Hello, Heartbreak

by Amy Huberman

  So, what was the problem?

  ‘Izzy?’ I turned. He was seated in a candle-lit alcove, startlingly handsome in the flickering light. Might have to upgrade him to Jonathan Absolute Total Ride Cunningham. He stood up and kissed my cheek. Very gentlemanly, considering he’d already had my ankles around his ears. His aftershave lingered in the air as he sat down again. My skin tingled where his stubble had pressed. As he poured me a glass of champagne, I realized I was happy to be there. Check. I began to relax for the first time in days.

  ‘You look lovely.’ His eyes were jet black in the soft light.

  ‘Thank you. So do you.’

  Maybe things were on the up. Here I was in a beautiful restaurant, on a date with an absolute hottie, in this amazingly romantic setting, enjoying myself! I smiled as he handed me a champagne flute and made a toast to ‘us’. Maybe it was time. Maybe I was finally moving into a new phase in my life. I’d no idea what might happen between Jonathan and me but perhaps I was now officially over the Cian Years. Christ alive, it had taken me long enough.

  Jonathan was fantastic company. We drank and laughed and chatted about life and work and the film. I told him I was thinking of exploring another facet of the industry, maybe something a little more creative. He said he could introduce me to a few art-department heads while I was in London. I thanked him but said I’d rather do that another time: I’d just helped a friend with some storyboards so I’d concentrate on that for a while. Jonathan was trying to play it down, but I could tell from his stories that he was a big deal. He was meeting the director of his next project in LA next week to do some castings.

  LA? Wow.

  He told me about his home town in Hertfordshire, where he’d grown up, and I told him about my mad family, about Dermot and about Will’s new girlfriend in work. He told me about how Will had once come to visit him when he was about nine and seduced a girl called Penelope by tying one of her plaited pigtails to the branch of a tree so she couldn’t run away when he tried to kiss her. They’d remained pen-pals for three years afterwards. That was an eternity in pen-pal years.

  When Jonathan told me that as a teenager he’d sleepwalked naked during a party his parents were hosting I laughed so much that I couldn’t help slapping the table – it tells the person I’m with that I’m laughing so much, I can’t breathe. It’s a strange thing I do, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  By the time the waiter brought the dessert, I was smitten. The way he kept looking across the table at me made my stomach dance. When he took my hand, I thought I’d explode. I put all thoughts of Dublin firmly out of my mind.

  We left the restaurant and made our way to the Soho Lounge, a basement nightclub not too far away. We bought Mojitos at the bar and slugged them back as we chatted some more, our conversation ever more ridiculous as the rounds clocked up. We danced among the other uninhibited piss-heads and, in a moment of pure madness (note to self for future: Mojitos may cause moments of pure madness), I showed Jonathan my Thriller dance moves. For the record, it was right in the middle of the Madonna remix set that I became convinced I wanted to go home with him. Tonight.

  We hailed a taxi, bundled into the back seat and snogged all the way to his apartment in Hoxton. Jonathan threw the driver a twenty-pound note as we got out – and whoever said men couldn’t multi-task had been wrong: he managed to unbutton my dress before we’d got out of the lift. We burst into his flat in a flush of heated passion and headed straight for his bedroom. My head spun with the thrill.

  He released me from his grip to go to the window and draw the curtains. I watched him loosen his tie and lift it over his head. He unbuttoned his shirt and slid it off his smooth, tanned chest. I was going to enjoy myself this time. The last time had been a blur because I’d been angry with the world, but tonight – Imagine thinking I’d never want to sleep with a man who wasn’t Cian! Well, I was moving on. Hoorah! I whipped off my bra in celebration and flung it across the room.

  Then I stood beside the bed, looking across at him, this oh-so-beautiful man, and wondered why I was having to work at this, why it wasn’t coming naturally and easily. I realized I was talking myself into it – into him. It shouldn’t be like this.

  My brain whirred, and suddenly I knew what was wrong, and why I had to leave his apartment immediately.

