Rory uses the free hour before registration to lie down. He pops two Ponstan and thinks about ringing Louise. Instead, he turns on his side and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want distractions, just a clear head to make the decisions he has to make. He sets the alarm on his mobile in case he falls asleep.
It goes off leaving him five minutes to spare. He washes his face and grabs his key. Passing Orla’s door, he can’t decide whether or not to knock. This is her course. He doesn’t want to crowd her. He probably shouldn’t even have come. Still, he knows she’d think it odd if he went ahead without her. He knocks. And she’s at the door in seconds.
‘Good timing,’ she says, closing the door behind her, not before he catches a quick glimpse of her room. Everything neat and put away, not still dumped at the door, as in his room.
‘Are you limping?’ she asks as they go down the stairs.
‘Groin injury,’ he says.
‘I’ll have a look at it later,’ she says, matter-of-factly, as though talking to a kid.
He looks appalled.
She bursts out laughing. ‘Joking,’ she says.
They reach the registration desk, sign in and take possession of their course folders. Rory slips his name badge in his pocket, while Orla clips hers on. They scan the room. Queuing for coffee are: a thin guy with long grey hair in a pony tail, the woman who booked a suite, and an attractive, dark-haired woman in her thirties holding her folder close to her chest. Orla smiles at her as they join the queue. The two women start an ‘I’m-from-Ireland’, ‘I’m-from-Wales’ conversation that Rory avoids, concentrating on pouring coffee. It tastes stewed but he needs the caffeine so he adds as much milk as he can tolerate, then excuses himself and finds a quiet spot where he opens his course folder, checking the programme. He’s here for a reason. And it’s not to make friends. He sees that much of the timetable is taken up with practical sessions. What the hell are they? And what will he be expected to do?
They’re called in to the conference room. About twenty tables and chairs are arranged in a semicircle. At the top of the room stands a flip chart and screen. At the rear, a woman controls the audiovisual equipment. Rory watches Orla take a seat next to the dark-haired woman. He selects one about six up from them and tries to get comfortable on what feels like garden furniture, all bamboo and floral cushions. Slouching with his legs wide open seems to be the least painful position.
A tubby man, sporting frameless glasses, stands at the top of the room. He is wearing a short-sleeved shirt though they’re only just into April. A row of pens lines his chest pocket, like military honours. He introduces himself as James Bingley. When he calls out his qualifications, the woman with the dark hair, and one or two others, start taking notes with the pens provided. Rory wants to go home.
Bingley, walking into the semicircle, explains that the practical sessions will involve participants pairing up and discovering more about who they are.
‘To understand others, we must first understand ourselves.’
Oh oh, Rory thinks.
Before they start, Bingley asks participants to introduce themselves to the room. One by one, they share the most basic of details. The mix is eclectic – teachers (including the dark-haired woman), social workers (the man with the pony-tail), one actress (the woman who booked a suite). There is even a novelist, some guy Rory has never heard of. Still, he doesn’t read much fiction, just the odd crime novel that Louise might rave about. This guy doesn’t seem pompous, which is a start.
Rory is paired with the novelist, Paul Morel. They have been allocated a supervisor, Tom Denham, a stocky man in his fifties with a shock of grey hair. Their first exercise is ‘simple’; to take turns asking each other about themselves. They will do this in the privacy of Denham’s room, a suite. Nothing fancy, similar to Rory’s, only with a sitting area.
Morel volunteers to go first.
Rory starts his questioning with something neutral – work. If he avoids getting personal, maybe Morel will reciprocate when his time comes. Unfortunately, it turns out that asking a writer about his work is akin to asking him about his life, or at least that is the case with this writer, who readily volunteers intimate details of a neglected childhood. Easy for him, Rory thinks, he probably reveals it all to the media every time one of his books is published.
The tables are turned. And the lies begin.
‘Yeah, no, my childhood was grand,’ Rory says.
‘Perfect?’ Morel sounds dubious.
