by Amy Huberman
‘Oh, cool! You got a bike!’ Kate said.
I was feeling more like a child by the minute. ‘Yeah just this afternoon. It was the basket and the streamers that really sold it to me!’ I laughed. By. The. Minute. ‘Listen, I’m going to leave you two lovebirds alone.’
‘No, Izzy,’ Kate said, ‘you don’t have to. Stay!’
‘No, honestly, I need to go home and sort out my crayons.’ (I didn’t actually say this.) I told them I was going to have a look around the shops.
‘See you soon, Iz,’ they called, as I climbed back on board and headed out through the gates.
What a great day, I thought, as I cycled past the Gate Theatre and down past Clery’s. Bunking off work with Gavin, check. Glorious sunshine, check. New bicycle with a basket on the front, check. So cycling in the city centre was pretty terrifying, but I’d get used to it soon enough and wouldn’t scream every time a car zipped past me or feel the need to pull over and breathe into a brown-paper bag any time I spotted an oncoming bus. Cycling etiquette question: how bad is it if you knock someone’s wing mirror in traffic and they shout after you but you don’t stop?
Feeling all positive and invigorated about my Fresh Start, I decided I was going to head straight for Brown Thomas to buy the amazing dress I’d been perving over for the past six weeks. A shop assistant had asked me to leave the last time I was in (OK, so a little bit of drool fell on it – it was an accident). So, no more looking. I had to buy now. Hell, I deserved it! And purchasing it would help to mark the end of five long months of alienation and dressing like Misery Incarnate.
Yes, I was ready. I was going to break my self-imposed social-life ban. Facebook or no Facebook. Cian and Edna or no Cian and Edna. (It really would be preferable if there were no Cian and Edna, but I had to come to terms with the fact that there was.) It was time for Izzy Keegan to get back in the saddle, metaphorically speaking. This caterpillar was finally going to leave its fat furry existence and become a butterfly. But this little butterfly needed a fab set of wings if she was going to go out there and get flying, and that dress was perfect. It was seriously expensive and I hadn’t a notion when I’d ever get a chance to wear it, given its incredible gorgeousness, but sometimes a woman had to act on the assumption that if she had the dress, the occasion would come and find her.
10
Its fri grls – I nd a drnk!!! Whos wit me?
Yippee! I cd murder a gin! Count me in!
Defo nd more than 1 – crap day at offce!
Ok amigos – where?
Smwhere we cn tlk. Ron blcks?
C u there!
There really was no gin like the Friday-night post-work gin. All day I had been staring at the clock, willing it to go faster. I had even thought about sneakily pushing the hands when no one was looking and bagging us all a half-day, but then I realized I’d need Susie, Keelin and the barman to back me up, and it wasn’t fair to make them all lie on my behalf. Especially considering I didn’t know the barman.
I was sitting there with my bag on my lap, coat on, and one foot off the ground ready to sprint when the minute hand clicked into place: gin o’clock! I’m outta here.
I was first to arrive at the pub, so I nabbed an empty couch down the back, away from all the loud, macho office types who thought that if you heard them say, ‘A hundred and fifty K a year with a company car,’ as you passed, you’d swoon and take off all your clothes before the evening was out. The trick was to get to your chosen seat without making eye contact. If you did catch someone’s eye, you could bet your life he’d be making a mental note: later, when incoherent, I’ll ask that up-for-it little minx to have a kebab and sex with me. She’s sure to want both because she made eye contact. Oh, yes, I’m getting lucky tonight.
I made it through without anyone noticing me, then felt miffed that I could be so invisible to the opposite sex. I got a drink. Ah, Gordon was always there for me, no matter what. Isn’t that right, Gordon? Hmm, perhaps that was where I was going wrong – forging strong attachments with my drinks instead of connecting with the real-live menfolk. I scanned them again. Did I really have to? Was this what ‘moving on’ was all about? Maybe if I zoned out and replayed Love Actually in my head while they talked at me, I could just nod and smile every now and then, and when the girls saw me ‘flirting’, they’d think I was coming on in leaps and bounds.
