Love & The Goddess

by Coen, Mary Elizabeth

  He sent me a message saying, “Hi, your profile is really interesting and you look great in your pictures.” No signature.

  I read down through his profile. It seemed unassuming enough until I got to “profession”, which read “designer”. I fired a message straight back saying “Thanks for the compliments. Are you an interior designer?” I had previously had emails from an interior designer living in Galway and found him full of affectation. To read his long introductory message, you’d think he was saving lives, he’d banged on so much about his lofty career. As soon as I’d informed him that I lived in Galway I never heard from him again, so I presumed he was married. Male interior designers had been added to my growing blacklist of professions to avoid on the internet. Anyway much to my surprise “FordmodelT” sent back an immediate reply:

  Hi Kate,

  Good to hear from you. I’m actually a structural engineer specialising in sustainable home design. I encourage people to build homes which are virtually self sufficient in power and water. I’ve just finished a huge project on an eco-friendly factory on Dublin’s north side. You may have heard about it on the news.

  I’ve attached the url of my website.

  Isaac

  Hi Isaac,

  Yes, I heard about it and was very impressed. You must be really proud to have been part of the team. I looked at your website and found it fascinating to think houses can now be so much more efficient. Yet they looked stylish and comfortable.

  Kate

  Contrary to my initial prejudice, my curiosity was now aroused by both the good looks and the altruistic occupation. Isaac’s website was incredibly impressive and once again I found myself putting a man on a pedestal as I wondered what on earth someone so talented was doing on a dating site. Was I setting another man up to be my imaginary Prince Charming? I didn’t hear back from him but his picture would scroll across the top of my profile on a regular basis, indicating that he had been looking at my profile. I found myself hoping he would make contact, so three days later I sent him a message telling him I could see he had looked at my profile on several occasions and I was wondering had I inadvertently insulted him.

  A message came back telling me he was very shy and was intimidated by me because I dressed so well and sounded so accomplished. I was astounded and flattered. How could someone like him lack confidence? I supposed you never knew. Eager to save his pride, I replied in a very reassuring manner that there was nothing to be concerned about as I didn’t always dress so well. “I have bad hair days like everyone else,” I said.

  Mails went to and fro and he seemed very gentle and normal, so we agreed to talk on the phone. He called me at nine o’clock one evening and we chatted as if we’d known each other all our lives. It was not a problem that I was living in Galway and he lived in Cork as he worked here often and was currently overseeing a large project at one of the local factories. In fact, he told me he would be in town in three days’ time and would love to bring me out for dinner. I liked his voice and he sounded like the perfect gentleman, although I reminded myself how I’d fallen for that one before with “Elmtree”. After my spiritual journeys I was supposed to be watching how my monkey-mind worked hand in hand with my ego to construct false beliefs, which would ultimately set me up for a fall. If I met him I’d need to rely on my gut but I wasn’t totally sure that would work.

  In the meantime, I asked him about his photograph and he told me when he was getting pictures taken for his website, the photographer insisted on making him pose like Tom Ford. “So you get the Tom Ford similarity all the time then?” I asked.

  He laughed. “No, not all the time. That was just a bit of fun with the photographer. We had a laugh. You can only see the likeness if I haven’t shaved for a few days. I’m generally clean-shaven. What about your photographs? When were they taken?”

  “They were all taken in Peru, apart from the one in the black dress. I’m just back from holidays there.”

  “Do you have any more?”

  “Well, yes. But the pictures from Peru are the most recent.” I was aware that this line of conversation was all about human ego and what a woman looked like rather than who she was inside.

  “Send me any others you have. Would you mind texting back your email?”

  “No problem.” Maybe I could test myself to find out had I changed since Peru or was I still intent on chasing rainbows. After the phone call, Isaac sent me several emails saying he thought we would be very well suited and for that reason he had decided to deactivate his membership on the site. Since he would be working in Galway the following Tuesday on a new eco-friendly home, he wished to meet me and show me the house afterwards.

