Hello, Heartbreak

by Amy Huberman

  Before I met Jonathan in Keogh’s, I ducked into Brown Thomas to avail myself of the free perfume-squirting service they provided. I always made sure to look genuinely interested in the product before I spritzed some onto my neck and wrists from the sample bottle. I’d give it a thoughtful look before I replaced it on the shelf, too, my yes-that-is-nice-but-perhaps-I-should-shop-around-a-bit-more-beforeI-decide look. It camouflaged the fact that I was just a scabby chancer. And then I’d be gone before a member of the Orange Brigade had bullied me into buying three different perfumes to get the free eye shadow I’d never use.

  When I arrived at the pub it was bursting with office folk desperate to sedate their work troubles with a pint or two. I searched the crowd for Jonathan. I couldn’t see him outside, so I headed in. I scanned the bar and the lounge area, giddy with anticipation. I was wearing my nonchalant expression. It disguises my giddiness pretty well. I find it far more effective at times like this than the I’m-so-excited-to-be-here-where-is-he-where-is-he look of mania.

  I wove in and out of any pocket of space I could find among the crowd, edging my way further into the bar. Where was he? Being small had its many advantages – such as when asking for piggybacks or playing drunken hide and seek – but coping with crowds was not one of them. I needed one of those mirror gadgets, like the ones MacGyver used for looking over walls. Just then, I felt a hand on my waist, gently steering me backwards. Before I launched into my ‘Don’t be such a sleazy pervert!’ rant, I turned to see that the sleazy pervert was Jonathan. Not that he was a sleazy pervert, of course. Quite frankly, if he had been wearing a white tank top and spoken directly to my breasts for the whole night, I would have considered it rather charming. But he was dressed in a crisp, pale blue shirt, the sleeves rolled up casually. And he had the decency to look me in the eye when he spoke, which was nice.

  He looked so lovely it was distracting, and I had to remind myself to answer him when he said hello. He leant in and kissed my cheek, which was a first. An awkward little moment followed when I thought it was going to be a kiss-on-cheek-with-added-hug manoeuvre. Jonathan, however, was opting for the simple kiss-on-cheek, which left me clinging awkwardly to his side.

  ‘How has the rest of your day been?’ he asked.

  ‘Pretty good thanks. You?’

  ‘Not too bad at all. Was lovely to bump into you earlier. And I’m glad I persuaded you to come for a drink.’

  ‘Why? Did you think they’d have me fired by now?’

  ‘No, not at all. Bright girl like you.’

  We both knew I hadn’t exactly put my best foot forward in the intelligence arena so far. What a cheeky bastard, mocking my apparent idiocy. Did he think I really was thick? I felt like telling him my Leaving Cert results, and that I’d got a B in Honours Irish.

  ‘What time is your flight tomorrow?’

  ‘Not until twelve, so I can afford to be a bit bold this evening. I can write you a sick note for the morning, if you’d like?’

  ‘No, thank you. I take my job extremely seriously so I’ll be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at six thirty a.m. Might even go for a jog first.’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘More power to you.’

  I sincerely hoped he knew I was joking about the dawn jog. People who sacrificed an extra hour in bed to run around in the dark wearing Lycra were obviously in a weird cult and should be avoided at all costs.

  ‘Oh, great!’ he said, looking over my shoulder. Em… was Jonathan cross-eyed and I’d never noticed before?

  ‘Sorry?’ I responded, with a little wave, trying to get him to refocus on my eyes.

  ‘Saffron’s back with the drinks.’

  I whipped around to see bloody Edna McClodmutton teetering towards us, clutching a pint of Guinness and a glass of red wine.

  ‘Thanks, you’re a star,’ he said, taking the pint from her. ‘Saffron, you’ve met Isobel?’

  ‘Oh, God, yes,’ she almost spat. She was clearly as shocked to see me as I was to see her. ‘Yes,’ she purred, regaining her composure, a fake smile spreading lazily across her face. ‘Yes, of course we’ve met. How are you, Isobel? Have you recovered from your awful afternoon, being trussed up like a prize skanger and getting arrested?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t exactly –’

  ‘Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m jealous. I wish I could pull off a look like that to be more versatile in my work, but whenever I’ve tried, no one buys it. Not like you.’ She smiled at me as if she’d just handed me the biggest compliment of my life. ‘This is turning into a right work get-together, isn’t it?’ she said to Jonathan.