I settled down on a couch to watch how Keelin and Susie fared in the eye-contact-avoidance game. First up was Susie, who came barrelling through the door, talking nineteen to the dozen into her mobile. She didn’t even register the ranks of drinkers, just strode past, oblivious. I smiled to myself – you can always spot a woman in a long-term relationship: she’s the one who’s forgotten what ‘flirt’ means and has no idea of the effect she can have on men. Susie used to be brilliant at getting us free drinks from amorous lechers, but those days seemed to have gone, thanks to Aidan. I missed that Susie.
‘Sorry, Your Honour, I really have to go now. I have a five thirty with the Lynch crowd. They’re still pleading innocent. ’Bye.’
‘I’m the Lynch crowd? What did we do?’ I was hoping for a juicy one, like maybe I’d run over my ex’s new girlfr – Wow. I should probably stop watching so much True Movies. Tempting Fate. Besides, Susie dealt with leasings and conveyancing, so a good old-fashioned murder wasn’t in the offing.
‘Sorry, Iz, couldn’t get him off the phone otherwise. And sorry, I can’t say, you know how it works.’
‘I’m so glad I’m not the only one who works with a megalomaniac. I mean, Eve hasn’t exactly told me to call her “Your Honour” but close enough…’
‘Izzy, that was my supervisor on this story. He’s a judge.’
‘Absolutely. I knew that. Hey, I got you a vodka. Get it down you.’
‘Oh, God bless you. My brain’s crying out for a decent dollop of alcohol. Why did I sign up for this again? And how the hell did I end up writing for a legal journal?’
‘Because you’re a fantastic writer and you have to start somewhere. So you’re a journalist for now. And you’re brilliant at it.’
‘Iz, I write about banks repossessing people’s homes and inheritance tax. Not exactly the stuff of top crime novels, is it?’ She drained her drink in one. ‘Where’s Keelin?’
I pointed at the door, through which Keelin had just appeared. Now there was a woman who knew what flirting was all about. Keelin looked sexy no matter what she was doing. She could have moonwalked in wearing a full-body Lycra leotard and still looked cool. I watched her walk slowly past the tables, letting all the stripy-shirt men get a good look at what they’d never get their hands on. It was a masterclass. If I tried to do that, I’d probably trip over a stool and send them all flying, like a set of dominoes. But nothing fazed Keelin.
‘Hello, ladies. You started without me, you sluts.’
‘Here, I got us all one to start. We’re only one ahead of you, so lash into that and it’s even stevens.’
‘Great. Okay, guess what?’ she said, skulling it back and slamming the empty glass on the table.
‘Em, you bought a pair of shoes?’
‘No. Guess!’
‘You passed your driving test?’
‘God, no. Guess!’
‘You found the back of the remote control?’
‘Come on, girls, you can do better than that! Concentrate!’ Good God, it was relentless. Keelin should give up her job and become a host on one of those crazy Japanese game-shows.
‘Keelin, I’m going to torture you slowly and painfully if you make us guess any more,’ Susie said calmly.
‘Okay.’ Keelin took a deep breath. ‘Simon winked at me this morning!’ she screeched – at such a high pitch that I could have sworn I heard a dog somewhere in the distance bark in pain
‘Wowser!’ I said. ‘That sure is… woweeee…’ I could give up my job and become an American game-show host.
‘I know. I was over at the photocopier, just casually doing a bit of photocopying wh
ile butt-cheek flirting with him at the same time –’
‘Sorry, Keelin, have to stop you there,’ I interrupted. ‘Decode.’
‘Izzy, have I taught you nothing?’
‘Keelin, I’ve no idea what you’re on about either.’
‘Listen and learn, Susie. Okay, basically Simon is standing behind me, waiting for me to finish so he can use the photocopier.’
‘Right,’ we say in unison, taking our lesson seriously.
‘So I tense up my butt cheeks, then relax them, then tense them again so that when he looks at my arse, he sees that, you know, I’m flirting with him.’
Susie and I collapsed into laughter.
‘Keelin, you’re a mentallist,’ Susie gasped.