‘Happy, you know.’
‘Never wanted for anything?’
Rory thinks of Happy Hobo, rugby matches without his father, the lack of one word of encouragement. ‘No. Not really.’
‘Wow. And your parents, you loved them both equally?’
Rory hesitates. He knows that if he states a preference, Morel will focus on the opposite party. ‘Pretty much.’
‘And why are you here, on the course?’
‘To try to be a better doctor, to communicate better with patients, that sort of thing.’
‘Aren’t you communicating properly with them as it is?’
He asked for that. He was beginning to sound like a fucking saint. ‘Well, doctors aren’t the best communicators in the world, are they?’
It was rhetorical. But Morel eyes him meaningfully and says, ‘No, I don’t suppose they are.’
The last person Rory wants to eat dinner with is Morel. But that is what he has to do. Everyone has been asked to dine in their pairs. The idea is to relationship-build. Rory is furious. Bad enough having your life dissected for an afternoon, without having to sit opposite your interrogator for another two hours.
‘At least there’s wine,’ Morel says, when they sit down.
Rory reaches for it, glancing over at Orla who is sharing a table with the woman with dark hair. His sister-in-law laughs. Why hadn’t he got paired with her? At least they could have had a bit of fun.
‘That was tough going, this afternoon,’ Morel complains.
Rory stays quiet. The author hadn’t seemed bothered at the time.
‘Invasive,’ Morel says.
‘I thought you were OK with it.’ His tone is challenging.
‘You must be joking. I came here to learn about human behaviour, not to discuss my private life. If I’d wanted to be analysed, I’d have gone to a psychiatrist.’
That’s more like it.
‘Of course, you realize, I made it all up,’ Morel continues.
Rory is both appalled and amused. ‘You bastard! You concocted a life, then put me on the rack.’
‘You didn’t have to be honest.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘I know.’
They laugh. They’re on the same side after all.
‘I think we should object,’ Rory says.
‘They’d have great fun analysing that.’
Morel has a point. ‘I guess they’re not going to change the course now.’
‘No.’
‘So, we’re stuck with each other.’
‘Looks like it.’
They smile and raise their glasses. ‘Cheers.’
Morel turns out to be a pretty good mimic. He has Bingley down pat. He also shares Rory’s passion for rugby, movies and sport generally. When he asks him detailed medical questions, Rory has a problem answering them as they are forensically based. In fact, Morel seems to know more about forensics than he does. Years of researching crime novels, he explains. Must be a great life, Rory thinks. By coffee, the wine is gone and they move to the bar.
That’s when Morel asks, ‘So, tell me, why are you really here?’
Rory hedges. Then decides, fuck it. Morel might be just the man to talk to – a perfect stranger, who has been around, knows a thing or two about life, women. There is something about him Rory admires, not that he can pin it down to any one thing. And of course there’s the added bonus that Rory will never see him again.
‘Some story,’ Morel says, after Rory has told him about Louise and Li
z. ‘So, tell me, do you always date such decisive women?’
‘Decisive?’
‘They mightn’t want the same thing, but they do know what they want.’
Rory does a quick review of his relationship history. And detects a pattern. ‘What would you do – if you were in my shoes?’ he asks.
‘Make a decision.’
‘Very funny. Which one?’
‘The way I see it, it’s easy. Give them both a wide berth.’
‘Even Louise?’
‘Where’s the future in the relationship if you both want different things?’
Morel doesn’t understand. ‘I love her.’
‘You’re considering having a baby with someone else.’
‘Maybe “considering” is too strong. Mulling over. I really don’t think I’ll do it, not in the end.’
‘So you’re happy never to have kids.’
‘I didn’t say that. But I’m not going to finish with Louise just because she doesn’t produce kids for me.’
‘Why not?’
‘What kind of person would that make me?’
‘A smart one. She knows what she wants. What you want doesn’t seem to concern her.’
‘Not every woman wants a child,’ he says, in Louise’s defence.