  32

  My period was more than three weeks late. It was never, ever late. I’m someone who can predict the exact minute it will come. I’ve never been caught out in a pair of white trousers, or muttered, ‘I couldn’t believe it – of all things I got my period,’ because I always know. And I’m ready with ten kilos of chocolate, my comfy oversized Dunnes tracksuit and my box set of Will and Grace.

  But it was now more than three weeks late.

  Three weeks and four days to be precise.

  Three weeks and four days of walking around in a trance, watching my life slip further and further away from me.

  I hadn’t done a pregnancy test. I was far too scared. And it would only tell me what I already knew.

  I hadn’t told anyone. Except Dermot, who always remained calm in a crisis.

  I was pregnant.

  Pregnant!

  How stupid had I been? The thought of contraception had never even entered my head because I’d been on the pill when I was going out with Cian. Had I thought I was immune to getting pregnant because I was angry? Because I was hurt? Because I’d chosen to believe we were ‘working things out’? It was Cian’s baby. It had to be. Jonathan and I had used protection.

  Only a month ago I’d thought my world was changing for the better. I’d thought maybe everything would fall into place. Well, I’d hoped it would.

  After the Jonathan Cunningham thing (I’ve removed ‘Ride’ from his name because I already feel like a total prick-tease so I don’t want to draw attention to the fact that I was once attracted to him), I got back from London and started trying to figure out what I could do to (a) patch up my friendship with Gavin and (b) get over Cian’s betrayal.

  What a mess. Tears fell down my face and I shook with sobs. I wondered if the baby would look like him. If it would have blond hair and blue eyes with the same angular nose. And if it did, how I’d be able to resist naming it ‘Shithead’ after him. Shithead Keegan. Mum and Dad would never forgive me. I’d never get away from Edna McClodmutton and Cian. They were probably back together by now. I’d be stuck in hell with no way out, no life, no Gavin, no nothing. Just an eternity with my Cian-clone child. Cian and Edna would probably get married and my child would end up loving its stepmother more than me – people I loved tended to get bored with me and like her more. It was awful to admit it, but I didn’t want this baby. I would’ve done literally anything not to have spent those two nights with Cian.

  ‘Hello? Bladder nearly bursting out here! Izzy, have you got the scuts, love?’

  ‘Out in a sec,’ I called, trying to sound cheerful.

  That was the problem with working in this rabbit hutch. Not a second of privacy. I longed to be back on the film set, where there were so many people running around, you could easily skive off if you needed to. Snog Me Now, You Dublin Whore had wrapped last week, so I was back at the Lights! Camera! Action! office – back in the shoebox where I was nearly driven demented wondering if and when Gavin would show up. I hadn’t seen him in more than five weeks. Not since the fight. And no word from him either. Laurence said he was in Belfast working on the company’s next project and didn’t know when he was coming back. ‘Any day now I’d reckon,’ he’d said, at least a week ago. No wonder I was a nervous wreck.

  I unlocked the toilet door and found Geraldine standing there, legs plaited around each other.

  ‘Dodgy curry? I’d love a bit of that so I would. It’s basically like free colonic irrigation, isn’t it? Nothing like a good old clear-out to feel a pound or two lighter.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, ducking away from her as I passed so she wouldn’t see my blotchy red face.

  ‘What’s wrong with yo
u?’ It was Eve’s best attempt at sounding concerned, even if her tone still implied that she wanted to kill me in a slow and painful way. I wished she would. What had I to live for? A child who would want his stepmother to adopt him.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I replied, as I sat down at my desk and hid behind a few manila files.

  ‘Have you been crying?’ This time her tone was lighter.

  ‘No,’ I lied. ‘I was just chopping onions.’ What? She’d never buy that. Should have told her I had a cold.

  ‘You fucking oddball! In the toilet? You have far too much time on your hands, Isobel. You can sort this lot out.’ She dumped a ten-foot pile of paperwork in front of me. ‘That is, unless you have plans to pluck a few chickens or peel a bucket of potatoes with your letter-opener before lunch?’

  I wasn’t in the mood for arguing, so I reached for the top file. If I jumped out of the window behind Laurence’s desk, would I kill myself or only break a limb or two?