  ‘Let me get you a drink, Isobel.’ Jonathan disappeared into the crowd, leaving the two of us alone.

  ‘So, uhm, how did your scenes go today?’

  ‘Never knew you were so friendly with Jonathan,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, I’m not really…’

  ‘Did you just bump into him? Are you here with a date?’

  I despised this woman. How dare she? ‘No,’ I said, through gritted teeth.

  ‘I never got a chance to tell Jonathan about the details of that Facebook incident. Oh, he’s coming back now – it’ll be a right laugh when I tell him…’

  ‘I know it was you,’ I interrupted, half terrified, half exhilarated.

  ‘Excuse me?’ she said, full of attitude.

  ‘I know it was you who put it on Facebook.’

  She shook her head slowly and smiled patronizingly. ‘Oh, honey, I wouldn’t even go there. You are so out of your depth.’

  Jonathan rejoined us with a gin and tonic in hand. I smiled up at him, savouring the last few moments when he would believe, despite all my bad points, that I wasn’t clinically psychotic. To my surprise, she didn’t mention a word about my Britney episode, but she knew she had me on a tight leash because of it. I sipped my gin and watched her work her magic.

  She flicked her hair flirtatiously and kept stroking the side of Jonathan’s arm mid-conversation. After a while, it became clear that, with her, it was all just a glossy façade. As I listened to her, I realized her conversation lacked any real substance. She knew when to agree or disagree from someone else’s lead, when to laugh and when to appear concerned. I tried to join in a few times, but any attempt was short-lived. Edna would tolerate me for a few moments, so as not to appear overly bitchy, but would then expertly steer the conversation back to herself.

  How transparent. Schmoozing with the powerful producer who could undoubtedly get her parts in other movies. I decided to come in with a timely reminder of her fantastic relationship and that she was very much off the market.

  ‘Saffron, that photo shoot of you and your wonderful boyfriend in Social Scene was so cute. Adorable, in fact. You guys look so… together… so solid.’ And with that I excused myself and went outside for a cigarette.

  I wasn’t going to engage in a tug-of-war for Jonathan’s attention. It wasn’t like I really cared anyway. Who was he? Just some bloke I thought was cute. I’d only met him a handful of times. I didn’t know him. I just wanted to prove to myself that I was capable of liking a man who wasn’t Cian. I could find someone else to have rebound sex with. Easy! Someone nicer.

  I wasn’t sure if he was getting a thrill out of two women vying for his attention, but I was pretty sure he was. Prick. He was loving it. Who invites two girls out on the same date? Hmph! Well, I certainly wasn’t going to participate in this egomaniac’s charade another minute. I stood outside, feeling proud of myself but disappointed too. It had been nice to have something to take my mind off a certain six-page spread in Social Scene. However brief.

  Oh, well.

  The atmosphere outside was so much better. I leant back against the wall and people-watched, savouring my cigarette. A group of office workers were getting rowdier and rowdier as the stack of empty glasses on their table continued to mount. There was a guy seated in a wooden chair, his tie knotted around his head, while a bevy of girls queued up to give him a kiss. I hoped it was his
birthday and that he wasn’t just another chauvinistic egomaniac indulging in a little ‘me time’. When they launched into a semi-coherent version of ‘Happy Birthday’ I sighed with relief.

  One of the girls saw me on my own and invited me to give Davo a birthday kiss. Before I got the chance to fob her off, she yanked me from my lookout post and shoved me to the top of the queue. Not wanting to spoil Davo’s birthday, I went in for the kill and planted a smooch on his lips. It was met with rapturous cheers and a double shot of Sambuca.

  Half an hour later I was best friends with the entire accounts department of the Dawson Street branch of TSB. After pilfering three more cigarettes and knocking back another two Sambucas, I decided I should probably go home. The threat of my six thirty a.m. start was sobering me up. I said goodbye to my new friends and apologized to Davo for leaving his birthday bash early, I’d never let it happen again.