‘So get one that does.’
Rory catches sight of Orla, who appears to be on her way over to join them.
‘Listen,’ he says to Morel. ‘Confidential, OK?’ He looks in Orla’s direction to drive home his point.
Morel follows his eyes. He seems surprised. ‘Yeah, OK, sure.’
Orla joins them. Rory asks, ‘Where’s your partner?’
‘Wanted an early night.’
‘Who d’you get?’ Morel asks.
‘Gloria.’
‘Gloria?’
‘Dark hair. Takes a lot of notes,’ Rory says.
‘Oh, her.’
‘She’s OK,’ Orla says.
‘How did your session go?’ Morel asks with a knowing look.
‘I need a drink,’ she says.
They laugh. ‘Join the club.’
‘Heineken?’ Rory asks.
‘Heineken,’ she confirms.
‘How do you two know each other?’ Morel asks.
Orla explains while Rory gets the drinks.
Reaching for them, he says, ‘So basically, it’s her fault I’m here.’
To Morel, she says, ‘I hope you went easy on him.’
‘What and miss all the fun?’
Orla is serious. ‘It was awful, though, wasn’t it? Who’d have thought that such simple, basic questions could be so threatening? I couldn’t stop crying.’
Rory puts an arm around her. ‘You don’t have to tell the truth, you know.’
She looks surprised. ‘What would I get out of it if I lied?’
16
The following morning, Rory is still in bed with no plans to change that any time soon when the phone rings on the bedside locker, its red light flashing. He wonders who it could be. Louise would call his mobile.
‘Is everything all right?’ It’s Tom, his supervisor. ‘I didn’t see you at breakfast.’
‘Oh, right, sorry, slept in. I’m on my way.’ What kind of course is this? Are they watching everyone or what?
Getting out of bed, Rory reminds himself not to mix wine and beer again. The Ponstan he takes has to work its way up and down – head and groin. And while he might be ‘on his way’, he’s in no rush. He arrives to find the meeting room empty. He checks his timetable. ‘Warm up’, it says, whatever that means. The audiovisual person, Sally, he thinks, comes in to set up. She directs him to a room in the basement where he finds the class looking flushed and ridiculous. They are raising and lowering floppy arms and walking in a slow circle. He is reminded of a flock of tired seagulls with no sense of direction. For once, he’s glad of his groin injury. He makes his excuses to the co-ordinator, and takes a seat by the wall. He suspects that he’s already been pegged a troublemaker; drinking till late, sleeping in and opting out of team activities.
The seagulls have landed. Next exercise: staying in the circle, pass an imaginary tennis ball from person to person, gradually speeding up, then changing direction. Rory and Orla exchange glances. She grins and crosses her eyes at him. It’s weird watching her as part of a group. She looks fun. Cheeky. Cool. If he didn’t already know her, he’d have gravitated to her naturally. He admires the way she is embracing this, despite its craziness, despite the tough time she had yesterday. He should really get more involved.
Next session and Bingley is standing in the path of the projector, unaware that words are being superimposed on him. Breathless, he is talking of Freud – or at least he was, ten minutes ago, when Rory was listening. While everyone around him is taking notes, some constantly, others selectively, Rory is doodling, filling his page with cubes and pyramids. He should say no to Liz. Definitely. But what about Louise? He doesn’t want to lose her. Then again, he wants kids. With Liz’s offer, everyone could have what they want. Only he can’t bring himself to tell Louise. He’s going round in circles here. Why can’t he date women as indecisive as he is? He’d be able to talk them round – when he finally made up his own mind about what he wanted. The irony is, he has ended up with decisive women because of his own indecisiveness – always letting them make the first move. And the last, he realizes now, finally facing up to the habit he has of making life so difficult for them they’re forced to end it. He runs a deep and fast line through the page and turns it. He zones back in on Bingley, who has great patches of perspiration under his armpits. Rory is tempted to take him aside and suggest Botox.