‘Why don’t you just laugh inanely whenever he opens his mouth? Or bat your eyelashes at Olympic speed or –’
‘Izzy, I’ve tried all that stuff. And there was that time I laughed hysterically when he told me his granny was in the final stages of bowel cancer because I hadn’t bothered to listen to what he said. It was time for a different technique because nothing had been happening.’
‘He’s probably just not that into you,’ hovered on my lips, but I couldn’t say it. It sounded way too harsh. Anyway, I didn’t quite believe it.
I think what was killing her was that she rarely, if ever, got rejected. Keelin had always been the wild, sexy, crazy girl that guys couldn’t get enough of. And, on top of that, she was always the one in control. A true heartbreaker. When she got bored, she’d just flit right on to the next, leaving misery in her wake. But she was never cruel about it – that wasn’t in her nature. Keelin would never intentionally hurt someone. She was always upfront and honest with these guys, telling them from the start that she wasn’t looking to settle down and play ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’, but inevitably they fell head over heels and wanted nothing more than to play ‘boyfriend and girlfriend’ with her. And by then their fate was sealed.
But this time, I think for the first time ever, it hadn’t worked. The guy hadn’t responded. Until that morning. Apparently.
‘Normally when I butt-cheek flirt, I get results. You two can laugh all you want, but it’s never failed. Well, not until Simon.’
‘So what happened next, then?’
‘Well, as luck would have it, Fate handed me a perfectly timed damsel-in-distress moment and the photocopier jammed, so Simon had to come to my rescue.’
‘Did you jam it on purpose?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Good work. Continue.’
‘Thanks. He opened the paper drawer to remove the jammed sheets, and because the machine is so old and crap, a load of dust blew into his face and – oh, my God, it was such a Clark Kent moment. I bent down and removed his glasses for him so he could wipe the dust off his face and we sort of just knelt there for a moment or two. Then, out of nowhere, he winked at me. Like he couldn’t say, “Thank you,” so he said it without words. It was so endearing and cute – I wish you’d been there.’
Too right we should have been there – to divert a potential sexual harassment case! Or, at the very least, to suggest that maybe he was trying to blink the dust out of his eyes.
I couldn’t blame her for being so excited, though. ‘The Wink’, regardless of the motive, was a milestone. She’d been chasing this guy for the past eight weeks, ever since she’d got the job. She’d only answered the ad to appease her parents. She’d told them she’d accepted a voluntary redundancy package from her old firm to save any of the single mothers losing their jobs, when really she’d been fired for stealing éclairs from the vending machine. She was afraid her parents would start to suspect something if she didn’t act soon so she decided to look for another job quick smart. While she was waiting to be interviewed, Simon walked by and that was that. She gave the interview of her life, claiming she’d saved a puppy from drowning in a neighbour’s pond and that she’d once made a splint out of lollipop sticks for a blackbird that had broken its wing flying into her kitchen window. As a result, she was now the receptionist at a dogfood company called Ruff Justice. I know – painful. Her boss believed he could win over the public and part them from their money if he made them laugh. So now Keelin spent the day answering the phone, ‘Ruff Justice,’ only to be met by unamused silence. It was all a far cry from her commerce degree, but for some reason she seemed to think Simon was worth it. And, besides, she did have a soft spot for dogs, so organizing nice food for them wasn’t the worst.
Once we’d all agreed that this morning’s wink might quite possibly lead to a candle-lit dinner in Paris next weekend, Keelin said she had a proposition for me.
‘No,’ I begged. ‘Please don’t make me ring Simon to ask him if he fancies you.’
‘Izzy, if you did that, I would legally divorce you as my friend. When have I ever made you do that since 1997?’
I racked my brains. She was right. June 1997: she’d made me ring Cormac Doherty. And, yes, he did fancy her.
‘What I was actually going to say was that Caroline has decided to have a dinner party at her house tomorrow night for her birthday. And you’re coming. For the whole night. Look at you here, out in a pub on a Friday night and doing great!’
I didn’t want to tell them I had a beanie hat in my bag to pull over my face in case any randomers started shouting, ‘Facebook freak,’ at me.
‘So, are you up for it?’
Hell, yeah! This was my no-nonsense Fresh Start after all, wasn’t it? ‘Bring it on!’