  The street was still bustling with pub-goers and I wriggled through them in a rather ungainly manner. Over the noise of banter and bustle, I could have sworn I heard someone calling my name.

  ‘Isobel. Isobel!’

  It was probably one of my TSB mates yelling, ‘Give him hell! Give him hell!’ to the next unsuspecting victim they’d found for Davo to snog. How easily I had been replaced! I’d have to review my friendship with that bunch.

  Then I heard it again. Someone was definitely calling my name.

  I turned. Jonathan was squeezing between two people, forcing his way towards me. Oh, come on! He wasn’t going to act concerned, was he, innocently inquiring where I’d been all night? I’d been out here for ages. Enough time to make a whole new set of friends, even. He hadn’t bothered to come and find me until now.

  ‘Where are you going? Where have you been?’

  For the love of God! What was he playing at? I had absolutely no interest in his schoolboy games. I’d been through enough already today. And all I really cared about was getting away so I could go home and crawl into my bed. I suddenly felt exhausted.

  As soon as his path was clear he trotted up to me. ‘You’re not leaving, are you? I just came out to look for you. Where did you go?’

  ‘I was just out here in the beer garden. Inside wasn’t really my scene. Saffron doesn’t like me. Personal reasons… doesn’t matter.’ I looked at the ground. ‘Anyway, I’m sure she’s a nice girl but I really wasn’t in the mood for a strained conversation with her, so I decided to leave you guys to it. It’s been a long day. Anyway, goodnight. Safe home tomorrow.’

  I headed off. I felt really brave for having said that and not just going along with whatever Jonathan was saying.

  ‘Isobel, wait a second.’

  I turned back. A good few metres lay between us now.

  He paused for a moment, then moved forward slowly, his hands shoved into his jeans pockets. I decided he didn’t look like Josh Hartnett. It was probably the dark hair that had made me think so. That or blind optimism. He definitely had a Robbie Williams look about him, all right.

  ‘Listen,’ he blurted, when he’d reached me, ‘I really wanted to spend a bit of time with you this evening. That’s why I asked you for a drink.’

  ‘Really? Did you want to spend a bit of time with Saffron, too?’ I could hear the bitchiness in my tone, but I didn’t care. I was getting angrier by the second at this guy’s arrogance. I wasn’t going to let every bloke on the planet, not to mention up-and-coming actresses, make a mockery of me.

  Just as I turned to leave he slid his hand down my arm and clasped mine. What was going on here? I didn’t try to pull away – it felt nice. We stood there for a moment or two.

  ‘Really, Izzy, I did want to spend time with you this evening.’

  I tugged my hand free. ‘So why on earth did you ask Saffron Spencer along too? Who do you think you are? Robbie Williams?’

  He looked confused, and I didn’t blame him. God, I really should stop talking now. Had I not learnt my lesson that shock and alcohol don’t mix well with me?

  ‘Honestly, Isobel, she invited herself along. Just as I was about to leave to meet you, she cornered me and pleaded with me to go for a drink with her. I tried to get out of it but she said she’d been so miserable over the last few days, felt so isolated among her friends because they were jealous of her big break, that she thought she’d cry if she couldn’t find someone to go out with for a drink.’

  That girl was unbelievable.

  I searched his face for signs of insincerity. He was either a really nice guy who was obliging someone because he thought they were lonely, or he was a player and an expert liar. Flip a coin?

  ‘I swear to God,’ he half whispered. ‘She said she was just staying for one but I haven’t been able to get rid of her. I’ve tried. I even tried to butt into other people’s conversations in the hope they’d adopt her.’ He edged closer to me, scooped both my hands into his and knotted his fingers through mine. I found it impossible to resist. I was totally captivated. ‘So really,’ he continued, ‘all I wanted to do this evening was… this.’

  He released his hands, placed them on my lower back and pulled me towards him. Then he kissed me. A lovely, soft, slow kiss that sent a shiver through me.