After another ten minutes, Rory’s concentration slips again. His eyes wander around the room. Morel is gazing at Orla, who is concentrating on Bingley. The guy with the grey hair (Adam?) is alternately rubbing and scraping the top of his head. Fungal infection, Rory guesses, before looking away. Samantha, the actress, seems to be eyeing Rory up. Or is she? He is not waiting to find out. He drops his eyes to his jotter and doodles with sudden purpose.
On his sixth cloud, he begins to zone out. Bingley’s voice comes and goes. Rory’s thoughts drift back to decisive women. Easy to encourage your partner to set up in business when all the risks are hers. He flings his pen down, stands suddenly and leaves the room, failing to notice the glare Bingley gives him.
He walks outside and over to the river where he sits on the weathered lock, relieved to feel the breeze on his face. He watches a nearby barge, its paint faded and chipped, its tired curtains pulled shut, the only sign of life a thin trail of smoke rising from a rusted metal chimney and a part-wolfhound mongrel stretched out on deck enjoying sheltered sunshine. Rory feels like joining him. Must be a kindred spirit living here, Rory thinks, someone who, like him, has opted for a free and easy life. Only there is romance to this: taking your home on a slow trip up a river, your dog at your side. The door of the barge opens and a hippie with Rastafarian hair and bare feet steps out. He drags on boots and lifts an old racing bike that has been propped up against the window ledge on to the towpath. Slowly he cycles off. The dog briefly raises his head and goes back to sleep.
‘I was wondering what happened to you.’ It’s Orla, leaning against the lock beside him. ‘What are you doing out here?’
‘Do you think I’m indecisive?’
She laughs, surprised. ‘I don’t know. Do you?’
‘Don’t know.’ It would be the perfect quip, if he were joking.
‘Would it be so bad if you were?’ she asks.
‘It wouldn’t help.’
She slides her hands into her pockets and looks down at her feet, crossed casually one over the other. After a few moments, she speaks. ‘I think you’re pretty decisive for someone who grew up being told he was useless, that he shouldn’t try because he’d fail. You can’t expect to sail through decision-making with the same ease as someone who grew up being told they were great.’
Rory may have a
problem with his father, but he still feels he should defend him. He is family. ‘He wasn’t all bad.’
She raises an eyebrow.
‘He didn’t want us to get cocky.’
‘I might believe you if I hadn’t been subjected to him myself. First time I met him, I thought he hated me. I thought I’d done something wrong. Took a long, long time and a lot of family get-togethers to see it wasn’t me; it was him. He’s a bully. He enjoys upsetting people. And I get so angry when I think of him being like that with his own kids, who were too young and then too close to him to appreciate that it was his problem, not theirs. There you all were, trying to love him, look up to him. And he cut you down at every turn.’
‘All fathers were like that back then. It was their generation. We’ve turned out OK.’
‘Owen, Mr Union Head, making a career out of his hate for authority figures. Siofra, opting for a safe civil service job because she didn’t have the confidence to follow her dream of being a musician. At least you believed in yourself enough to go to college.’
Much of what Orla has said is so uncomfortably true that Rory is glad to prove her wrong on this. ‘I didn’t go to college because I believed in myself. I went to spite him, to do the very thing he didn’t want me to do – medicine.’
She looks surprised. ‘Why didn’t he want you to do medicine?’
‘Because that would have made me like him. A doctor. He couldn’t have the person he hated turn out like him, could he?’
‘He doesn’t hate you, Rory.’
‘So why did he try to turn me off his noble profession?’
‘Maybe he’d have tried to turn you off anything you tried.’
‘You know what pisses me off? How hard I tried to please him, to make him notice. If I played better, maybe he’d turn up at a match. If I studied harder, maybe, for once, he’d say “well done”. You know when I gave up? When I got the highest marks in the country in the Leaving Cert. and he still didn’t open his mouth.’
Do You Want What I Want? Page 12