  I hadn’t known what to think since Isaac had bombarded me with emails and texts, ranting about his ex and increasingly suggesting he had high hopes of us having a relationship. I know I’d been out of the dating loop a long time, but this certainly seemed like the height of Walter Mitty fantasy. I suppose I had started off like that too but I was fast becoming disillusioned before I ever met up with him.

  However, I was impressed and curious about the work he was doing. Hakalan had been very forceful in making his point about our need to care for the Earth. The Peru experience had raised my awareness of environmental issues, as my time sitting in the mountains seemed to increase my relationship with the earth. I now saw her as Pachamama, a living breathing organism, rather than one great big land mass under my feet. I was very excited about the prospect of seeing the eco-friendly home in west Galway – in fact, I was more interested in seeing the house than Isaac at this stage.

  As my interest in Isaac as a man began to diminish, I’d begun thinking about Geoff again. I was disappointed that he hadn’t contacted me since we met. I’d thought that perhaps he’d make contact through this site, but no. Maybe it was up to me? But first I would have to look at his art. I took out his business card and typed in the url of his website.

  His website appeared and I looked at it in disbelief. As I gazed at his paintings, I was so embarrassed I must have blushed seven shades of red through purple in the privacy of my own home. Geoff had four separate galleries on his website devoted to “myths and legends of the old world”. There were stunning paintings in each section – Celtic mythology, Norse mythology, Egyptian mythology and Greek mythology. He must have thought I was heartless not to have contacted him since I was so interested in myths. Hurriedly I set about composing a message:

  Hi Geoff,

  I hope you’re keeping well and happy. Excuse the delay in contacting you.

  It was great to meet you. I love your website and can’t believe you never told me you were into mythology! The paintings are amazing, so rich and vibrant. I especially love Pandora’s Box. The girl is so beautiful and appears so innocent as she lifts the lid to reveal such horrors. Truly you capture the myth very well. I would love to call to see the paintings next week when I visit Dublin. Will you be around?

  Kind regards, Kate

  Ten minutes later Geoff sent me a message saying he would be in Galway next Tuesday and would love to bring me out for dinner. My heart leapt in my chest with excitement.

  Great. I’ll look forward to that.

  Immediately I began day dreaming about what I would wear and where would be the best place to go… Or should I impress him with my cooking? Holy Moley! Suddenly I remembered Isaac had postponed his visit until Tuesday so now I was officially double-booked. I contacted Isaac to tell him I would be able to meet him for lunch before taking a look at his eco house, but something else had cropped up that evening.

  Tuesday morning, I was woken by my phone bleeping. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I saw I had received a text from Isaac:

  Excited to c u. Please cancel ur evening apt. Spend the day tgethr.

  I hadn’t yet met him and I was already worn out from answering ridiculous texts and emails as though he were a needy child constantly looking for his mother’s attention. Maybe he needed a mother figure and had been attra
cted to the energy of Demeter? The idea of squeezing two dates into one day was getting stressful, though Ella had told me she did three in one day – morning coffee, lunch and dinner.

  I’d arranged to meet Isaac in a Quay Street fish restaurant at twelve thirty. As soon as I entered the room, I could see his gleaming mahogany tan offset by a white clingy t-shirt, all the better to show off his toned torso. Either that or the white was intended to match his glow-in-the-dark polished teeth. As we exchanged pleasantries, he pecked both my cheeks in a very “hello darling” continental manner. I noticed his thick dark-rimmed sun glasses bore the logo “Tom Ford”. I grimaced to myself – if the designer resemblance was such a coincidence, he was REALLY going out of his way to avoid it! As I sat down, the waiter handed me a menu which I scanned.

  Isaac leaned towards me. “You’re lovely, Kate. Just like your pictures. I’m sorry to have asked for extra ones. It’s just that I have gone on these dates and the women end up being so much fatter and older than their pictures. One night I met a woman in a pub in Cork and I was terrified someone could walk in and recognise me. I would have been so ashamed to be seen with her.” He broke into a laugh.

