by Doreen Finn
‘My sister took those. She’s really good. I tell her all the time she should be doing more of them, but she doesn’t believe me.’
The photos are intriguing, if indecipherable. I turn back to the tin. ‘Maybe we should just try one.’
He gives me a look, one I’ve seen many times before. It’s a don’t-you-know-what-you’re-doing-here sort of look, a you’re-an-alcoholic look. And that’s the thing, I’m an alcoholic. My name is Eva, and I’m an alcoholic, not a bloody drug addict.
There are matches beside the fire. I light a joint, straighten the crude filter, then inhale.
I take three hits and hand it over. That’s enough.
The weed kicks in within minutes. Whatever strains they’re growing these days, they’re strong. I shouldn’t have taken more than one go at it. I look at Adam, but it’s hard to focus. The electronic music that seeps from the ceiling swirls around me. I want to laugh, but if I start now, this early, I won’t be able to stop. I know myself, and I will laugh and laugh and laugh before I sink into a stoned semi-coma. No. The urge is stifled. Adam moves to throw more sticks on the fire. His movements are slow, deliberate. He shoves a fat log into the flames. Sparks shoot up the chimney as he adds another. Instead of resuming his seat at the table, he settles on the floor by the hearth. I try to lean into the high, into the mellow calm of being stoned. Negativity must be kept at bay or it will swamp me, ruining everything, and I’ll spend the rest of the time fighting panic and warding off thoughts of my mother and how she must have hated me to have treated me as she did.
‘Eva,’ he says, arranging cushions. ‘Come over here. It’s warmer.’
I wait for him to pat the floor beside him, but to my relief he doesn’t. Instead, he leans back against the cushions, cradles the back of his head with his hands and closes his eyes. I hate when men pat the floor, inviting you to sit with them. It’s cheesy, unoriginal. If done to me, I ignore it. For some reason I am absurdly glad that Adam’s eyes are closed, that for now he prefers to listen to the music and be inside his own head.
Standing up, I place my hands on the table, almost knocking a framed photo of Adam’s child over in the process, then pick my way across to the fire. A beer bottle is on the hearth. I hadn’t noticed it till now. One glance at him. Eyes still closed. The bottle is warm on the side that faced the fire. A centimetre of liquid lies quietly at the bottom. I raise it to my nose, inhale its scent, that intoxicating, addictive mix of malted barley and fermented sugar. The fizz has long since subsided. I shake the bottle gently, watch the pale liquid within slosh around. The need to drink, that drive to consume at any cost, fills me.
From somewhere outside my stoned head I observe myself, halfway between sitting and standing, a near-empty bottle of beer in my hand, while Adam stretches out on the floor beside me. I look ridiculous, a thief caught mid-plunder. Self-consciousness, that old enemy, creeps over me, the weed making it acute.
‘Do you want that?’
I jump at his voice. ‘What?’ I turn.
‘If you want one, I’ll get you a cold one.’
I thrust the bottle at him. ‘No. I told you, I’m off it.’
He twitches the hem of my skirt. ‘Come on, sit down.’ I don’t move. The logs crumble sootily and rearrange themselves in the grate. The rain has picked up again, and it hops off the window panes. Upstairs, a door slams.
Eventually, I fold my legs under me, lean my back against the armchair. Within minutes, pins and needles seize both legs, and I stretch them out in front of me. The toes of my new boots are pointed and my legs appear elongated, elegant. In the fireplace, the flames wind themselves around each other. My face warms in the heat.
‘Eva.’ Adam’s voice is unexpected. I jump slightly. He laughs, a slow, ponderous sound. ‘Sorry.’
I pull my gaze away from the fire. How much time has passed since I sat down? Adam’s eyes are pot-reddened. His glasses are nowhere to be seen. His face is closer to mine than I’d realised. His hair hangs over one eye. I want to push it away, but my hand feels too heavy. I think of the line of hair on his stomach, how it disappears into his jeans. I think of it, but I do nothing. If I were to do something, touch him, put my cheek on his shoulder ... if I did these things to him and he pulled away, how would I cope with the shame? So I imagine it instead, imagine myself pushing that lock of reddish hair out of his eyes, rubbing my fingers along his jaw, now stubbled with end-of-day shadow. I imagine myself slipping my hand inside his shirt and splaying my fingers, starfish-like, across the warm expanse of his skin. I think these thoughts, and I do not act on them. Let him make a move, if there is any move to be made.
