by Doreen Finn
Probably it was the booze, but I allowed myself a moment to be critical of my relationship with Isaac. The criticism usually remained below the surface, nudging me regularly, always ignored. I loved him. It shouldn’t have been so complicated.
Yet I was so easy for him, a convenience, a takeaway girlfriend to whom he had no obligation. What other woman, with any level of self-respect, would allow a man to behave thus? I was the green virgin, stretched on the rack, waiting for him to bestow the love I greedily coveted. He, the alpha male, held all the power clenched in his hands because I allowed it to be so.
He stood at the foot of the bed, unknotting his striped, preppy tie, dropping his jacket onto the chair. ‘I see you haven’t wasted any time.’ The judgement in his voice stung me, hurt my feelings. ‘Fuck it, Eva. You’re a bit old for this.’
I flopped over onto my back. I wore a voluminous shirt, nothing more. The heat forbade it. ‘I missed you.’ I reached for him. ‘I miss seeing you.’
He ignored my hands, splashed whiskey into a tumbler. ‘That’s because you’re out here. What did you think it’d be like?’ He wiped his forehead with his wrist. His shirt was damp, wrinkled with the unseasonal heat. ‘No one sent you here. It was your choice.’ His mouth open, he poured the whiskey into himself in one go, like I’d seen men do in films from the fifties, the sixties, when reaching for the cut-glass decanter straight after work was the height of sophistication, of glamour. Except this wasn’t decades past, and Isaac was wearing jeans and a creased linen shirt, not a Brooks Brothers suit and Hermès tie. I hadn’t seen the shirt before. All those years with him, and he wore a shirt I had never seen. What else did I not know, not witness? Who gave it to him? His wife? Another lover? Was there another lover? The questions made me nauseous, sloshing around inside me with the margaritas and the salt. I closed my eyes. The room began spinning, and I forced myself to open them again, focusing instead on a crack in the plaster, like a child’s crayon drawing, running the width of the room. The ceiling fan revolved slowly. The hot air barely stirred. ‘Christ, Eva. Look at you.’ He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, refilled his glass. Shaking his head, he stalked to the balcony door. From the bed, I could see the empty blender lying on its side. Isaac stood framed in the open doorway. Outside, Sunset swarmed with traffic. The sky glowed lavender. To the east, the hills were black ridges in the darkened evening. I fancied I heard a coyote barking, but this far down in Hollywood, and with so many people around, it was probably just a dog.
We were like a disgruntled married couple. That couldn’t have been what he’d signed up for when he fell in love with me, to have to have his excuses carefully thought out before he faced my dissatisfaction, my gaping need. I’d fought my battles with booze, had been sure that this time I’d won.
‘You’re a fucking disgrace.’ He kept his back to me. ‘Have you any idea the planning it took to get out here, the pretence?’ Isaac turned, rested his back against the sliding door. ‘I was actually really looking forward to seeing you. But not like this.’ He swallowed the last of his whiskey. ‘This is not what I need at the end of a long week.’
Crickets made scissory sounds in the shadows outside. The hot night air seeped into the room. The sky was purple with heat, the quarter moon levitating above the low-rise streetscape.
Isaac tossed a tissue-paper package in my direction. ‘This is for you. Although I’d kind of hoped you’d be sober enough to at least see it.’
Struggling to sit up, I unwrapped the gift. A soft grey cloud fell onto my bare legs. I held the garment to my face and started to cry.
Isaac sat down beside me. Putting his arms around me, he removed the cardigan from my hands. He lay me down on the bed, kissed my face, smoothed my hair on the pillow. With his thumbs, he wiped the salt from my face. ‘I’m sorry, Eva. I just don’t know what to do any more.’ He kissed my shoulders, my neck. ‘I love you, but you need more than I can give you, and I want less.’
Adam puts a hand to the small of my back as we enter the gallery. Ushering me inside, he keeps his hand on me. Even as we rove from picture to picture, devouring Picasso’s women, his sadness, his starving families, Adam finds some reason to touch me. Once it is to move me to the side to allow a German tourist room to view a painting of a blind man reaching for a bowl. Then he taps me on the arm to show me five women, their faces and bodies moving on the canvas. When he pulls me to stand in front of him, he leaves his fingertips on my waist. As we admire a still life, he pulls me close to whisper his interpretation.