‘Great,’ she said, getting ready to go to the bar. ‘Okay, gin, red wine and vodka it is. Now, when I come back, I want a considered opinion from each of you on whether or not you think there’s any truth in the story that George Bush is actually related to an orang-utan in a Californian zoo.’
11
‘Izzy, you stink of curry, do you know that?’ Greg demanded, and covered his mouth as if he was about to puke on the table.
‘Em, really, Greg? Well, I think everyone must stink of curry considering Caroline made us a curry and we’re all eating it.’ I hadn’t blinked in quite a while and my eyes were starting to stream. My manic save-me stare at Keelin wasn’t having the desired effect, and I felt like lobbing a bread roll at her head to get her attention. Why did she have such crap peripheral vision? And what on earth could Marcus be saying to her that was that interesting?
I smiled pathetically at Greg, hoping he would read the pain in my face and leave me alone.
No such luck.
‘Actually, I think you’ll find I don’t stink of curry,’ he droned. ‘It’s because after every few mouthfuls I pop one of these handy little breath fresheners into my mouth. See?’
As he exhaled a waft of minty curry breath into my face, I wondered how I’d managed to forget just how annoying he was. I did my best wow-that’s-amazing-I’m-so-happy-for-you look as I shovelled another forkful of chicken into my mouth. If nights like this one had been all I’d missed out on, I’d gladly have chosen a bar of Galaxy, the couch and The Woman Who Never Got Over Him on True Movies, thanks very much.
No, Izzy, focus. This was my first committed, no-bullshit attempt at staying out past nine thirty on a weekend night. And if that meant sitting beside a Ginger Pain in the Arse to make a start, then so be it. Just for the record, I was not happy with Caroline and her seating arrangements or the fact that she had a brother like Greg. But that wasn’t her fault, I suppose. If this ever happened again, I’d have to re-evaluate my friendship with her. Susie was convinced she was trying to set me up with Greg. Horrific.
Apart from wanting to leave, I was doing quite well. This was the first time since Cian had dumped me that I was going to stay out all night, no matter what. Keelin and Susie had my key, and Mum and Dad had told me they’d Chubb-locked the front door, drawn all the curtains and disconnected the doorbell so I couldn’t escape home. They were being so supportive. It wasn’t a particularly challenging night – I was at a dinner party at a close friend’s house –
but I had to take things slowly. I was relatively safe here, just a casual evening in the company of friends, with zero chance of bumping into Cian and Edna. I sipped my wine and started to relax a little, zoning out Greg’s droning.
‘Do you want a mint, Isobel? I have loads – well, not loads, but I do have… let me see… seven! I could definitely spare one. I think you should take it, see how you get on. You don’t have to go out and buy a whole packet or anything, so it’s not much of a commitment… you might as well…’
People often joke about being bored to death. Well, it’s no joking matter. If I listened to Greg any longer, I would be the first case of death by boredom in Ireland and there would be a slot on Nationwide about me. Oh, God – they’d re-enact the bit when they’d had to lift my face out of the plate of curry to check my pulse. And they’d probably get Edna McClodmutton to play me! My stomach dived. They wouldn’t get Edna to play me because her hair was long and silky and she was far too tall and skinny to be me.
I decided to entertain myself with a daydream in which I was going for a long, romantic walk with Josh Hartnett along the Amalfi coast. Josh and I loved the seaside and we could spend hours sipping ice-cold cocktails and watching the sun dip slowly behind the twinkly ocean… ‘No, Josh, I think it’s too soon for marriage, let’s just enjoy our time together now. I know you’re obsessed with me, but we’ve only known each other for three days…’
‘You’re right, darling Izzy. It’s just that I don’t want you to run off with Brad Pitt. I know he’s been hounding you again. Did I mention that you’re so lovely and your hair really suits you up like that and that I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way in my entire life?’
‘Only a million times, Josh! Now don’t be worrying about Brad, you silly big ride, and take off your clothes. Ooh, are you going to finish your strawberry daiquiri or can I have it?’
I was jolted back to reality when I missed my mouth with my wine glass and drowned my chin and my top in a huge splash of sauvignon blanc. I grabbed a napkin and tried to dab it away.