  “But she could have been a very nice person,” I said, smiling at him.

  He bit his lip. “You’re right. But she came under false pretences. She looked nothing like her picture. She was huge.”

  The waiter came to inquire were we ready to order lunch. I ordered baked salmon, French beans and fries while Isaac ordered grilled lemon sole and a side salad. When the waiter left I took up the conversation where it had left off. “You were talking about someone having weight on. I always think that any one of us could end up overweight at any given time. A hormonal imbalance or a need to go on cortisone tablets can add three to four dress sizes to a slim woman.”

  He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Can I tell you a secret?”

  I murmured that he could.

  “I was overweight when I was at school. The guys used to laugh at me for having man boobs. Imagine!”

  His confession made me wonder why he didn’t have more empathy for others in the same position. “So how did you get rid of them?” There was no sign of excess flesh through his super-tight t-shirt.

  “Lipo-suction!” He arched his eyebrows. I felt myself mimic his expression, my eyes widening with incredulity as our steaming hot plates were delivered.

  “Did you get anything else done?” I tried to feign indifference, digging a fork into my salmon.

  He frowned down at his plate. “Oh, no.” Then he smiled. “But my ex got loads of stuff done: breasts, botox, lipo and fillers. I’ve a client who’s a plastic surgeon so instead of him paying me he would do work on the ex. She misses that now, I’ll tell you.” He shrugged. “Anyway, tell me about yourself, Kate. They say we’re not supposed to talk about our exes.”

  I thought to myself that he was a bit late discovering that pearl of wisdom, after the way he’d already gone on about her in emails and over the phone. I recounted my experiences in Brazil and Peru, and he was an attentive listener, asking pertinent questions every so often. As I spoke, I noticed that the only part of his meal he touched was the fish, ignoring all carbohydrates. He returned to the subject of having deactivated his profile on the website in the hope of us having a relationship and was disappointed when I mumbled that it was a bit early to know if we were suited.

  “I suppose you’re right, Kate. It’s just I’ve met so many women and you’re the first one who has the whole package. I mean, you’re so slim.”

  “Isaac,” I said, quite sharply. “I have to say I think you judge women as though you were looking for a mail-order bride. How on earth can you reconcile kindness to the environment with your awful attitude to women?” I hadn’t noticed my buttons being pushed until I was truly in mid-flow, my teacher’s voice escaping.

  He turned crimson. “God, you sound exactly like my wife. This is why I left her. I did nothing to you. It’s true what they say about internet dating – you must be the fourth looper I’ve met on that site!” He stood up and threw a fifty euro note on the table, sneering, “That should cover the bill.” As he sashayed out the door, I noticed that the logo on his jeans pocket read “Tom Ford”. What a mess of contradictions! As far as I was concerned, he could look elsewhere for a skinny barely-sustained woman to share his sustainable home with. He definitely hadn’t posed much of a challenge to my gut instinct – it was a case of instant revulsion.

  But would I feel the same way about Geoff when I finally got to spend time with him?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Geoff had suggested we go out for a meal but I’d quietly decided I’d rather cook. We had been in touch for long enough for me to feel I could trust him. By five o’clock, I had the table set and the food prepared, when my phone beeped with a message saying he was in Galway and was just about to leave the Rehab art exhibition in Dominick Street.

  I texted him back saying I hadn’t seen the exhibition but I’d love to come in for a look right now since it was only down the road. He sent a message back: “C u dn.”

  I barely understood what he meant. I would never get used to text speak, I thought, as I changed out of my leggings into slim white jeans and a long-sleeved Inca-inspired tunic with a subtle take on the famous intarsia pattern.

  Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the tiny gallery housed in a Georgian town house. A plain room with white walls and uneven oak-stained floorboards, it was unfurnished save for three old pine chairs with basket-weave seats in a far corner. Geoff was in the main gallery area as I walked in, chatting to a group of people who seemed to know each other. My heart skipped a beat as I watched him run his hands through dishevelled curly hair, a cleft in his chin becoming more pronounced as he smiled – something I hadn’t previously noticed. After the designer’s processed look of mahogany tan and glowing teeth, Geoff was all man, well-built with broad shoulders but not toned to ludicrous perfection. He was wearing indigo jeans with a light blue chambray shirt, relaxed and comfortable. A petite dark-haired girl in her mid thirties was hanging on his every word, her lips parted as though she hoped he’d kiss her.

  Three young men and slightly older girl, all of whom had the distinct features of Down syndrome, were also part of the group around Geoff, and after a while I realised they were the artists. The petite dark-haired girl was discussing the paintings on the wall – colourful bold abstract canvases encased in pale wood frames. “For people who were once considered devoid of an inner life, they can be amazingly creative,” she warbled in an affected “arty” manner. I thought she sounded very condescending. Just then Geoff caught my eye, smiled and beckoned me over with a wink and a nod of his head.

  “Meet a friend of mine from Galway. This is Kate,” he said. One of the young men with Down syndrome came over and took my hand in both of his to shake it vigorously. “This is Pete, one of our wonderful artists,” said Geoff, before introducing me to each of the group in turn.

  An older woman, who seemed to be looking after the artists, explained to me, “Geoff did great work with the group. We’re thrilled to have the exhibition travelling around the country. Well, we’d better go. The bus back to Dublin will be waiting for us.”

  The young man tugged at Geoff’s arm. “Come with us!” and the other young artists clustered round, also begging him to join them.

  “Sorry, Pete. Not this time.” Geoff was laughing heartily; he placed his hands on Pete’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “But I want you to promise me you’ll finish that great painting you started last Monday.”

  “I will, I promise. I’ll do it for you.”

  “They love him,” the older woman said to me, as she urged the young people towards the door, adding, “Sometimes it’s like herding mice at a crossroads!”

  Geoff grabbed his jacket from behind a chair and, turning to the petite woman, said, “Myra, I have to go now too.” She looked sulky, threw me a dagger’s look, then sidled up to him a
nd pecked his cheek. “See you in Dublin then,” she called after him as we left together.

  Once outside, I said to Geoff, “You never told me you taught art.”

  “It’s just two mornings a week. It’s been great. I think I get more out of it than they do. Do you want to get a bite to eat?”

  “No, I’ve actually been cooking so I’ve plenty of food in my place – I only live a few minutes’ drive away. I thought it would be quieter, we can chat better.”

  “That sounds great. I’ll take my car and follow you out. I’m not drinking – early start in the morning. Where are you parked?”

  “Here on the street.”

  “Great! Me too.” He pointed to a wreck of a Toyota, two cars up from where my silver Audi was parked. As he followed me home I could see his car in my rear view mirror, choking and coughing. I was sure the emissions in Galway were hitting their highest ever.

  Once we got the flat he asked, “Would you mind if I smoked outside?”

  “Of course not. I’m not fond of the things, but outdoors is fine.”

  “I’d given up but reached for them after my friend died. We used to smoke together as students. Silly I know, and I’ll chuck them again soon,” he explained apologetically.

  Opening my back door on to the garden which was shared among all the residents in the building, I put on a CD of the Beatles’ greatest hits. Then I busied myself in turning on the oven and tossing the salad of rocket and lola rosa. As I glanced at Geoff reclining against the wall, it struck me that he had a way of making smoking look sexy; his long graceful fingers held the cigarette and he languidly drew on it, before puffing out circles of smoke. No wonder they banned adverts for smoking if it could look so provocative. After finishing his cigarette he walked inside and bolted the glazed double doors back into place, then smiled his beguiling smile. He began singing along with the song “Money can’t buy you love”. He had a great voice. The lyrics suited him, of course, but I had my doubts about their veracity. Being broke and down at heel wouldn’t be great for keeping the flames of passion ignited after the initial sparks began to dwindle. There again, I had plenty of money with Trevor and look where that ended. I found myself wondering if my new-found spirituality could obliterate my desperate need for financial security, especially if I met the right person.