‘See that?’ He points to a blue musical instrument, all cubed angles and pitched sides. ‘This is where Matisse comes in.’ Adam circles his forefinger in front of the painting. ‘This design, the colours, it’s all Matisse.’ He drapes his arm around my shoulder, casually.
I’ve loved Picasso since my brother brought me a poster of Guernica from a school trip to Madrid. I like to think I’m knowledgeable on the subject, but Adam’s enthusiasm is burning so brightly that I don’t wish to dampen it by blurting out that I already know what he’s telling me. I’ll let him know another time. Right now, in this packed exhibition, boxed in by eager viewers and overlooked by a stern supervisor who regularly steps forward to request more distance from the paintings, it’s nice to have Adam’s hand on my arm, his voice in my ear.
I’ve seen a lot of Adam recently, but it’s been strangely platonic. Since the day I went to lunch in his house, he has been as friendly to me as he’s always been, but he hasn’t again reached for a lock of my hair. We have gone to the cinema a few times, to a play in the Gate, we’ve eaten in other chichi places where they take your number and text you when there’s a table. But it’s as though Adam has drawn back from me. That one time he tucked my hair behind my ear in the fading light of an autumn Saturday in Sandymount, and I responded by ducking out of the house, has not been repeated.
Afterwards, when we have exhausted Cubism and ourselves, we sit in the café. It is packed, and we squeeze ourselves into a corner. Beside us, a child sets up a wail.
‘I’ll bring Annalie here. She’d love it.’ Adam uses a tissue to wipe away crumbs left by the previous occupants. ‘She’s very creative.’
I idly wonder if there is anything his child can’t do. But I’m being mean, and maybe more than slightly jealous that he has her.
‘They do art classes.’ I’d read it on a poster on the way in.
‘Really? Brilliant.’ He sits back in his chair, pleased. ‘I’ll bring her in. I’ll have to get some new paints for her. The old ones have probably dried up by now.’
‘Adam! What are you doing here?’ A large hand slaps Adam on the back. He chokes slightly on his coffee. It is David, the journalist. He is amused.
Adam is less gregarious. ‘Hey. Remember Eva?’
David’s handshake is strong and manly. ‘Eva, good to see you again. How did you drag this philistine in here?’
Something witty and clever is expected of me, but spontaneous humour evades me. I smile, say hello.
David is waiting to interview a politician. One of the identikit suits that are responsible for the yawning chasm the whole country is tipping into.
‘The place is fucked, completely fucked. If it was anywhere else but Ireland, heads would be on platters.’
‘So why are you here if you’re waiting to talk to him?’ Adam asks.
‘Location, dude. It’s just around the corner, and the coffee here is great.’
David’s coffee is black, and he drinks it quickly. He checks his phone. ‘Shit. I have to fly.’ He grabs a bag, throws it across his chest and settles the strap over his jacket. ‘Good to see you, Eva,’ he says again. He slaps Adam on the shoulder. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
Adam shakes his head. His hair has got longer. There is no grey among the reddish brown. ‘I’m always running into him. No matter where I go, he’s there.’
<
br /> ‘I like him.’ I do. He’s clever, he brims with energy. David has enthusiasm for life, which I admire.
‘Women always do. He thinks you’re beautiful.’ Adam taps the back of my hand with his finger. ‘Eva.’
I look at him. ‘What?’
‘I said, David thinks you’re beautiful.’
Embarrassment stains my face. I can feel it, spreading. ‘Stop.’ Never have I learned just to say thank you to compliments. My laugh is short, intended to chase away the moment.
‘Well, actually he does.’ He leans closer to me, drops his voice. ‘And he’s right.’
I should respond to him, say something, defend myself, but I fail. Adam’s thumb grazes my lower lip.
I’m saved by a voice announcing the imminent closing of the gallery. Reluctantly, we stand, pull on our coats.
‘Will we get dinner?’ Adam asks as we drop coins in the donation box. ‘It’s too early to go home.’