  That evening, on my way home from work, I passed a pharmacy and stalled outside. I really should buy a pregnancy test. It might help me come to terms with what was happening. I couldn’t keep running off ‘to chop onions’ in the loo at work. Then, at least, I could start making decisions. Like when and how I was going to tell Cian. And my parents – they’d have a simultaneous coronary. It would have been bad enough if I was still with him, but getting pregnant after two impulse shags when I’d spent the last ten months crying over how badly he’d hurt me?

  I’m not sure my parents even knew I’d had sex. I mean, they must have had their suspicions seeing I’m twenty-seven years old, but the only reference my father had made to it was when he warned Emma and me about the responsibilities that come with ‘heavy petting’.

  After I’d spent half an hour sniffing the Nenuco shower gels until I was the only customer in the shop, I scuttled up to the counter. I didn’t want to take any chances. It was guaranteed that any other female customer would play golf with Mum, and after she’d witnessed me buying a pregnancy test, she’d hose me down with Lourdes holy water, then print five hundred copies of ‘Isobel Keegan is a slutty pregnant whore-bag’ to pass around at the next Ladies’ Day coffee morning.

  When I got to the counter, my resolve melted away and I was paralysed with fear.

  ‘Can I help you?’ the pharmacist asked.

  ‘Yes.’ I could feel the sweat gathering on my top lip.

  ‘Are you sick?’ he asked, in a concerned voice. Maybe he would take pity on me and I could go and live with him instead of in some horrible bedsit with net curtains and brown and mustard Paisley wallpaper, with just enough room for me and a cot. I could earn my keep by mixing the potions for him or sticking the white labels on the little containers.

  ‘Ma’am?’ he asked again.

  I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t say the words ‘pregnancy test’. This wasn’t my life. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I wanted to leave my job and do a graphic-design course and get proactive about work and have a fantastic career. I wanted to be in love and for all this to happen the right way. I wanted to continue living in the house with the girls. I didn’t want to be a lonely single mother.

  ‘Is there anything I can help you with at all?’

  I stared blankly at him as he stood poised to assist me.

  ‘Do these lollipops contain vitamin C?’ I asked, pointing at a big glass jar containing about a hundred different-coloured ones.

  ‘Ah, yes, they do,’ he replied, evidently flummoxed.

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll have a green one and a red one, please.’

  I left the shop and threw the lollipops into the bin.

  33

  I turned to find Gavin looking at me from my bedroom door, arms folded, head leaning against the wall.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said quietly. ‘Am I not allowed look at my girlfriend when she’s getting dressed?’ I loved how he looked in half-light.

  ‘I suppose.’ I reached for my jeans and started to climb into them.

  ‘Hold it there.’ He walked over to me and pulled me to him. I loved how small I felt in his arms when I was in my bare feet.

  ‘Don’t you dare even think about it, Mr Reed. I’m gonna be late. And I’ve just done my makeup and you haven’t shaved yet today – you’ll give me stubble ra–’

  ‘Ssh.’ He silenced me with a soft kiss that made my stomach flip. When I opened my eyes, his face had morphed into Cian’s. ‘Take it off,’ he whispered, pulling at my bra.

  ‘Off?’

  ‘Off! Izzy! Turn it off!’

  What, in the name of Jesus…?

  I opened my eyes. Susie was standing at the bottom of my bed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your alarm clock! Would you turn it off? It’s been ringing for the last fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Sorry. I was in another world.’

  She headed out to the bathroom and I turned over stiffly to hit the button. I flopped back on to my pillow.

  I got dressed and brushed the knots out of my hair. My reflection in the mirror shocked me. I had smoky-look eyes although I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Naturally achieved smoky-look eyes are not as flattering as they are when you’ve carefully applied kohl eyeliner and a charcoal shadow. I looked like one of those ghouls you can get down in Dunnes to put on your porch for Hallowe’en. Well, it was Hallowe’en next weekend, I suppose, so maybe I wouldn’t look too out of place. People might think I was a bit old for dressing up, but I’d tell them to feck off. I was young at heart.