‘If the sixth years could see us now,’ he says, laughing. ‘Stoned out of our heads on confiscated weed.’
‘If Jim Collins could see us,’ I say, joining him in laughter.
‘He wouldn’t know what we meant. He thinks getting high means jumping for the ball.’
‘Or winning the lineout.’
‘Or kicking a penalty.’
‘Or getting good marks in exams.’
‘Or taking off in a plane.’
I’m laughing so hard now that I can’t stop. Adam tries to say something, but laughter prevents him, which makes it all the funnier to both of us. Eventually, ages later, we subside into exhausted mirth. I don’t want to look at Adam or I’ll be off again.
We are both now leaning back against the armchair, side by side. Unseen, the music has changed to something else quiet, a soundtrack to some film I haven’t seen.
‘In New York they’d consider you a hipster,’ I tell him.
He shifts to look at me. ‘I’m flattered. A 43-year-old hipster. Imagine.’
‘No, seriously. You read the right books, you’ve seen all the cool films. You’re the only person I’ve ever seen here with a vegetable-oil car.’
‘Bio fuel.’
‘Whatever, you’re still the only one who seems to drive one.’
‘Does this mean you like me, Doctor Perry?’ He taps the tip of my nose with his forefinger. ‘Do you approve?’ His mouth is full of amusement, and I can’t tell if he’s joking or flirting. I want him to flirt with me. He’s good at it, subtle. Moves in and moves back again quickly. Pulls on my hair and lets it drop just as easily. Kisses me at his car and jumps into the driver’s seat. I don’t answer him. His fingers move to my cheek, to my temple. He winds my hair around his fingers, draws me closer to him. His brown eyes widen slightly. The fire flickers orange on their surface.
The first time Isaac kissed me, it charged through me like a laser, jerking my body towards him. It was one of those kisses that go on and on and on, and still you can’t stop kissing, can’t pull your mouth away. Kissing Adam isn’t like that, but I don’t want to pull away. It’s different to the kiss at his car, more insistent, more demanding, and maybe it’s the weed that’s making me dizzy, but he manoeuvres me to the floor and somehow manages to divest me of my top and my cashmere cardigan without my even noticing.
‘Eva, Eva, Eva, you’re so sexy,’ he mumbles into my neck. He props himself up then, and looks down at me. ‘I don’t know how I’ve managed to keep my hands off you till now.’ Adam slides his body on top of mine, pins me to the floor, erases me with kisses. Minutes later, I open my eyes, and I’m shocked to see the room is still the same; the hardwood floor, the long dining table, the shelves of books, the uneven line of black-framed photographs. The kisses I return are urgent, greedy, insistent. I pull away but Adam brings me back into the embrace again. When finally we break apart, Adam rolls off me, lies on his back, turns his face to mine.
I put my hands to my flaming cheeks, don’t meet his eyes. He tangles his fingers in my hair and forces my chin towards him.
‘Eva. Listen.’ A log explodes in the fire, shooting an ember onto the rug, where it burns like a tiny bomb. My head is still stuffed fr
om the joint.
The music has stopped. As though to give himself something to do, Adam gets to his feet, goes to the stereo to rectify it. It’s not really a stereo, just one of those things that an MP3 fits into, more of a rectangular speaker than anything else. He presses some buttons and the music starts up again. I wonder – and this is the stoned part of my brain pondering, because normally I don’t worry about things like that – I wonder what the name is for the speaker. Can you put something else on the speaker? doesn’t quite have the same ring as put some music on the stereo. I’d ask Adam; he certainly knows, but I don’t want him to know how ridiculously out of touch I am with the digital revolution. Email and a mobile phone are enough for me to deal with.