Since the Saturday in his house, Adam hasn’t offered to go for a drink. Nothing about it has been mentioned, just a quiet understanding of the problem I have with alcohol. My addiction is something I’ve preferred to keep private. Others’ awkwardness in the face of it makes me awkward, and that makes me want to have a drink, and the cycle spins forth. Avoiding alcohol by all means is the only way I can be sure of not drinking. It’s too difficult now for me to be around it and stay sober. It’s the oldest cliché, but it’s true. I must avoid it.
Adam holds the door for me.
Offices are in the process of disgorging their occupants onto the streets. A splatter of rain darkens the path. Umbrellas pop open, the only splash of colour in this grey late afternoon. Cars are beginning to turn on headlights. The wind has picked up and great gusts propel us along. Merrion Square is locked now, so we walk along its perimeter. Adam puts his arm around me, hugs me to him. I sneak a sideways look at him. His hair is blowing over his eyes and he rakes it back. He catches me watching him, and smiles.
The Merc is parked at the far end of the square. Adam opens the passenger door with a flourish. ‘Madam, your chariot.’
I laugh. The interior is strewn with test papers, ragged schoolbooks, old coffee cups and bags of recycling. The contents seem to have multiplied during our few hours with the paintings. ‘Do you ever clean this car?’ I ask as I put my bag on the back seat, pushing a box of paper to one side.
‘Never,’ is his reply. ‘My father likes to have a go every so often, but that’s about it.’
Adam is still standing at the passenger door. His hands cup my shoulders. The wind blows my hair across my face. He pushes it aside, then thumbs my bottom lip again. He starts to say something, then thinks better of it, and puts his mouth to mine instead. His kiss is surprising. Warm mouth, firm lips, vague taste of coffee. I don’t know what I had expected. Pupils widened, black with lust, mouth slack, maybe? What I get is quite the opposite, but it thrills me, properly, not in same way as being with Sean, but more, and in a different way. Adam appeals to my mind. That sounds terribly pretentious, but I don’t mean it to be. An intelligent man is a beautiful man.
Before I can react, return the kiss, trace his face with my fingertips, do anything, he is gone, not saying a word, just opening the driver’s door as though the kiss never happened. He starts the engine, leaving me still half in, half out of the car.
Darkness has thrown a blanket over everything by the time we reach his house in Sandymount. Adam offers to make dinner. I accept. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have minded a restaurant, the pleasing anonymity of ordering food that I don’t witness being prepared, the distance the table would force between us, the comfort of other diners preventing any more surprise kisses. I need time to process the kiss, the hand-touching, the arms draped around my shoulders. It all has an endpoint, this I know. The fact that suddenly I’m thinking about birth control defines the point in itself. With Sean, things happened and I allowed them to. With Adam, it’s different. He’s older for starters, but it’s more than that: I like him.
By accepting dinner in Adam’s house, I am complicit in this dance. And I’m not taking any birth control. Since last year, it hasn’t been something I’ve needed. Sean had provided his own, two square packets of foil wedged behind a twenty euro note in his wallet. I had peeked when he went to the bathroom. I prefer to be in control of my body myself, don’t trust anyone to take care of things in the way that I do. The pill doesn’t suit me any more. It bloats me, makes all my clothes uncomfortable around my waist. I feel slightly dulled when I take it, as though my mind is too tired to absorb all the information it needs.
Adam negotiates rush hour traffic. The Merc insulates us from the cold.
The sea hangs heavy on the air. The tang of salt and seaweed is slightly nauseating. I’m not sure I could live in Sandymount, with its dampness and smells, the coating of salt on every surface and the vague feeling of being on the edge of the world. I shiver. The rain is pouring down now, hopping off every surface. It skates along the road, runs into the pavement cracks. A discarded chip bag disintegrates in the gutter.
Adam kills the engine, and in the silence that follows all we hear is the rain drumming on the car roof. A seagull screams in the distance.
He turns to me. ‘Will we make a dash for it?’
I follow Adam inside.
CHAPTER 22
Adam lights a fire, if it can be described thus. What he actually does is touch a match to a wrapped log in the grate. Blue flames instantly swarm. Small pieces of wood are stacked neatly to one side. He places some on top of the flaming log, then sits back on his heels and admires his handiwork.