  21

  That Friday, all my social life aspirations were realized: I was blessed with the unrivalled opportunity of attending Eve’s engagement party.

  I kind of got the feeling it was a last-minute invitation – that morning I’d happened to call into the Lights! Camera! Action! office to pick up a parcel and she’d asked me. I flicked Gavin a quick look. He gave a masked nod, so I accepted. There was no way I was going if Gavin wouldn’t be there.

  ‘Marvellous!’ she chirped, with forced enthusiasm. ‘Bring a date! Or not… You’re not going out with anyone, are you, Isobel? Hmm… well, sure just bring yourself so.’

  I’d not known Eve and Philippe had got engaged and was surprised she didn’t have posters up on billboards the length and breadth of Ireland, ads on the radio and flyers delivered through every letterbox in the city. Actually, she probably had, but I’d been so busy I’d missed them.

  One thing I knew for certain: her party would fall into one of two categories – excruciatingly painful or highly entertaining. Either way, I was glad I had something to do this evening because I was in the mood to go out – and not in a bound-and-gagged-dragged-by-the-hair-kicking kind of way. I wanted to go out of my own volition.

  Perhaps I was finally putting the past behind me. A lot had happened in the last little while. First and foremost, I’d snogged someone, which was super as I was beginning to get scared I’d forget how to do it and wondered if, at twenty-seven, I was too old to resort to practising on the back of my hand. Not only that, I’d managed to snog someone I happened to fancy the pants off. It had boosted my confidence no end. On the flip side, Cian had phoned and texted me, which was still bugging the shit out of me, there was the six-page spread in Social Scene and I had to work with Edna McClodmutton.

  I showed Keelin and Susie those photos the day after I’d seen them, and Keelin got out a magnifying-glass to study them. (I’m not kidding. Whoever said girls were freaks was definitely on to something.) ‘She has crows’ feet!’ she howled.

  ‘And her left boob is bigger than the right!’ Susie clapped.

  ‘And she has awful fake tan marks under her armpits!’

  And so it continued.

  But even though the girls were doing their best to make me feel better about The Cian and Edna Horror Picture Show, I was actually feeling reasonably okay about it the next day. I still had the occasional urge to vomit, but otherwise I wasn’t too bad, considering. It didn’t matter how stunning she was or how fantastic she looked or what amazing parties she went to at the weekends, the truth was that she wasn’t a nice person. So the other shite didn’t really matter.

  After work I darted home to get ready for the party. Knowing Eve, it would be a lavish function with no expense spared, so I chose my outfit carefully. I’d settled on a simp
le black cocktail dress. I don’t care what anyone says about black, sometimes you just can’t beat it. And it was a total lifesaver when all your meals on the day have been based on a toast theme – which doesn’t work well with a tight evening gown.

  The party was every bit as ostentatious as I had anticipated. Eve had hired an exquisite function room in the Four Seasons Hotel, decorated with clusters of red roses, golden balloons and silver streamers. Waiters in crisply pressed tuxedos offered guests fizzing flutes of champagne, the music was lively and the buzz was fantastic. By the time Gavin and I had arrived, the place was already bursting at the seams with ‘dahlings’, hordes of them in bejewelled dresses, spray-tanned to the hilt, with long false talons. And that was just the men – I’m only kidding, but I did spot at least seven blokes who were definitely wearing fake tan. The tell-tale orange marks on their shirt collars said it all.

  ‘Oh, hello, dahling!’

  ‘Oh, hello, dahling! How wonderful to see you.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie, you look simply stunning.’

  ‘Oh, thanks, chickie, you too.’

  I looked at Gavin. ‘Drink, dahling?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you are a pet.’

  As I waited for Gavin to come back from the bar, I couldn’t help eavesdropping on a conversation that was taking place beside me.

  ‘Yes, she’s still away, helping orphans in Malaysia or Singapore or some Japanese country like that.’

  A chorus of wows ensued. Then a blonde girl with seriously over-collagened lips said, ‘So, like, are orphans kids with no parents or no gaffs or what?’

  ‘Sometimes both,’ her friend said.