows me too well. He knows how weak I feel suddenly, how lost. ‘You look good Cassy.’ I laugh again. I sound bitter. He shrugs tolerantly at my belligerence, licks his lips again.
‘I got a room upstairs. I’d like if we could talk more privately, you know? I feel exposed here.’
It didn’t occur to me that he would do this. Not so quickly or so openly. How naive of me. That’s why we’ve met in a hotel. Of course.
The coffee churns my stomach and shoots around my bowels almost instantly. I use the bathroom before going upstairs. I take my time, use a ‘feminine freshness’ wipe, check my face in the mirror.
There is a vending machine beside the hand-dryer where you can get condoms or sanitary towels or disposable toothbrushes with miniature toothpaste. I can assume he’s carrying a condom. I put two euro into the slot and press the button for the ‘minty fresh kit’. The little cellophane package lands in the delivery drawer like a miracle. I’m surprised it worked. The mini-toothpaste is so cute that I decide to keep the tiny tube as a souvenir. The bristles of the toothbrush scratch my gums, but I am grateful for the minty freshness. This is humiliating enough without having coffee breath.
Upstairs we try to make it like it was before, but it feels all wrong and I cry and he clasps my face into his neck and kisses my hair and continues pumping. I was wrong; he doesn’t have a condom. I wonder if he is still living with that actress, whether he does the same things with her, and whether the inside of a black girl is pink like me, or darker.
Between Dog and Wolf Page 15