  Keelin was cross-legged on the sheepskin rug, glued to the television, when I got downstairs. ‘Izzy, do you think it’s wrong to still fancy Phillip Schofield?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I answered, smiling.

  ‘I just want to corrupt him – he looks so angelic. I mean, when I was a kid, I fancied him cos he was mates with Gordon the Gofer, but now, I don’t know, he’s still sexy. I’d love to run up to him completely nude and say, “Tits,” just to see what he’d do.’

  ‘He’d probably call the police, Keelin.’

  ‘I’ve often wanted to do the same thing to Pat Kenny. Not in a sexual way of course, oh, God, no – he looks like your dad – just to see his reaction.’

  ‘My dad looks nothing like Pat Kenny!’

  ‘I was trying to make something up so you wouldn’t think I fancied Pat Kenny. Which I do. I can’t help it. It’s like Marmite. You’re kind of repulsed and intrigued at the same time.’

  ‘I have no idea what to say to you. I’m picturing you with Pat Kenny and it’s turning me off my breakfast.’

  ‘Isobel. You pervert. Get your own sex thoughts. Stop stealing mine. Anyway, you can talk! You wanted to marry Tony Hart and live with him and Morph.’

  ‘I was eight.’

  ‘I don’t care. It’s all relevant. Ask Freud.’

  Susie came downstairs and threw herself onto the rug next to Keelin. Then we abused her for ten minutes about her obsession with Ian Dempsey when she was a young one.

  ‘You can talk Izzy, you fancied Tony Hart,’ she piped.

  ‘Does everyone remember that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Keelin said sternly, looking at me as if I had a terminal illness.

  ‘At least Ian had a lovely smile. Tony Hart was just an ageing weirdo,’ Susie said, trying to defend herself. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that Tony Hart, Phillip Schofield, Pat Kenny, anyone, in fact, was more fanciable than Aidan but I held it back. I shouldn’t make everyone else’s life a misery just because I was turning into a cynical wench. A pregnant cynical wench.

  When was I going to tell them?

  I’d have to face the music soon. All this chat about trivia was well and good, but it was just an escape. I had to tell them.

  I felt sick. I wasn’t sure if it was the shocking truth that I had once fancied Tony Hart or morning sickness. I decided to skip breakfast, and left Susie and Keelin watching a few more minutes of early-morning telly before they left for work. As I shu
t the door behind me, I could hear them cracking up laughing over some story about a singing gerbil in Wales.

  I wished we’d all had the day off. Then we could have watched stupid television all day long and forgotten about the real world.

  When I got to the office, I was the first in, so I made myself a cup of tea and took advantage of being able to stare into space for a while without being called lazy or weird – both compliments Eve had bestowed on me. Laurence was convinced I wanted to become an actress, which was why I had come over ‘all strange’ lately.

  He had beckoned me over to his desk the other day for a quiet chat.

  ‘What’s up, love?’ he’d asked.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Honestly, did you get a taste for the acting when you were down on-set? It’s addictive. I still miss it. I can’t stay away from it altogether. I’ve been working on that piece from X Men.’ I hadn’t seen it. ‘The bit where your man goes off to get his revenge? It’s not a classical piece by any means but I do like it. Maybe one day this week we’ll get lunch and sit in the park and I can do it for you. See what you think.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. Laurence was so cute.

  ‘So is that why you’re down? The film has finished up and you’re stuck here in the office and you want to be back on-set, but as an actress this time? You know, I always thought you had an Audrey Hepburn look about you. I think it’s time for an Audrey with blonde curly hair.’

  ‘No.’ I laughed. ‘I definitely don’t want to be an actress. I dunno…’ I stumbled over my words ‘… I guess I’m just a bit fed-up at the moment.’

  He cocked his head to one side, studying me. ‘Is it your heart that’s in trouble?’

  ‘A bit,’ I said quietly.

  ‘The path of true love never does run smooth, Izzy. Sometimes it feels more like a dirt track, doesn’t it?’