I slip into a seat near the fireplace. The house is cold, and I keep my coat on.
Adam stands. ‘I’ll stick the heating on. You’ll be warm in a few minutes.’
A mood lamp leaks muted light into a corner of the room. The table where we ate lunch the last time I was here is covered with papers. Adam starts to clear them away.
‘Working on something?’
He spreads his hands. ‘Sort of. A piece for The Times. A book review. Just some historical tome.’
‘Impressive.’
‘It’s not. I know the editor, and I do him favours from time to time when he’s stuck.’ He moves things to bookshelves, to the coffee table, then turns back to me. ‘Now, some tea? Water? Or I can squeeze some juice if you’d prefer.’
‘Water is fine.’
‘Still or sparkling?’
He doesn’t have to go to this much effort. I know what Adam is doing, have seen it before, that shrouding of alcohol, offering every drink possible except the one that I really want. He is a kind man, and I don’t resent him for mentioning everything except the liquor-soaked elephant looming large in the middle of the room.
I wander into the kitchen. Adam is chopping and peeling and sautéing. A hot, smoky scent fills the space. He hands me a knife. ‘Here, chop that, will you?’
I remove the seeds from a chilli pepper, then slice it finely. Adam slides the pieces into the pan. There is a sudden sizzle. I tear coriander leaves, crush lemongrass, then leave the knife aside and lean against the counter. The house is extremely tidy and clean.
He catches me looking around. ‘The cleaner was here today. I’m not responsible for all this.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ His car breeds rubbish, paper and books. Finding space to sit is an achievement, but the smell of doughnuts makes it worthwhile.
‘I just don’t see things till it’s too late, then there’s a huge mess, and it takes me days to clear it.’ He wipes his hands on a tea towel. ‘I’d pay ten times the amount not to have to think about it.’ He twists the lid on a bottle of Italian lemonade. It fizzes open. The music of fizzy drinks is also the symphony of beer. Sweeter than any other sound. I clench my fists. I want a beer so badly I can taste it, tast
e those microscopic bubbles in my throat, feel the wet cold of the bottle in my hands and the eddy of exhilaration as the alcohol hits my bloodstream. I ignore the faint hiss of effervescence as Adam puts the plastic bottle down. My hands shake as I raise my glass of water to my mouth. The ice cubes chill my lips.
Plates are taken from the cupboard. There is a clatter of cutlery. Adam nods towards the table.
‘Let’s eat.’
Something electronic and mellow flows from the speakers in the ceiling. Our empty plates have been pushed to the side. A small tin with a scratched picture of a Christmas tree on the lid sits on top of a notebook near my plate. I fiddle with it. The lip flips open. Inside are four small joints, tightly wrapped.
Adam laughs. ‘Confiscated from one of my sixth years.’ He leans over, puts his finger to my lips. ‘Not a word.’
The smell of the weed is sweet. I run my finger down the length of the paper wrapping. God, I’d love some.
I know it won’t kill me, but having kicked drinking to the kerb for now, getting high isn’t exactly how I should be celebrating my tentative sobriety.
Isaac liked to smoke weed sometimes. His brother grew it, and a couple of times a year Isaac was the recipient of a bag of Humboldt County’s finest. I’d never bothered with it much before I moved to New York. Crumbled pieces of hash, wrapped in a cigarette and furtively passed around at the back of the student bar, was never my idea of fun, and it tasted disgusting. But weed is different, and I crave something that could replace the gap left by booze.
Adam notices my hesitation. ‘Here, I’ll put them away,’ he says, reaching for the tin. ‘Will you have some tea? Coffee?’
What I’d actually like is a hit or two off one of those skinny little joints. Just a quick hit. It wouldn’t hurt me. Drugs have never been my issue. Which student, I wonder? How did Adam intercept them?
To distract myself, I look at a series of pictures on the wall opposite the table, an uneven line of photographs in square black frames. Nothing much appears to be happening in any of them. I count them. Seven. Strange number for a sequence. A prime number. Adam follows my gaze.