He brings a bottle of sparkling water, a proper glass bottle, the expensive kind of water, and a glass for each of us. My mouth is dry, cottony from the weed. The bubbles burst on my tongue.
Adam leans towards me again, kisses my cheek, my jawline, my neck. He winds and unwinds a lock of my hair around his finger. ‘Listen, I’m not going to push you into anything. I like you, I actually really like you, but I’m not about to jump your bones just for the hell of it.’ He refills our glasses.
What do I say? I concentrate on a thread that curls from the seam in my skirt. I’m hopeless when confronted with men who like me. It’s easier when they just let things happen before analysis sets in. I’d been out with Isaac five times before the subject of his wife arose, and by then it was too late to do much about it. But confronted with this, now, with Adam sitting in front of me, his face a sketch in earnestness, I’m hopeless.
The thing is, I do like him. A lot, in fact. He’s intelligent, funny, extremely attractive. He is interesting, he reads and writes, likes music, so why am I hesitating? Most women complain that there aren’t enough men like Adam to go around. He’s obviously a good father, seems to have few neuroses, and he’s been more than tolerant of my quirks, which I know are legion.
His foot nudges my leg. ‘So?’
It was much easier to sleep with Sean. There was lots of whiskey involved, plus Sean’s lack of years, which kept everything on a lighter level.
Adam could be someone. I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, only one year after Isaac walked away from me and everything threatened to come undone. Came undone, for a while. If something happens with Adam, it’s not something I will leave lightly. And I believe I will leave, eventually.
I’ve been gone too long. They say two years is enough to make you a stranger, five years a stranger forever. I don’t know if I can be here, in Dublin, living here, inhabiting this space I vacated so long ago. Sometimes it feels as though I’m skipping along on the surface, expecting something to change. Waiting for the a-ha moment that will clarify everything.
I suppose it could be Adam who clarifies it all, but somehow it needs to be more. I need more.
‘Everything okay?’ He shifts. His shirt has all its buttons undone. Did I do that? His skin is tawny in the firelight, smooth, except for the tangle of hair across his chest. I touch my palm to it. He catches my wrist, kisses the white skin on the underside. I push against him, slip his opened shirt off his shoulders, kiss his skin. No, it’s not like it was with Isaac, but this isn’t Isaac. I’m also older now, and the fact that Adam already has more possibilities, fewer complications than Isaac, adds to his appeal. He unzips my skirt. I trace the line of hair on his stomach, open his jeans in a rush. We shed the rest of our clothes, but in what order and how I do not know. For once I am enveloped in the moment, self-consciousness swamped by the glorious, thrilling fact that a man, a gorgeous, clever man, wants me. Even the first time with Isaac was clouded by how concerned I was about myself, about how I looked to him, whether I could ever measure up to the myriad lovers whose spectres ghosted my thoughts. Now my mother is absent, her mocking smile no longer bothers me. I don’t want a drink. I don’t even think about needing a drink. For the first time that I can remember, I’m fine as I am. I haven’t felt this liberated since I discovered the boost an early morning vodka can bring to a dark day. Maybe it’s Adam and how gorgeous he is in the flashes of firelight. I am wrapped in his attention, reassured by his presence and the appreciative sounds he whispers over and over. A raised ridge of pink scar disturbs the smooth plane of his shoulder. I press my lips to it, run my tongue over its uneven surface. Damage is unbearably endearing.The fire is hot against our skin, but we pay it no heed. Maybe the rug is less comfortable than it could be, but we do not notice. The rain pounds so hard against the windows that it sounds as though the glass will surely break, but we ignore it. Time is ripped out from under me, and everything else ceases to matter.
Adam is a shockingly good lover. Maybe it’s the last vestiges of dope in my blood, but something about this is much, much more than I’d expected. Afterwards his arm is draped across me, and I kiss him. My smile is foolish as I snuggle against him. The vague promises I invariably make to myself at moments of utter contentment such as this gather as one.
I won’t mess this up.
I will be good.
I won’t let him slip away.
I will be good.
I won’t destroy everything like I usually do.
I will be good. I will. I will.
CHAPTER 23
This room is bigger than mine. The open curtains allow a thin stream of street light to trickle in. The window is mottled with rain. It splashes from the gutters onto the path below. From the village of Sandymount there is little to suggest activity, nothing more than the muffled sounds of distant drunks, wheeling around the green long after closing time. It’s a couple of miles or so from Ranelagh, but another world entirely. Every night from my bed I hear cars swishing past, the drunken screeching of students on their way to a party in someone’s flat, trucks making late-night deliveries. Down here, the silence lies heavy upon the night. I can hear the sea sucking at the sand, a swishing sound that seems only to come out at night, when everything else has quietened down to rest.
Adam is on his side, facing away from me. Asleep, I think. The duvet is bunched around his waist. I touch his back with my fingertips. His skin is warm. I turn once more to the window. Outside, the rain is starting up again, its intermittent patter shutting out the sounds of the sea. The patterns the drizzle is making as it rivers down the glass shift and disappear as quickly as they are made. Adam snuffles and shifts around. When he settles on his other side, his mouth at my shoulder, he kisses me.
I should respond in some way, but I prefer to watch the rain. There’s something calm about the noise of it outside, as though it magnifies the silence in the room. I’m also not good with intimacy this early on with someone new. I can’t help it. I want to be affectionate, to stroke skin, drop insubstantial kisses on whichever body part is nearest to me. I know the expected moves, and part of me yearns to make them, but I can’t. Rejection horrifies me, and worse than that is the fear that I’ll be found out, discovered for the phoney that I am, playing the part of a satiated lover. I’m no good at acting.
Adam’s hand snakes onto my stomach. He splays his fingers on my skin, absent-minded in the rhythmless way he caresses me.
‘Great skin,’ he mumbles into my shoulder.
‘It’s just skin,’ I say, moving so that his hands falls away. Men love to admire skin, whether or not they even notice it. I mean, it’s just skin. Maybe it’s because skin is easy to compliment, unlike hair (are you serious? It’s horrible, you’re mad) or bodies (God, I’m so fat) or even clothes (this old thing? I’ve had it for years).
‘Never underestimate the power of good skin.’ He pulls me in close to him. He rubs the pad of his thumb up my ribs, over my collarbone, then into the dip between my breasts. I give up and allow him. It feels too good not to. It’s all so new, so unexpected, yet I can’t relax. I wish he’d fallen asleep and left me to my contemplation of the rain. That way I
could have become accustomed to being in a different bed, would have had the night to come to terms with the fact that the even breathing on the next pillow is not Isaac’s, won’t ever be Isaac’s again. Adam draws me to him, and I empty my head of Isaac. When it is over, his fingers smoothe my face, my hair, my shoulders. I compare him to how Isaac used to be after we’d made love, how Isaac invariably plunged into sleep, like a stone, heavy and unaware.
‘Eva.’ Adam’s voice is sleep-thickened.
‘Yes?’
‘Go to sleep.’
‘I will.’
‘Give all those thoughts a rest and just go to sleep.’
I tug the duvet up to my chin. I’m cold. I don’t think I’ll sleep, not in this strange bed, but maybe it’s the weed that claims me, maybe it’s the violence of the rain against the window as the wind picks up, possibly it’s just plain exhaustion, but not long after Adam drifts off, I too succumb. It’s probably the weed, but I sleep better on this rain-sodden night than I have in a long time.
‘Have you ever been pregnant?’
The question is a shock, opening up the cold freeze of morning more effectively than any bucket of iced water to my face. Blindly, I feel my way along the rock wall of my grief, hands splayed, fingers twitching for something to grip. Adam is circling his fingertips on my stomach again. The clock says half past eight. Too early by far for such a question.
‘What kind of a thing is that to ask me?’
Adam rolls onto his back. ‘Shit. Sorry, you’re right. That was way over the line.’ He leans over to his bedside locker and takes a drink from a glass. Did he go downstairs during the night to get that while I slept?
‘Why do you ask?’ I shift, my back still to him. What is it about parents, this right they seem to acquire by reproductive osmosis, the right to assume that everyone else wants children, or has children, or spends their lives yearning for them?